Daylight bled through the curtain slits, pooling on Eve's skin like warm oil. Outside, the city coughed awake—iron wheels on cobbles, the groan of the gatehouse, the distant clang of bells.
"Eve ol' honey! Breakfast is on the table!"
The command cut through the thin walls—sharp, warm and carrying the scent of fried eggs.
"Ugh, these damn carriages. Can they get any louder?!"
"I can hear you grumbling, dear! Light's a-wastin'!"
She peered around. The room was small, familiar. Her bed felt like a lonely island—the perfect refuge for slothful reverie. Streaks of yellow drowned the embers of a small emerald lamp beside her—its glow too weak to contend with the crack of dawn.
Eve parted her crimson bangs—matted and grating—from scraping against her bloodshot eyes. "Right. Light's wasting"
She grumbled, rolling onto her back. Her spine curled like a question mark—halfway between waking and surrender. She didn't need reminders. Routine pulled her upright like a marionette on frayed strings.
One arm stretched toward the ceiling, the other locking behind it. A single, forceful yawn shook loose the last dregs of drowsiness. The floorboards creaked in protest as she stepped down—each groan a note in the morning's chorus.
She wasn't here for the music. The washroom was two steps from her door. The splash of cool water in the morning felt like mint on her skin. Just the shock she needed. She hurried down the narrow spiral stairs, emerging into a modest table prepared for two. An empty seat waited.
Tilda sat across from it. She had wide feet and strong arms—growing wider where they approached her shoulder. A checkered apron hugged her frame snugly. Hair tied in a tight bun, face carved with years. But her eyes—bright, restless—held a child's spark.
Behind her, hung a large canvas on the wall: a pockmarked sphere—The Sun—radiated jagged flames. A small copper pendant—etched with the same symbol—hung around Tilda's neck.
"There's eggs and coffee", she said, chewing slowly, smile breaking through. "Milk's in the cupboard. You can pour it yourself."
Eve raised a brow. "Yes, Madam".
"Madam? Nonsense. Call me Tilda."
"How about...Auntie", Eve offered, half-smirking.
Tilda tapped her lips, pretending to consider. "Progress. I'll allow it."
Eve moved behind the table, past the cupboard. Madam...no, Auntie, preferred her morning coffee black— black as tar. But her evening tea? Sweetened, heavy with milk. Every night, the carafe sat by the sink, tucked into the corner like a secret. Easy to forget. If not for Eve.
She grabbed the jug, turned, and lowered herself to the stool. Its legs caught in the warped floorboards. The planks—worn and weary—groaned into place.
One chewed. The other poured milk.
Outside, shouts drifted through the cracks—vendors, guards, the city breathing.
Tilda put her fork down. Her plate scrubbed clean.
"You're up early", she said, eyes sharp. "Someone excited for her new job?"
"It's not a new job, Auntie. Just a reassignment. I'm working on the moats in the outer walls, Southside", Eve shrugged, finding the time between modest morsels to talk.
"It still breaks my back. And I still toil in mud—thick, clinging, and impossibly cold. Call it what it is."
The slightest bitterness crept into Eve's smile, her eyes catching the light—just for a second—like wet steel.
"A downgrade in interior design, if you ask me. I used to look at gaudy clerks flirting up forgotten mistresses on cold stone benches, like pigeons on statues. Now, I get to see ragged pedestrians do the same in muddy streets."
"So, an upgrade, then?" Tilda's smile didn't reach her eyes. "All the same. No good comes from lingering around the Lower State. Even their loaded pockets can't keep them grounded. They float through life like smoke."
"Paved roads. Tall buildings. Lavish feasts in brick halls. But no concern for tomorrow. Spend too much time near them, you start to drift too."
She gripped the table, leaning in.
"Next thing you know, they find you with their troubles. Real work keeps your feet on the ground. That's where it's at. People like us—we're too busy to play their games."
Eve met her gaze. Nodded, just once.
"But still. You be careful out there ya hear me? We're both sweet, pretty things. And world's full of boorish men". She offered a clumsy wink—then sobered. "There are good people out there. But even the good one's can be careless, Eve. And the bad apples? They want you looking the wrong way. Watch for the ones who move too quiet. Talk too loud."
Eve's shoulders dropped. Her expression smoothed—calm, but not soft.
