A Golden Bell
[ Photo by horacio olavarria on Unsplash ]
Tasselin’s walk back to her Aunt’s flat was distracted, but the brasswork kraken at the meeting place of Death, Light, and the Deep welcomed the young monk nonetheless. The silvered key fit the lock effortlessly, the door opening almost before the tumblers had settled, as if anticipating her arrival.
But the closing of the lock? That was firm and unquestionable, the wards about the apartment resettling almost as palpably. Here was solace and refuge, a haven within the chaos of Stormwind.
Near an hour passed before she settled into bed. Sheets of cool cotton instead of silk, only a light comforter in the summer’s warmth. Shutters closed, but the windowpane still open to admit cool air off the Harbor.
Deep breaths as muscles relaxed, her mind calmed, as she sought the quiet place in her mind where a dark, mirrored sphere rested. And from there, sent a query twined in wisps of shadow.
“Aunt Seraa?”
It was a moment before she knew a response, accompanied by a sense of patience and small concern.
“Dear Tasselin.” In this place of mind her words were firm, without the halting interruptions that plagued Seraanna's speaking voice. “All is well? I had not expected your touch.”
“Everything’s fine. Stormwind’s boring, as usual. I wish I could be there with you and Antianna in Silvermoon.”
“Soon. They still find their footing now that the shadow has passed. I am yet looked at askance, and they would not know what to do with you, dearest.”
“I suppose. Can… can I ask you something?”
“Of course. Always.”
“Do I have a title? I know you do, and Antianna does. And I’m part of the family so -- do I?”
“Ah. A curious question. We had meant to speak of it to you here, but if that knowledge is what you wish? Yes. Your name is upon the rolls of Morrowsun, openly and without pretense. Vor’min has seen to it, and you shall not endure what we did upon our father’s death. Daughter you may claim, yet my heart remains fond that you name me aunt.”
“I…” Tasselin sniffed, tears welling unexpectedly. She rubbed a knuckle to her eyes, and the tenuous binding shadow faltered a moment before it was buoyed and strengthened by the presence at the opposite end.
“It is that tradition names the daughter of a marquis or marquessa a lady. So it is that you are. I trust you not to abuse such, save when another is in need of humility. That is why you ask, yes? That another needs names and symbols to see the value of you?”
“Mmmhm.” A last sniffle. “Something like that.”
“More the fool, they. Teach them otherwise. I must depart, sadly. Others demand my attention.”
“Okay. Thank you, Aunt Seraa. Love you.”
“You have my love, dear, and more.”
The tenuous connection faded, stretched shadows dispersing into the falling night.
Tasselin lay awake for a time, listening to the Harbor’s murmurations.
“Lady Tasselin Morrowsun,” she finally murmured with a soft laugh, then rolled over to find her dreams.