Within the swirling Mist (IC) > Biographies

The Battered Notebook of Alina Barinova.

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Fanglike:
I've risen early, long before the rest of the world begins to stir. Several hours will pass before the sun reaches my little home, and it is cold in the morning dark; there's a breath of chilled air coming from the window, which has been open all night.

I padded over to it and looked out across the woodland, into the village. The grey-blue sky hung low across the lands, and the few houses I could see through the oppressive treeline appeared hazy in the fog. The village has changed a great deal since when last I lived here. It's become a thriving community, though I think I still prefer the solitude of my little shack here. For now, it is sparsely furnished, with a woven mat laid across a layer of rushes, a dark wooden table with two chairs, and a gnarled old chest in one corner. It is so unlike my brother's home in the residential districts, rich in colors and textures that I have no names for, that after only two short weeks in his care I longed to be home.

My mind has been playing tricks on me all morning. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror above my ewer and was uneased; the dark shadows under my eyes, my pallid skin translucent in the gloom of my home. Still, I caught a stab of something I could not quite wrap my head around... perhaps some emotions are too complex, but wherever this one fell, it was in the neighborhood of nostalgia.

A memory came to me, long-lost, of finding a secret garden somewhere in the heart of the Svalich Wood, with my oldest friend. Behind some hidden wall or doorway. Fruit trees ran wild, apple, plum, sour cherry; broken marble fountains, trickles of water still bubbling along tracks green with moss and worn deep into stone; great ivy-draped statues in every corner, feet wild with weeds, arms and heads cracked away and scattered among long grass. Golden dawn light and the swish of our feet and dew on my bare legs. Nothing like this land I've come to know.

Ivona is sleeping still. Against my wishes, Ionut gifted her a half-dozen dream pastries for her birthday this week, and I could not dare confiscate them when we already have so little. Ivona has begged me for pork and lamb, fruit turnovers, and an exotic bird crafted out of snow; I have assured her that her uncle will have planned the most extravagant celebration; I cannot forget to call on him to discuss the dinner. Ionut called me witless, falling pregnant when I myself was only a child, but the moment he gazed upon my daughter's fair skin and red curls he was bewitched. Four sons have aged him beyond his years, and he says I have given him the girl he'd always longed for.

I can see the hazy sun cresting the trees. Today, I will take her to the bookstore in the market.

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