10 June 2020, 02:55 PM
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<p>Salem frowned. She leaned back from the small bowl filled with soft clay beads at her feet and wondered if she would regret the effort. She wanted a series of beaded strings to fall over the dark curtain at the entrance to the Divination Room; she’d seen such a thing before in a tavern or two growing up and loved the sound it made when someone passed through. The concept had an adequately mystical quality to it, but more importantly, Salem could not be surprised by a visitor when alone in her room. No one could enter silently. She could consider herself safe, even on the busiest of evenings at La Roja.</p>
<p>But she had never made beads before, nor had she any paints. Weaving the strings would be easy enough, as would creating dyes for color, but paint? Baking beads? Salem knew there was a process to each, and knew the products would be ruined if she did not abide by that process properly. But she had to start somewhere, and working on the little beads busied her mind away from the hole Indis left behind.</p>
<p>The last of the evening birds at dusk sang among themselves within the trees above her, and the day’s last light slowly faded blue to black higher still. She thought to put aside the project for the night, to meditate, to take a walk to clear her mind before anxiety set in again. But when she moved to stand up, Salem saw him approaching and tensed all at once.</p>
<p><b>"Marlowe,"</b> she said, no smiles or graces. She greeted him as she would greet a client, a stranger—someone she preferred only to know her guise, not her warmth. <b>"Do you need something?"</b></p>
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<p>Salem frowned. She leaned back from the small bowl filled with soft clay beads at her feet and wondered if she would regret the effort. She wanted a series of beaded strings to fall over the dark curtain at the entrance to the Divination Room; she’d seen such a thing before in a tavern or two growing up and loved the sound it made when someone passed through. The concept had an adequately mystical quality to it, but more importantly, Salem could not be surprised by a visitor when alone in her room. No one could enter silently. She could consider herself safe, even on the busiest of evenings at La Roja.</p>
<p>But she had never made beads before, nor had she any paints. Weaving the strings would be easy enough, as would creating dyes for color, but paint? Baking beads? Salem knew there was a process to each, and knew the products would be ruined if she did not abide by that process properly. But she had to start somewhere, and working on the little beads busied her mind away from the hole Indis left behind.</p>
<p>The last of the evening birds at dusk sang among themselves within the trees above her, and the day’s last light slowly faded blue to black higher still. She thought to put aside the project for the night, to meditate, to take a walk to clear her mind before anxiety set in again. But when she moved to stand up, Salem saw him approaching and tensed all at once.</p>
<p><b>"Marlowe,"</b> she said, no smiles or graces. She greeted him as she would greet a client, a stranger—someone she preferred only to know her guise, not her warmth. <b>"Do you need something?"</b></p>
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