I missed posting last Saturday, since it was our anniversary and I forgot to schedule the post but if you haven’t already caught up on my Fiction Press account, here is chapter two of Thread of Time. Enjoy!
Chapter Two: Aftershock
The first thing Maeve noticed was an earthy, musty smell, like the aroma of earth that has been wetted down and filled with moss. Her eyes refused to open right away, but she could smell everything. The dirt beneath her, the water that dripped somewhere in the vicinity, the puddles that people walked through outside. Wherever she was, it smelled of stone, worn in and kissed with cold age.
Rubbing her eyes to will away the pounding headache, she squinted one lid open and barely caught movement above her. The tendril of someone’s hair slid across her face, and fingers poked her cheek. Maeve grunted in response, her heart beginning to race. Had she been kidnapped? She barely remembered last night; the dancing and drinking and midnight kissing all blurred into one loud memory that she did not care to relive. But after that kiss… what had happened? She couldn’t remember.
If she hadn’t felt so much like throwing up, Maeve might have been a little more concerned about the figure tentatively prodding her body. But, the person did not seem to be after much of anything, and she was preoccupied with merely getting her vision back to care much. Something about the sounds coming from outside seemed odd to her, but she could not quite pin what it was.
Finally, both eyes cooperated and granted her vision — blurry, gritty vision that welcomed in stabbing pain with the light, but vision nonetheless. Above her was darkness; some sort of wooden beams beneath a floor, shrouded in shadows and cobwebs. To the left was a window; the sort of rectangular kind that basements have, which follows the line of the ground and does very little to allow a view in or out. It was barred, but then many basement windows were in the city.
To the right was a dark stone wall. It surprised her to see this; she had expected brick of some kind, but instead gray stones greeted her eyes, dripping with moisture of indeterminate beginnings. And, as she finally gathered the energy to push herself up to her elbows, at her feet was what appeared to be an old woman wrapped in a gray blanket, who was poking at her with a stick.
“Hey,” Maeve protested, immediately thinking of the delicacy of her dress before she realized it was utterly ruined by dirt and alcohol and one too many misstepping feet.
With a scream, the woman threw herself back against the wall, her eyes wide. Unintelligible words flew from her mouth, and she covered her face with her hands, muttering all the while.
Maeve raised an eyebrow. “Well. Hello…?”