Alucent opened his eyes to pale morning light filtering through the Frosted Glass panes of his bedroom window.
He lay still for a moment, staring at the velvet canopy of the four-poster bed, then pushed back the covers and sat up. His head felt clearer than it had the night before. The Semantic Fog from the Scriptorium had faded during sleep, and the dull ache behind his temples had receded to almost nothing.
He swung his legs off the bed, stood, and walked to the window. Outside, the Glowroses in the garden had dimmed to their daytime state, their clockwork petals half-closed, and the brass wind gauge on the roof turned slowly in a light breeze. The sky was a pale grey-blue, and the cobblestone path leading to the lane was still damp from overnight condensation.
I need food, I haven't had actual food for a while now, wait I don't think I've had meat since I got into this world. he thought. And I've checked the pantry, it's empty.
He pulled on his trousers from the night before and a simple linen shirt, slipped his feet into a pair of worn house boots, and walked through the parlor to the front door. He pressed his palm against the Ironvine frame and channeled Runeforce through the Weave Anchor ring on his right index finger, feeling the brass warm against his skin as the stability rune pulsed and the lock clicked open.
The morning air was cool and carried the faint metallic tang that always hung over Eryndral, and Alucent stepped onto the cobblestone path and closed the door behind him, sealing it again with a pulse from the ring.
He walked down the path, past the Glowroses and the brass astrolabe on its stand, through the low iron gate, and onto the lane that led toward the center of the district. Gas Lanternposts lined the way, their flames extinguished now that dawn had come, and a few early risers passed him heading in the opposite direction, workers in heavy coats making their way to the foundries.
The Marketplaza came into view as he rounded the curve in the lane.
The central square was already stirring with activity despite the early hour. Steam hissed from the vents of stalls that were just opening, and the Runespout fountain at the center sent up its usual plumes of vapor from the brass rune-etched jets. The glowing copper Runepaths crisscrossed the cobblestones, pulsing faintly with the rhythm of the district's Runeforce conduits, and wrought-iron trellises supporting brass-veined vines framed the entrances to the different wings of the market.
Alucent turned south.
The south wing of the Marketplaza was where the food vendors gathered, and the smells reached him before he saw the stalls. Roasted meat, baked bread, brewing tea, pickled vegetables. His stomach tightened.
He walked past several stalls until he found the one he was looking for. A signboard hung above the entrance, the words "Stomach's Closure" painted in faded red letters on dark wood. The stall itself was cleaner than most, with a swept floor and neatly arranged shelves holding both cooked and raw items in ceramic containers and waxed paper wrappings.
An old woman in her mid-fifties stood behind the counter, wiping her hands on a cloth. Her grey hair was pulled back tightly, and her face had the weathered look of someone who had been working market stalls for decades. She looked up as Alucent approached.
"Oh sweet child. An early riser I must say," she said while smiling, setting the cloth aside. "What can I get you?"
Alucent looked at the shelves behind her. He could see cuts of meat hanging from hooks, bundles of dried tea leaves in paper packets, and various organ meats in a glass-fronted cold cabinet that hummed faintly with a preservation rune.
"I want Roasted beef," he said. "One portion. And a pack of the black tea, also kidney, a small chop."
The old woman nodded and turned to gather the items. She pulled down a portion of roasted beef that had been cooked over purple fire, the meat having a faint violet tinge to its char that gave it a distinctive appearance. She wrapped it in waxed paper, then retrieved a packet of black tea leaves and a small portion of kidney from the cold cabinet.
"Here child, it is thirty Copperweaves for the beef," she said in a soft tone, setting the items on the counter. "Seven Copperweaves for the tea and twenty-five Copperweaves for the kidney."
This is not bad, I should probably try something lavish next time, I need to know the difference in gap between the middle class and wealthy, I would consider myself a lower class as it is right now. Alucent couldn't help but lampoon.
Alucent then reached into his pocket and pulled out a small cloth pouch. He opened it and counted out seven Silverweaves, the old notes with their soft pale silver glow, the luminescent Ironvine fabric still trusted more than the newer issues that had been circulating recently. He set them on the counter.
The old woman picked up each note and examined it in the morning light filtering through the stall's entrance, turning them to check the silver lacing and the stability of the glow. After a moment, she nodded, swept the notes into a box beneath the counter, and counted out eight Copperweaves in change, the narrow strips of Ironvine fabric etched with faint protective runes.
"I'll tell you this, sweet child. Purple fire beef is good today," she said, handing him the change and the wrapped items. "I got it fresh yesterday from a butcher in the upper district. You'll taste the difference."
