Bess had been right. Leaving in clothing that was little more than scraps of fabric sewn together would not fare well in the cold drizzle that had yet to cease after the thunderstorm. She wanted to welcome it, to enjoy the way it made her toes feel numb as they froze while she walked through puddles. But even that miserable feeling seemed like joy compared to the depths of rage that brewed inside her.
She had money. Very little, it would be enough for a night or two at some seedy tavern. Perhaps more if she could still charm them with a sob story. Who could deny a pretty young woman, soaking wet, crying with some tragedy she could make up on the walk over?
Isla wasn't exactly sure where she was, though. Things had changed a lot since she was a child, and Isla was forced to travel in the shadows, through back streets and alleys to avoid the watchful eyes of his guards.
And by the gods those guards were everywhere.
She doubted word had spread that quickly, of the woman who had verbally assaulted their prince. But...she could not be sure. They stood at every corner, waiting for something or someone. Isla sighed quietly, looking to the tavern doors as drunks tumbled down the stairs, and some less than wholesome led their men in for a night. She couldn't risk it. No, she would have to find somewhere else.
Isla was shivering by the time night fell. She silently cursed Bess, Lynus, and Renly for the way her stomach grumbled from hunger. With guards still on the prowl, Isla settled on an unfortunately familiar location. One that had long since been abandoned. A merchant's headquarters. Her father's. When she was younger, the area seemed so full of life. There was hardly a time she couldn't remember people passing by and stopping to chat. But now, it sat there. Unlit torches and all.
A darkened time capsule. Isla pried a wooden board that had been hammered over a window off and climbed inside. It took a while for her eyes to adjust, to assess how bad the glass had cut her knees while she broke in. She would live.
The rage simmered down slightly, looking around and lighting a torch, when she was that nothing had changed. It was a big building, probably a house that had been converted on the main floor and some of the second floor. She ascended the marble staircase. There was a bedroom for her, the younger Isla, down the hall. She recalled the days her parents brought her with when they were working. How they worked late into the night sometimes, and would put her to bed so the cranky young girl didn't scare away their clients.
Isla missed it. She missed them. She missed her old life. And now she found herself sobbing in her old bed with a dusty bottle of whisky and a piece of glass she'd snapped off of the windowsill, heartbroken over the life she was forced into and would never recover from. The blood from her knees had stained her white sheets, but she realized it no longer mattered. She took large sips of the whiskey, over and over as she played with the sharp end of the glass. Contemplating how she could put an end to all of this and find peace.
She had money. Very little, it would be enough for a night or two at some seedy tavern. Perhaps more if she could still charm them with a sob story. Who could deny a pretty young woman, soaking wet, crying with some tragedy she could make up on the walk over?
Isla wasn't exactly sure where she was, though. Things had changed a lot since she was a child, and Isla was forced to travel in the shadows, through back streets and alleys to avoid the watchful eyes of his guards.
And by the gods those guards were everywhere.
She doubted word had spread that quickly, of the woman who had verbally assaulted their prince. But...she could not be sure. They stood at every corner, waiting for something or someone. Isla sighed quietly, looking to the tavern doors as drunks tumbled down the stairs, and some less than wholesome led their men in for a night. She couldn't risk it. No, she would have to find somewhere else.
Isla was shivering by the time night fell. She silently cursed Bess, Lynus, and Renly for the way her stomach grumbled from hunger. With guards still on the prowl, Isla settled on an unfortunately familiar location. One that had long since been abandoned. A merchant's headquarters. Her father's. When she was younger, the area seemed so full of life. There was hardly a time she couldn't remember people passing by and stopping to chat. But now, it sat there. Unlit torches and all.
A darkened time capsule. Isla pried a wooden board that had been hammered over a window off and climbed inside. It took a while for her eyes to adjust, to assess how bad the glass had cut her knees while she broke in. She would live.
The rage simmered down slightly, looking around and lighting a torch, when she was that nothing had changed. It was a big building, probably a house that had been converted on the main floor and some of the second floor. She ascended the marble staircase. There was a bedroom for her, the younger Isla, down the hall. She recalled the days her parents brought her with when they were working. How they worked late into the night sometimes, and would put her to bed so the cranky young girl didn't scare away their clients.
Isla missed it. She missed them. She missed her old life. And now she found herself sobbing in her old bed with a dusty bottle of whisky and a piece of glass she'd snapped off of the windowsill, heartbroken over the life she was forced into and would never recover from. The blood from her knees had stained her white sheets, but she realized it no longer mattered. She took large sips of the whiskey, over and over as she played with the sharp end of the glass. Contemplating how she could put an end to all of this and find peace.
