Bea smiled, gently swiping her dust rag across the worn wood of an old hardwood shelf. The books held by the shelf seemed to glint at her, the tomes’ shiny, leather spines glinting from the rub down Bea had already given them. It was quiet today, but that suited Bea just fine.

    Her Uncle’s bookstore stood quaintly between taller buildings on either side of it. The bookstore sported soft tan bricks, made with clay from a creek- which stood out against the rough cobble and oak walls of its neighbors. It was a haven, a hidden gem within the larger city- silence within the normal hustle and bustle. 

The bell attached to the front door rings out and Bea hangs her dust rag on a hook attached to the back wall, before she sedately makes her way to the front of the store. The good thing about working in  a book store was that customers were usually pretty lax when it came to time. They fully expected to get lost browsing the shelves.

Standing at her counter, an older woman stoops with one hand resting on a smooth, polished birch cane. Her other hand clutches a shawl draped over her shoulders and a small coin purse. She smells softly of lavender and marigolds, likely keeps a garden. She seems the type to do that, remembered laughter resting in the lines of her face, while present good mood sneaks along the side of her upturned  lips. There is joy hidden in her eyes, peaking out around her crow’s feet wrinkles.

Bea likes this type of person. She smells and looks like aged sunshine. Old people are so wonderful, she finds herself thinking as she drifts over, meeting the woman’s smile with a welcoming upturn or her own lips. “Hello, ma’am,” she says. “How can I help you today?”

“Hello, dearie,” the woman crooned. “I’m looking for a gift for my grandson. He just loves herbology. He’s such a mature young man! He got accepted into the Capitol’s Physician Academy, you know? Such a bright young man.”

“Oh, really?” asked Bea, already strolling down an aisle of shelves in the direction of the books on botany. 

“Why, yes! That’s my Bron, just so brilliant.” 

Bea knelt down, thumbing carefully through the titles the store carried as she determined which one would be the best gift for the man in the Physician’s Academy.  She was loathe to send the woman off with one of the more advanced titles, in case he found it too dry, but she also couldn’t see a man that qualified for the physician’s placement as being satisfied with a beginner’s guide. 

Making up her mind, she grabbed a thick leather-bound tome from the next to bottom shelf. This had both a list of plants and their applications. Simple to understand, but filled to the brim with applicable knowledge. It should suffice as a good reference book at least, which would serve a man in school very well. 

Bea brought the book back up to the front desk, laying it flat on the counter top while she reached beneath for the thin paper their store wrapped purchases in. “Here you are, ma’am, I’m sure he’ll like this one.” 

While Bea cut a strip of brown wrap paper, the old woman thumbed carefully through the pages, exclaiming all the while about the different plants, the level of detail, and ‘oooh wouldn’t her little Bron just love this?’ 

Bea gently slid the book from her hands and started wrapping, nodding along to the woman’s cheerful ramblings. Old people were such dears. Once the gift was neatly wrapped, money was exchanged and the little old woman toddled out the door with a, “Thank you, sweet heart. You’re a dear. I’ll have to come back by when I get in a baking mood again. You could use some of my cookies to put some meat on your bones.”

After the woman was gone, Bea couldn’t hold back a giggle. Old people were so funny sometimes. Bea couldn’t help but adore the harmless little wrinkled humans. 

The rest of the afternoon was quiet. Bea kept shop, sold a few books, and cleaned up. She locked the door and made sure that the “Closed” sign be visible in the window once the bell tolled four o’clock. Working in the bookshop was easy. Simple, repetitive work. Perfectly ordinary.  

It’s good this way, Bea thinks to herself. She carefully adjusts her round rimmed spectacles, smoothing out her dress, and tying her lavender bonnet atop her dark locks of hair. The front brim of the bonnet stretched out a few inches, casting a soft shadow over her eyes as Bea stepped out of the shop into the intense afternoon sun. 

Bea found herself thankful for the shadow, the heat of mid-summer sun bearing down on her as soon as she left the shadowed confines of the store. Thankfully, she only had a few errands to run before she could return to the little apartment above the shop. Then, she could eat a quiet dinner, reading- or rereading- one of the books from the shop. 

The street the book store was on was quiet, other shops- a jeweler, a leather worker, and a small apothecary stitched into the tall residential housing that made up most of the street- also closing as business for the day came to a sleepy halt. There were only a few other people on the street as Bea made her way down, further towards the center of their small town. The other people on the street smile and wave, while Bea does the same. The people that frequent this sedate little street are very familiar with her by now; Bea has been helping her uncle, Rowan, with the shop for around two years now. 

Before walking into a more heavily populated street, Bea took the time to gently dab her wrists with an oil mix- just some lavender and pine oil, good for reducing inflammation or sinus problems- and dabbing it lightly on her neck as well. She can’t have anyone smelling her. Not that she stinks, but it’s always better to be sure. 

She tucks her small bottle of oil back into the woven bag hanging around her waist and smooths out her skirts, checking her reflection discreetly as she passes a store window. She looks normal and plain, like she is every other day. 

Walking into the market area is an experience. There are bright colors, reflections of the harsh mid summer sun in every reflective surface, and shouting venders- each certain that their product is what each customer needs. Bea doesn’t appreciate all this. There is much entropy here, she thinks, remembering how one of the books in the store refers to disorder. 

Demurely, she tucks her chin down as she weaves her way through the bustling crowds. She only needs to pick up a few ingredients for dinner and check the post for letters from Uncle Rowan. Her heart picks up as she gets deeper in the crowd of noisy, smelly people. Crowds are so annoying, Bea thinks. This is why people, even peasants, should bathe regularly. Or at least wear some kind of herbal scent to drown out the stench of coated grime and human sweat mixed together. Disgusting. 

