Venya held the sign with both hands.
It was wooden and quite large, but not unbearably heavy.
Its weathered appearance couldn’t hide how gorgeous it was.
Tiny flecks of gold and dark blue paint were still visible.
She looked up at the place where it had once hung, but it was too high for her to put the sign back.
Not that she had the strength or interest to do so.
She obviously had neither.
She leaned the old sign against the side of the stairs so it wouldn’t get in the way.
The stairs ended at a stone patio.
In front of her stood a broad wooden door that looked intimidating.
Years, maybe centuries, had worn its surface smooth.
She squinted up at the sky to see how far the sun had moved and wondered how long she had before sunset.
As much as she trusted her new friend, but something still made her want to explore the place carefully herself.
For that, she needed as much daylight as possible.
Unless she found a source of light.
A candle, an oil lamp, anything.
The village had shown no sign of electricity, and this building looked even less promising.
And even if she found a lamp, then what?
Matches?
A lighter?
Sure.
“Even a tinderbox would be nice,” she mumbled.
In reality, she had never used a tinderbox and had only ever seen one in a museum.
She pulled on the round handle, but the door wouldn’t budge.
She tried again without success.
Then she pressed her lips together, gripped the handle with both hands, and braced herself to use her full strength.
“One, two, three, and—” she counted, then pulled with all her strength.
The door opened with a long, ugly groan.
Venya stood in the doorway for a moment before stepping in.
Dust, damp air, and the smell of rotting wood greeted her.
A large, dark room opened up before her.
“Fuck,” she whispered.
A faint echo came back from the rafters.
It was an old, abandoned inn.
The hall, or common room, contained a few tables and benches.
Most of the furniture was overturned and probably unusable.
All buried beneath a thick layer of dust.
A hole in the ceiling let in a shaft of sunlight that fell across a large fireplace at the edge of the hall.
A single plant grew among patches of moss in front of the fireplace.
Undoubtedly, rainwater from the hole kept them alive.
She imagined the sound of conversation, tankards clinking, and a weary traveler nodding off on a bench near the fire.
In a corner near the back, a fight would break out while a troubadour struggled to be heard over the noise.
And, most importantly, the smell of roasted chicken and duck and the sight of steaming loaves of bread emerging from the kitchen.
Venya wiped the drool from the corner of her mouth and swallowed hard.
Then she bent forward slightly as her stomach twisted painfully.
She moved into the room carefully, testing the boards with each step.
The floor had seen better days, but it seemed solid, apart from a few dark, rotten patches and holes.
Everything was still.
Only dust rose into the air as she moved through the hall.
Then she heard a faint sound.
She looked up at the upstairs gallery.
A broken staircase led to it, and part of the railing had given way.
Beyond it, dark doorways opened into the inn’s former rooms.
The sound came from a tattered rag hanging from the railing and swaying in the wind that slipped in through the broken roof.
This place would do nicely, assuming it didn’t collapse right now.
She needed to find a corner where she could curl up and sleep.
Everything else could wait.
Going upstairs would be a death wish.
So she roamed the first floor, found a few more rooms, and chose one that was clean enough to settle down in.
The room had a small glass window that let in soft light.
The walls were worn, but in the soft light, Venya could see fragments of tapestry here and there.
Curious, she brushed her fingers over one torn fragment, making out dark-blue fabric and golden ornamentation beneath the dust.
The room itself was divided into two sections by a thin partition wall that had partially collapsed.
The smaller section had probably been a washroom, perhaps with a bathtub.
A wide bed stood in the larger section, with a post at each corner.
The curtains and mattress were gone.
Nothing remained but the bare wooden frame, covered in dust.
The floor was reasonably clean, with no visible holes in it.
The room held nothing else.
No oil lamp, no candles.
Not even a candlestick.
Venya raised another eyebrow and rocked the bed, first gently, then harder.
It squeaked but felt solid, so she lay down, yawning.
She had walked all night, been beaten, eaten very little, and was more than ready for sleep.
“I must write this dream down,” she thought aloud, her eyes drifting closed, then opening again.
This would make a ridiculous opening chapter for a book.
She would write it and make a fortune.
Yes.
Maybe I’ll finally quit my job.
Fuck you, you petty office schemers and backstabbers!
The last thought lingered until she fell asleep.
When Venya slowly opened her eyes, her vision was blurred and a huge wave crashed over her, pulling her down into the darkness.
Unable to figure out which way was up or down, she realized she was underwater.
Under the water!
A cold shiver raced from her stomach to her scalp.
She whipped her head around as the edges of her sight began to darken.
Her feet kicked at empty water, and her hands reached forward but there was nothing to hold on to.
As she sank into the darkness, her fading vision caught light flickering on the surface above.
A shadow appeared against the light and began moving toward her.
Panicking, she expelled the last of her air, and water rushed into her mouth and down her throat, burning her lungs.
Her eyes flashed open, and she was awake.
The room was dark, but not completely black.
The sun was low, casting only a few fading rays through the window.
A dark shape stood motionless near the doorframe.
Her hands flew to her chest as if her lungs were still burning.
Venya shook her head.
Now that she was fully awake, there was no one there.
Suddenly, she heard movement beyond the door.
Footsteps approached, accompanied by low, muffled voices.
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