Back in the room, Mae dropped the linen bundle onto the bed. The knot came undone with a gentle tug, revealing the simple, rustic outfit tucked inside.
It was plain, but charming.
A soft off-white cotton dress, tiered down to her ankles, paired with a deep maroon lace-up bodice that would fit snugly over her torso. And beside it, a pair of dark brown ankle-high boots—clearly secondhand, cracked in places, but stitched recently.
She got dressed slowly, methodically. The dress clung to her figure in a way that felt familiar yet foreign, and once the final lace was tied, she caught herself in the small mirror near the bed.
A commoner. A girl from nowhere.
She gave her reflection a slight nod, then grabbed her satchel, stuffing her old clothes into the leather bag and slipping the coin pouch deep into its side pocket. The money would run out eventually—but not today.
In the dining hall, a wooden board hung crooked near the counter, etched with today's Peasant's Breakfast Menu:
Wheat Gruel with Honey Drizzle
Crusty Rye Bread with Smoked Turnip Butter
Herbed Egg Porridge
Yesterday's Stew (Reheated)
Sweet Root Tea (Lukewarm)
Mae scanned the list with a skeptical frown, stomach growling in rebellion.
"Peasent–" she chucked sarcastically rubbign her face annoyedly. It had finally come to this. She breathed in deep without a choice. "Not the stew. Never again," she muttered.
She tapped the board with a finger and said to the sleepy inn boy standing behind the counter, "Gruel and tea. Please."
The boy yawned, shouted the order into the back, and handed her a chipped wooden bowl and a cup with a splintered handle.
Mae sat by a dim window, dipping her spoon into the slightly thickened gruel. The honey was barely there, but it dulled the blandness.
"It's edible. That's all I can ask for today," she told herself. "I should try cooking on my own someday– how hard can it be, I have done enough camp trips to know how to cook over an open flame."
She sipped the lukewarm tea and closed her eyes.
Lora's flustered face flickered across Mae's thoughts the moment she sipped the lukewarm tea, drawing her back to reality. Her eyes opened sharply and scanned the room, half-expecting to see that familiar mess of curls and shy gaze—but Lora was gone.
"Hmm… she seemed fine this morning," Mae murmured, setting the chipped cup aside. Something about the maid's rushed departure itched at her curiosity, but she pushed the thought back for now.
She finished her breakfast with effort, forced down the last spoonfuls of thickened gruel, then stood up and stepped out into the city once more.
The morning market was alive. The air buzzed with shouting vendors and clattering carts. Bread sellers bellowed over each other, each claiming their loaves were "fresh from the oven," while fishmongers waved around yesterday's catch wrapped in dry reeds.
"Miss! One starling for a loaf! You won't find better!"
Mae gave the merchant a polite shake of the head and kept walking, her eyes roaming. The stalls were chaotic, the goods a mismatch of half-spoiled vegetables, stale bread, and fruit that had seen better days. It was a city of survival, not quality.
She ignored the catcalls and sidelong stares. There was only one thing on her mind: finding a library.
If she could get her hands on a map, a calendar—a history book, anything—she might be able to understand where, and more pressingly when, she was. She remembered only fragments of high school history, but it was a start.
After stopping a few locals—who gave her skeptical once-overs, clearly judging her polished speech and new clothing—someone finally pointed her toward a squat building tucked between two alleys.
The Crinkle Curb Library, they called it.
Mae stepped inside.
The must hit her first: thick, dry, and laced with the scent of aging paper and wood smoke. The door creaked shut behind her, plunging her into quiet. The place was dimly lit, windows narrow and covered in cobwebs, casting dusty slats of light across the crowded room. Books spilled off shelves. Some were stacked in teetering towers that touched the ceiling.
She ducked as a spider web caught her hair, swatting it away with a small squeal before pushing through the tight maze of bookshelves.
"Okay… just find something—a year, a name, a clue," she whispered.
Her fingers traced the spines of strange, faded books until she pulled one out at random and cracked it open. But the second she looked at the page, she froze.
The letters were twisted. Familiar yet alien. Symbols she couldn't read, despite hearing everyone speak her language perfectly.
"What the hell? Why can I understand people, but not read this?" she hissed under her breath.
"Perhaps because language can bend… but writing is loyal to time."
The voice came from behind.
Mae gasped and spun around. A tall man stood there, silent as a shadow, with a long white beard and robes the color of parchment. His eyes were dark, ageless. She hadn't heard a single footstep.
Startled, Mae let the book fall—but the man moved like mist. Before the tome even hit the ground, he caught it with one hand, dusted it gently with the other, and cradled it like an old friend.
"Welcome to the Crinkle Curb Library," he said smoothly. "How may I help you?"
Mae swallowed hard. Her mouth went dry.
"I—uh—I just needed… a book. To read," she stammered, suddenly conscious of every syllable.
"Anything in particular?" he asked, stepping closer with a knowing gleam in his eye.
Mae panicked. She reached for the nearest book on the shelf. "This one! Yeah, I came for this one. It's, uh… it's exactly what I was looking for."
She spun to place it on a nearby table, pretending to browse. But when she turned around, the man was standing right in front of her again—closer than before.
Her breath hitched.
"Are you sure you were looking for that particular book?" he asked, voice dipped in quiet suspicion.
Mae blinked. Behind him, the space was empty. No one else. No other entrance.
"Did I come to the wrong place?" she thought, her heart thumping harder with every second.
The man didn't move. Didn't blink. Just smiled faintly—like he already knew the answer to a question Mae hadn't asked.
Mae cracked under the weight of his stare. "I need a map," she blurted, barely recognizing her own voice.
"A map?" he echoed, slowly raising an eyebrow. "Now why would a girl like you need one of those? The only people who come asking for maps are either fugitives..." He paused meaningfully, letting the silence hang in the air long enough to make her stomach twist. "Or spies."
Mae gulped. "No! I—I just have an interest in geography," she said quickly, forcing out an awkward laugh. "The layout of the land, you know... topography, uh... rivers."
His expression didn't change. If anything, the corners of his mouth twitched in amusement. "Interesting," he said. "But you can't read."
Mae's spine stiffened. "How did you—?"
"You mumbled it," he said plainly. "Right before I welcomed you, you whispered that you couldn't read."
Her eyes widened. Oh no. She had said that out loud.
"It's not that I can't read," she corrected hastily. "I just… can't read this language. What is it even called?"
He tilted his head slightly, considering her. "Are you from outside the continent?"
Mae nodded before she could think of a lie.
(Continued)