Venla Thiel
Nay, let us walk from fire unto fire
- Character Profile
- Profile
She had been told she could walk the grounds, and only the grounds. Back to her cell before dark. She took the instruction with the generosity of a woman who had just been handed the whole sky. The first thing Venla did with her freedom this day was stand in the middle of the courtyard with her mouth open like a child. The late summer rain came down on her face, her wrists, the crown of her head, and every drop landed with a small cold yes.
A short laugh cracked out of her, delighted. "Oh, that's lovely," she told nobody. A young squire crossing the colonnade with a stack of ledgers pretended not to hear, and walked a little faster.
Venla wandered the herb beds, where the rosemary was bruised and fragrant under the downpour. She followed the gravel path past the orchard wall. She turned her palms up and let them fill, then licked the water from the heel of her hand the way her father used to taste the first run of a mash, thoughtfully, for what it would become. It tasted of slate, chimney smoke and something that had fallen from very high up.
By the second hour the sky had stopped being kind. The drizzle thickened into sheets, and the sheets began to lean, coming in sideways off the hills and hammering the slate roofs of the outer buildings. Her wool was soaked through and her boots squelched. The drops no longer said yes. Venla noticed she had stopped being able to hear her own footsteps.
The nearest door was oak, iron-banded, with a carved lintel of open books. She didn't see that. She pushed, and it gave, and she stepped inside with a sigh of pure relief. The scriptorium library was a long, hushed hall of shelves and green glass lamps. It smelled of vellum, papper dust and dry leather, and it was dry. Every inch of it was dry.
Venla stood on the threshold and dripped. Water ran from her hair, her sleeves and her hem. It pooled around her boots in a spreading dark coin on the pale flagstones.
"Oh, I am sorry," she said, wincing. "Look at the state of me. I'm dripping all over your lovely floor." she said. Behind the long desk, a thin man with ink-stained underarms looked up from his ledger. His eyes went to the puddle. Then to her. Then to the puddle again, and then, very slowly, back to her face.
"Oh," he said faintly. "Oh, no. Please. Please stay there. Don't touch anything. I'll fetch a towel. I'll fetch several towels."
"I'm not going anywhere."
He went. He went the way a man goes when he's decided it's better not to turn his back on something, in a kind of shuffling, sideways, apologetic scurry, past the shelves and through a low door at the far end of the hall. It banged shut behind him. Somewhere beyond it, a man could be heard saying "Syr Liom!" in the voice of someone who badly wanted a witness.
Venla stood on the threshold. She looked at the puddle. She looked at the long dry room full of long dry books. "I'll not move an inch," she said again, to nobody, and wandered in. Only to the nearest shelf. Only to look. She left a trail of dark wet footprints across the floor. The spines went by under her eyes, brown and red and black, stamped in gold that had mostly flaked off. Of Tides and Their Governance. A Natural History of the Wasp.
"Fancy keeping all this," she murmured, and meant it. She had never owned a book. There'd been the the receipt book with her grandmother's handwriting in it.
Three shelves along, at the height of her chest, she found a fat old herbal with a cracked green spine, and her heart did a foolish flip. She knew she shouldn't. Venla was a brewer's daughter and knew precisely what a wet hand did to a dry thing, she wiped her palm down her skirt, which only moved the wet from one place to another, and did it again with the other hand, which achieved the same, and then she slid the book out and opened it anyway, very gently, across her forearm.
Oh, it was beautiful. Hops, in faded greens and golds, every leaf drawn true. Barley. Yarrow. Feverfew, with a note in the margin in a cramped hand: Boil, strain, give to the sick. If they die, it was the Fate's will, not the feverfew's.
"Well, that's fair," Venla breathed, and turned the page. A single drop fell from the end of her braid and landed squarely on the illumination. She froze. The drop sat there on the vellum, round and bright, and then began, very slowly, to spread. A little pale halo of damp crept out around the painted hop vine.
