Her feet are bare as she walks across the cold white tiles of Sandstone Court’s communal. She stops before the grandiose casement windows, taking in the view of the Avenue of the Arts on its early morn. The streets are empty, save a lone cart and its driver moving slowly through.
She turns to face the gallery behind her. She hardly believes that a place so desolate was once occupied by three silly girls who danced, sang, and gossiped. Oh, how laughter would fill these halls! Along with sobs, fleeting oaths, and at times, sinful noises.
Now these halls are patrons of silence. They have been for years.
She takes in a breath and seats herself on one of the low style Farin sofas set around the gallery. She feels herself slipping into a mood, and seeks quickly to organize her thoughts. She is no longer a silly girl, thrust into a position she is unprepared for. She has lost too much for such a luxury.
She will have to speak with Vlora. Learn the names of the new pages and squires, and (shamefully) many of the Knights too. Reacquaint herself with the patrol routes, catch up on open warrants…
A knock sounds from below, traveling up the staircase. She knows that to not answer, as her mind so wishes to and as her body so readily stands (or sits), to comply, will mean a day spent inside, hidden from responsibility and the city in need of her defense; a day spent basking in acedia.
Several more knocks sound.
Her feet wear boots as she walks across the cold white tiles of Sandstone Court’s communal.