"I can take care of myself", she said, voice low. Then softened: "Besides, I don't have to make long commutes to the inner city anymore. That saves time."
She looked to the door outside. She paused, soaking in the leaking cacophony.
"I'm more at home here. The noise, the rush—it fits me. Like you said, feet on solid ground—toes and all. And also...I plan on volunteering more at the soup kitchen. Same hours."
Tilda relaxed her arms, yet unable to conceal the worry twisting her face.
"Yes, dear. I know you are. You grew into a fine young lass. Seeing you be healthy and work hard...it makes me stand taller."
"Around the Southern moat, you're a stone's throw away from Uncertainty. Things aren't right around that coast, darlin'. They never are."
Tilda squinted. "Southside's close to the Quarantine Line", she said, voice low, "They found another body near the docks last night. Face gone. Just...smooth". She tapped her own cheek. "Like it was erased."
Eve's spoon paused mid-air. "They think it's spreading?"
"I think you come straight home. Hold to the curfews. And if you don't, you send word. I don't want to worry myself raw."
Tilda leaned forward, her voice tightened. "You make sure you stick to tight groups. If anything happens, come find me at the Watchtower. Promise me."
Eve's plate mirrored Tilda's now—clean, empty. 'It was delicious', she quietly mused. She reached across the table and took Tilda's hands—locking eyes with assuring intensity.
"I understand Auntie. I'll do just that. I know my way around the Upper State better than anyone. You know that." She let the warmth rise into a smile.
"I'll be fine. Better than fine, even. But, if something happens, I'll come straight to wherever you are. Keep a chair handy. I'll settle beside you. Soon you'll have suitors lining up from the Upper State to the docks. With two beauties at the reception, who could possibly resist, right?"
Eve tried something resembling a wink. An imitation poorer than Tilda's own clumsy attempt.
"I promise."
They held the silence a moment longer—then broke into laughter, sudden and warm.
Tilda's face loosened. She clasped back Eve's calloused hands with deliberate strength.
"You ate well", she said, pride cracking her voice.
"Compliments to the chef."
Tilda closed her eyes. For a breath, she wasn't just a landlady—she was a guardian, a keeper of Light.
"I thank Thee, O' Morning, for Thy sustenance. Let Thy Sun shine dark corners, wherever they may be—in hearts and minds, behind sullen eyes. May Thy Light protect."
Eve returned the prayer with a slight nod. "May the Light protect."
The air settled around them. "Alright, then", Eve said. "I don't want to run late for roll call, so I'll be taking my leave."
Eve slid back the chair, producing some space to get up.
"Sure, dear", Tilda replied—smoothing the worry from her face.
"Be...dress warm. The Sun hangs lower in the sky—and sets even sooner—with each passing day." The silence hung, thick with what went unsaid. Though suddenly, Tilda perked up in her seat. Apparently reminded of something of great importance.
"Oh! Speaking of bad apples, if you're heading south through the bazaar, be a dear—grab a pouch. Apples, I mean. Good ones. Fresh from the North. They should be in today."
Eve looked back with a raised eyebrow, "You're out already?"
"Yes. I know I don't look a day over twenty, but I'm an ol' lady, Eve. I'm still expected to earn my bread and butter," Tilda said, chin high.
"Wasting time getting sick? That isn't something I want on my cards. I'd rather face a hundred whining bureaucrats before I'd let a doctor near me. White coats, googly masks—scheming vultures. They'll see a frail young thing and smell coin."
Eve's brow lifted a step further. Though she said nothing.
"And it's wisdom the old ships brought—from worlds beyond the sea. Not made up pinpricks the quacks peddle. 'An apple, everyday keepeth the doctors at bay'. Anything diverting their greedy gaze is worth all the investment. The other ladies at work are in on it, too"
Tilda puffed her chest and nodded, pleased.
Eve sighed. "Sure. But if you actually get sick, we're visiting the clinic. No buts."
"If I get sick", Tilda said, sitting straighter. "There's change in my coat"
"No need", Eve said. "This one's on me"
She turned back, slung on a battered brown jacket, and nabbed the milk jug in the same swift motion—placing it in an empty cupboard shelf. She placed it at eye level—easier to find.
"Then, I'm off."
"Stay with the Sun, dear."
Eve nodded without turning back, closing the door behind her.
An apple every day, huh?