"Oh, no" Venla whispered, "Don't. He'll have a fit..."
She blew on it. This helped in no way whatever, and added a second drop from her nose. She dabbed it with her sleeve, which was wet and only made it worse.
"No," whispered Venla. "No, no, no"
A short laugh cracked out of her, delighted. "Oh, that's lovely," she told nobody. A young squire crossing the colonnade with a stack of ledgers pretended not to hear, and walked a little faster.
Venla wandered the herb beds, where the rosemary was bruised and fragrant under the downpour. She followed the gravel path past the orchard wall. She turned her palms up and let them fill, then licked the water from the heel of her hand the way her father used to taste the first run of a mash, thoughtfully, for what it would become. It tasted of slate, chimney smoke and something that had fallen from very high up.
By the second hour the sky had stopped being kind. The drizzle thickened into sheets, and the sheets began to lean, coming in sideways off the hills and hammering the slate roofs of the outer buildings. Her wool was soaked through and her boots squelched. The drops no longer said yes. Venla noticed she had stopped being able to hear her own footsteps.
The nearest door was oak, iron-banded, with a carved lintel of open books. She didn't see that. She pushed, and it gave, and she stepped inside with a sigh of pure relief. The scriptorium library was a long, hushed hall of shelves and green glass lamps. It smelled of vellum, papper dust and dry leather, and it was dry. Every inch of it was dry.
Venla stood on the threshold and dripped. Water ran from her hair, her sleeves and her hem. It pooled around her boots in a spreading dark coin on the pale flagstones.
"Oh, I am sorry," she said, wincing. "Look at the state of me. I'm dripping all over your lovely floor." she said. Behind the long desk, a thin man with ink-stained underarms looked up from his ledger. His eyes went to the puddle. Then to her. Then to the puddle again, and then, very slowly, back to her face.
"Oh," he said faintly. "Oh, no. Please. Please stay there. Don't touch anything. I'll fetch a towel. I'll fetch several towels."
"I'm not going anywhere."
He went. He went the way a man goes when he's decided it's better not to turn his back on something, in a kind of shuffling, sideways, apologetic scurry, past the shelves and through a low door at the far end of the hall. It banged shut behind him. Somewhere beyond it, a man could be heard saying "Syr Liom!" in the voice of someone who badly wanted a witness.
Venla stood on the threshold. She looked at the puddle. She looked at the long dry room full of long dry books. "I'll not move an inch," she said again, to nobody, and wandered in. Only to the nearest shelf. Only to look. She left a trail of dark wet footprints across the floor. The spines went by under her eyes, brown and red and black, stamped in gold that had mostly flaked off. Of Tides and Their Governance. A Natural History of the Wasp.
"Fancy keeping all this," she murmured, and meant it. She had never owned a book. There'd been the the receipt book with her grandmother's handwriting in it.
Three shelves along, at the height of her chest, she found a fat old herbal with a cracked green spine, and her heart did a foolish flip. She knew she shouldn't. Venla was a brewer's daughter and knew precisely what a wet hand did to a dry thing, she wiped her palm down her skirt, which only moved the wet from one place to another, and did it again with the other hand, which achieved the same, and then she slid the book out and opened it anyway, very gently, across her forearm.
Oh, it was beautiful. Hops, in faded greens and golds, every leaf drawn true. Barley. Yarrow. Feverfew, with a note in the margin in a cramped hand: Boil, strain, give to the sick. If they die, it was the Fate's will, not the feverfew's.
"Well, that's fair," Venla breathed, and turned the page. A single drop fell from the end of her braid and landed squarely on the illumination. She froze. The drop sat there on the vellum, round and bright, and then began, very slowly, to spread. A little pale halo of damp crept out around the painted hop vine.
"Oh, no" Venla whispered, "Don't. He'll have a fit..."
She blew on it. This helped in no way whatever, and added a second drop from her nose. She dabbed it with her sleeve, which was wet and only made it worse.
"No," whispered Venla. "No, no, no"
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