She sounds so nice, what a lovely woman.
Alucent took the items and the change, nodded his thanks, and turned to leave.
He walked back through the Marketplaza, past the Runespout fountain and the waking stalls, and followed the lane back to his Steamcottage. The Glowroses in the garden pulsed once as he approached, their clockwork petals shifting slightly in recognition of his presence, and he unsealed the door and stepped inside.
The parlor was dim, the chandelier's oil flame having burned down during the night, and he crossed to the kitchen without relighting it. He set the wrapped items on the counter beside the coal stove, then opened the iron door and added fresh coal from the scuttle. A match, a moment of waiting, and the fire caught. He filled the kettle from the hand pump at the basin and set it on the stovetop to heat.
While the water warmed, he unwrapped the kidney and the roasted beef and set them on a cutting board. The beef's purple-fire char had a faint, sharp smell that was different from ordinary roasted meat, and he cut it into smaller pieces before combining it with the chopped kidney in a small baking dish.
I should have Slavrish pie, he thought as he worked. I haven't made this in months, heh, "in months". As if I've ever had it...
Since I've been here, this will be the first time thinking of such a thing. No—even hearing the name in my own head. I guess there will always be something to remind me I am living in another man's body. He shook his head as if in sadness or grief and gave a self-deprecating smile.
He didn't have pastry, so he simply placed the dish in the oven beside the firebox and let the residual heat warm the meat through while he prepared the tea. The kettle whistled, and he poured hot water over the Ironvine leaves in a ceramic pot, then added a measure of milk from a sealed jar in the cold cabinet.
By the time the tea had steeped, the meat was heated through and fragrant. He retrieved the dish, set it on a wooden board, and carried both the tea and the food to the small table in the corner of the kitchen.
He sat down, poured a cup of the black tea, and took a sip. The Ironvine leaves gave it a faintly metallic undertone that blended with the milk into something smooth and warming. He set the cup down and forked a piece of the roasted beef into his mouth.
The purple fire had done something to the meat that ordinary flame couldn't. There was a depth to the taste, a slight sweetness beneath the char that made him chew slowly to appreciate it. The kidney was tender and rich, and he ate methodically, alternating between bites of meat and sips of tea until the dish was empty and the cup was drained.
He sat for a moment, feeling the warmth of the food settle in his stomach, then stood and carried the dishes to the basin.
After that, he walked to the bedroom and stripped off his clothes before crossing to the brass washbasin beside the window. He worked the hand pump until cool water flowed into the basin, then cupped it in his palms and splashed it over his face and neck. The cold helped clear the last traces of sleep from his mind, and he scrubbed his arms and torso before drying himself with a cloth from the rack.
He walked to the wardrobe and opened the doors.
Unsurprisingly, every outfit inside was tailored to this world's current era, formal coats and fitted trousers and starched shirts in the Eryndral style. He looked at them for a moment, running his fingers along the fabrics, then reached for a grey frock coat with red inner lining visible at the collar and cuffs. Red accents ran along the edges in thin piping.
He pulled on loose black trousers and tucked them into tall blue boots with folded-over brown leather cuffs at the top, then shrugged into the frock coat and fastened it. A thick leather belt with a large buckle went around his waist, and he attached the pouch to it before pulling on brown leather gloves.
The Journal was sitting on the nightstand beside the bed, dormant, its thick black leather cover etched with micro-runes that shifted imperceptibly when he wasn't looking directly at them. He picked it up and slipped it into the pouch at his belt, feeling the weight of it settle against his hip.
Finally, he walked to the corner of the room where a long black staff leaned against the wall. A red gem was set into its top, and the wood was dark and smooth with age.
He picked it up, and his fingers found the familiar grooves worn into the shaft by years of use.
Ah... Father's cane, he thought. I'm glad it's mine now. He smiled and brushed his hands through his long curly hair to make it look elegant.
He stood there for a moment, looking at the gem, then turned and walked back through the parlor. He retrieved a black top hat from the stand beside the door and set it on his head, adjusting the brim.
He unsealed the door, stepped outside into the morning light, and sealed it again behind him.
The walk to the Scribe's Tower took him back through the Marketplaza, which was fully awake now with vendors calling out their wares and customers moving between the stalls. The Runeclock on the Tower's Frosted Glass face showed the time, and the deep resonant note of its hourly toll was still fading in the air as he approached the brass-bound entrance.
He walked through the doors and into the lamplit interior, where Gryan and Raya were already waiting.