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[Cezanne Abella]

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Cezanne crept barefoot down the wooden stairs, cringing with every creak, until her bare feet touched the cold blue stone of the floor below her chambers. She wrapped the thin, pale blue dressing gown around herself as she paused at the first guest room door to listen. With her head against the door, she could hear Valentein snoring lightly from inside the room. Assured that he was sleeping, she continued downstairs to the first floor to fetch the packages that Steve had hopefully left on the tavern bar.

The light streaming in the windows reminded Cezanne painfully of how late she had slept, and how much she’d had to drink the night before. She rubbed her temple as she padded downstairs, cursing herself. She had never been one to drink, but the company had been pleasant, and the wine sweet. All that was left was to suffer the consequences.

Steve had left the packages as planned, and two brown paper parcels lay stacked on the bar. Cezanne brightened instantly, shuffling quickly to the bar to take them upstairs. She paused, glanced at the ceiling toward Valentein’s room, and put together a small plate of fruit, cheese, and muffins from the crate behind the bar. He was a guest, not a patron. Gathering the two packages in her other arm, Cezanne took up the plate and set about the task of creeping back up the stairs.

[Cezanne Abella]

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Cezanne lay the packages on the loveseat between the two guest room doors and leaned against Valentein’s door to listen. The snoring had stopped, but there were no other sounds to replace it. She knocked lightly on the door. Receiving no response, she opened the door quietly and peeked inside.

Valentein was still sleeping, face down on the bed, arm curled up beneath the pillow, dark hair spilling down his back and over his shoulders. Cezanne slipped into the room and lay the plate of food on the desk. As she did, Valentein stirred, groaning in his sleep and lifting himself to turn over, before flopping back on the bed again.

A shadow of concern crossed Cezanne’s face as she watched him settle again into a restless slumber. Her eye was drawn to the black rose tattooed on his chest, and she wondered again where it had come from. Whose hand had etched it there?

The skin on his pale chest suddenly flushed, and a fine sheen of perspiration shone his brow. Valentein grew restless, his hands clenched tightly, before he finally relaxed again. Cezanne thought back to the times she had seen him do this when he was awake. A chill, he’d said. Or a fleeting pain. She’d known he wasn’t being completely truthful, even then. At very least, there was more to the story.

Cezanne reached out tentatively. She hated to risk waking him, but something compelled her, urged her forward. She traced the lines of the rose, ever-so-lightly, biting her lip in concentration, then whispered softly, "What’s all this yet mean for ye, Dear Val?"

Sighing deeply and dropping her hand to her side, Cezanne backed away from Valentein’s bed and slipped out of the room. Once the door was closed, she took up her packages, somewhat less excited about trying on the new dresses they contained. Resignedly, she hugged the parcels against her chest, and left her dear friend to climb the stairs to her bedchamber.