Bea breathes a quiet sigh of relief as she finds an area less saturated with villagers. Her breath catches on it, however, when she sees why the little clearing of human bodies exists. 

There is a Protector in the center of the circle. He stands tall, fur smooth and shiny in the sun. Before averting her eyes, Bea can see that he is some kind of foreign canine, pointed ears flicking to the side as a particularly loud vendor advertises his wares. Someone on the fringe of the crowd, that can see the were-canine, hushes the vendor and Bea doesn’t hear him shout again. 

Can’t have anyone upsetting the delicate senses of a Protector, thinks Bea. She fights the impulse to scowl as she carefully glides along the edge of the circle. At the very least she could use the clear space to get where she was going faster. The protector’s eyes tracked her movement for a few tense seconds before he dismissed her as a non-threat. 

She must register just the same as the rest of the civilians, a non-threat civilian tribe member. To be tolerated and looked after. Not attacked.

Leaving the little clear circle for the thicker market crowd, Bea felt more at ease within the cover of moving, busy people. Protectors weren’t usually brought into the market. It was considered too loud, smelly, and busy for their hair-trigger instincts. They were too likely to attack when they felt threatened. She supposed that as long as the protector’s mage was nearby, it was fine. The fact that the were-canine was there at all still garnered some surprise, however. 

Quickly, Bea crossed the busy street to a vendor selling vegetables. The vendor smiled at her- his teeth a little crooked, but a kind soul still leaked through the gaps. He asked, “How can I help you, ma’am?”

“Can I get a bundle of carrots and a half dozen white potatoes? And some corn if you have it. I’m making a roast tonight.” Bea took a moment to dip her hand into her waist purse, pulling out the proper payment.

The vend or bent down, grabbing a sack to put her purchases in. “Ooh, sounds delicious lass, is there a special occasion?”

“No,” said Bea, “just wanted to take the opportunity to have something nice.” 

A movement to her side caught her eye and Bea glanced to her left. A man stood a few paces away, patiently waiting for his turn to purchase some vegetables. What caught her eye was his dress. He wore clothes of good quality, everything down to his boots and the buckle on his belt were made using better materials than most people could afford. This wouldn’t bother her so much, except that he also sported a pin on his vest.

It was an innocuous little thing, the pin. It was a crest with a golden flame in the center. On the edges of the crest, the borders are drawn in sharply to mimic fangs around the outside of the flame. It was a Mage’s crest. This was the Mage paired with the Protector waiting across the street. 

Bea carefully, not rushing, turned her head back to the vendor. She could feel the mage’s eyes on the back of her head. He was probably taking notice of her bonnet, which was not a common head accessory these days- old ladies sometimes still wore them, but altogether it was becoming less common. Bea liked the coverage they gave her, both keeping her hair out of the way and keeping the sun from her eyes.

The vendor was almost finished stuffing her purchase into the sack. Bea blinked, as if startled, before smiling and saying, “Oh, I just remembered, I’m out of onions. Could I also have three onions?”

The portly vendor answered, “But of course, lassie! Can’t have a proper roast withou’ a good onion or two.”

While he stooped to grab the onions from the baskets beneath the counter, Bea reached into her purse for the extra coppers she would need for the onions. The vendor put the onions in the bag and Bea had to hide a wince. She honestly hated onions, but you couldn’t have a roast without them. She swore she could smell the stupid little bulbs, their sharp scent apparent even through their thick, papery layers. 

Gosh, she really hates onions.

The vendor hands her the bag and Bea gently places his payment in his upturned palm. The mage behind her has stopped watching her and moves up to make his own purchase. Without further ado, Bea slips back into the crowd as the vendor talks to the mage behind her. 

Bea weaves back through the crowd, towards the end of the market street. The Protector still stands in his isolated circle, waiting for his mage to  return. He sniffs the air as Bea walks past and Bea almost freezes, but then he sneezes, and she knows he probably just smells her onions. Poor thing. Out in the middle of the market in his warrior form. If she doesn’t like the way onions smell, then he really mustn’t. Onions probably cover her natural scent even better than lavender or pine oil.

Bea drifts out of the market without further ado. She drops by the post, frowning when her uncle has sent no letter. This is the second week Rowan hasn’t sent a letter. He usually sends a letter every week and a half, inquiring after the store and how she’s doing- also sending news about his own well-being. His letters are important, because they also contain snippets of how the rest of the family is doing, whenever he happens to meet up with one of them in his travels. 

The fact that he hasn’t written in two weeks is concerning. He’s supposed to be looking at cities in other provinces, other countries, for them to move the book store. This little, sleepy, middle sized village, Parlington, is beautiful. But the winds are changing. A new king came into power recently in Clarykk, the country their city was in, and he’s been changing things. Most of his mandates don’t affect normal people, hence why they’re prepared to turn a blind eye, content to continue with their lives even as some of their neighbors are strangled by the new rules being enforced. Parlington is too far away from the capitol city of Berek for the strict laws to have more than a cursory effect.

But, Rowan has friends downwind of the king. And they’re hearing a lot of concerning things about how bad it’s going to get. How militant the stranglehold on certain citizens will become. So, Rowan has set off, in search of greener pastures, while Bea takes care of the shop- trying to sell as many of the heavy books as possible, so that it will be easier to pick up and move later. 

Bea returns home to a quiet, empty upstairs apartment, above the bookstore. She fixes her roast and leaves the pot to simmer, settling down on an old armchair that over looks the street to read while she waits. 

Dinner is a quiet, solitary affair. She goes to bed shortly after.