By Ben Wolcott
©2010 Ben Wolcott
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When Haldune woke not knowing where he was or how he had gotten there, panic seized him.
Her again—how long had she ridden him, and what had she done in his absence? Immediately he leaped out of bed and—
Ah! There was the bottle, on the nightstand, not an arm’s length away. Though its purplish glaze glinted in the morning light, it retained the look of a solidified shadow or shred of hanging smoke. Haldune expelled a breath and sat back on the bed.
Once his heart had slowed a little, he went through his things, which had been left in a heap on the rough planking at the foot of the bed. He owned little: two sets of clothing, a pocket knife, a coin purse. Haldune dumped the coins into his palm. She had spent just a little more than needed for a few meals and a night at this inn, if inn it was. The light leaking in through the shutters looked like dawn to him. He guessed no more than one day had passed.