ah, cold comforts.

[Luz Cresceno]

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Until now her beds had been woven of softer tussocks and sweet grasses, perhaps some root-tangle or maybe a mattress, if she longed for luxury. Such were wanderer’s mainstays, the sort of comforts that could be extracted for any and all nooks. Staying her feet, although it incurred odd backbone-itches, had called up specific pleasures she never thought she’d sample again, such as an attatchment to a place. Not merely to her brume and wold world, Clouded Tears, but to a corner of it – her den, a place pocked with another’s touches yet now furnished with some of her own. Luz laughed; though what was the butt of the joke, even she couldn’t quite recall. Her spirits sunk and soared by the hour. Now, lolling among her pillows, a leather-bound book at her side, all portents indicated a definite high. Reading had ever been a talent of hers; however, though she named herself literate, she didn’t share that bookworm enthusiasm that so many found amongst tatty pages, worn covers, fading type. Outside, as seen through a door that doubled as a window, snow was falling gently – the negligible style that revealed itself as white-walls and icy paths in the morning. It was no concern of hers. The herbs that had been hanging by twine-knots since late November had garnered a diamond crust, yet still managed to shake with the worst winds. Little matter. Too cozy to care in her home (ah, who could have fancied she’d use that word without real sourness?), Luz turned page-leaves, eyed illustrations with critical entertainment, made soft amused noises.

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