Quoted By:
Stars and Spheres … they might not be only fit for rags yet, but they are well on their way there. You doubt you will ever be able to truly get those stains out. Especially the bloodstain on the shoulders of the shirt. When the Hell did that happen, anyway?
Well … regardless to whatever losses you may have suffered to your wardrobe tonight, you still have one dress left. It was a little tight the last time you wore it, and more than a little short as well, but it should serve long enough for you to pick up your commissioned dresses today. Once you have those in hand, you can make a decision on what to do with these. Wearing only the sweat and smoke-stained stockings, you pad out of your room and to the bath, picking up the emmerloaf on your way. A hot bath would be wonderful, but you do not have the time to heat up the water, not to mention that there is not that much left of the faggot. Comfort, if it is a concern at all, is secondary. The important thing here is to get clean. You fill up the tub, scrounge around for the soap and the washrag, and then you slip in, leaving your stockings on, as to prevent the spread of the Strangeness once you leave the bath.
As you commence to scrubbing, you are suddenly struck by the feeling that you are somehow forgetting something. But try as you might, you cannot think of anything. You chalk it up to nerves, and you continue cleaning. You make good progress. By the time that you have gotten yourself as clean as you are going to get, your rag, bathwater and the tub have been covered by Strange-Stains, though thankfully, none of them are communicable. You get out of the bath, meticulously drying yourself off before stepping out of the tub to prevent or at least retard the spread of the Strangeness.
It takes some doing, but you eventually manage to tear off a manageable chunk of the loaf. You pour yourself a drink of water, and then you take your refreshments into your bedroom after blowing out the lamps. You lie down on the roll and cover yourself up with your sheet. After thinking about it for a solid minute while sipping and gnawing, you decide that you would best served by reporting in as sick, then using the time to get a graven decoy ball made. You have to look to your future, and right now, planting a replacement ball in Aldoin’s coffin is your best bet for keeping the Inquisition off of your trail.
You squirm under the sheet as it settles over the contours of your body. You are as comfortable as you are going to get on your mat, you have eaten, you have bathed, you have a drink, and you are tired and aching all over. So why are you not falling straight to sleep? You were half worried that you would pass out in the tub, and catch a cold in the process.
The answer does come to you in time, though it is not one that you care for. Guilt. You have done terrible things tonight. And now, you are all alone, naked, in the dark – in a place that feels much less safe than it used to.
