Gregor's gate was locked.
Arista banged on it twice in frustration. It didn't budge. Why was it locked? It was early, but no earlier than it was when she usually came. Gregor didn't keep a porter for the back door, since he was cheap and had Arista, and locked and unlocked the gate himself. There were people in the house, she knew, she could see the smoke rising from the chimneys and the kitchen. If the gate was still locked, then Gregor must have forgotten to unlock it. It wasn't like him to forget.
Arista got into the courtyard the long way, or the longer long way. She might have gone round through the servant's quarters, but she didn't want to run into cook. Instead she climbed the wall, gritting her teeth and scraping her knees, and went about her business as usual. She dragged one of the sword racks out of Gregor's workshed and sat on her barrel with a rag. Back to work.
About a half hour later the door opened, and a tall figure strode out, walking with a determined gait. Gregor was dressed up in court fashion, a jacket and tights and pointy-toed shoes instead of his usual fencing clothes. Almost as if he were visiting with someone. Gregor never went to any social events if he could help it, he hated people. And at this time of day...
"You still want me to do the swords if you don't have a student?" Arista called.
Gregor froze at the sound of her voice. His head whipped towards her, his eyes wide, and he stared. He was silent long enough for Arista to begin to squirm. Then finally, "Where have you been?" he breathed.
Arista shrugged, fidgeting, one hand snaking up to adjust her eye patch. "I-I'm sorry I skipped all those days, really, I... My eye," she said, gesturing, grasping wildly for words. "I lost a lot of blood, and I just... I couldn't've come. I needed rest, I mean. I wasn't awake, really, I..."
Gregor was moving forward, towards her, and Arista shrank back, flinching. But then Gregor was grabbing her shoulders, squeezing them tightly and looking right at her.
"Thank you," he breathed. "For what you did for Violetta." He looked quickly at her eyepatch, then back at her. "And for all it cost you." He squeezed her shoulders. It made Arista flinch.
Arista gave a quick, breathy nod, her gaze fixed on her lap.
Gregor frowned, letting go of her shoulders but not moving back. "I looked for you, for days. Scoured the city. Where were you?"
Arista shrugged, twisting her shaky fingers into the hem of her tunic. "Hiding. Healing." She scratched at her head. "I- I should- Should I finish the, um, the swords?"
Gregor seemed to study her for a long moment. "Are you well? Do you need more time to rest? I can send for a doctor..."
Arista shook her head quickly, scooting away slightly. Gregor seemed to notice, scooting back, giving her room to breathe.
"Well then," Gregor said finally, stepping back and standing up. "If you feel strong enough... finish the swords and go and get something for yourself in the kitchen. Tell me if cook gets stingy. I'll be away till past noon. Straighten my workroom and clean it if it needs to be cleaned." With that he was off, stepping straight into the street. Arista thought it odd that he didn't bother to saddle a horse, but Gregor was always odd.
Arista made quick work of the swords. It was harder with one eye, but she found she had missed the work, tedious as it was. She snuck cautiously into the kitchen when she was done, wary of cook's razor tongue, but the woman ignored her, turning her back on her to chop vegetables. Arista hesitantly grabbed a roll, then another. Then an apple. And a bit of cheese. And even a flaky pastry with a bite out of it that someone had left on a half-finished plate. Cook saw that, her shoulders stiffening, but she didn't say anything. Didn't shout or scold or sneer. Gregor must have spoken to her.
Arista twisted up her hoard in the hem of her shirt, sitting on her barrel and scarfing down every morsel, saving the pastry for last. She didn't think to save any of it for later until she was finished. She licked up every crumb and cleaned her hands, then slipped into Gregor's workroom. It was tidy, and looked clean enough, but she picked up a rag anyway. The usual: dust, then wipe with a damp cloth, then sweep, then...
The door opened and shut, loudly, by someone not used to the rusty hinges.
"Oh," the house-maid stammered, looking flustered. "Sorry, I didn't know you're back. I've been taking care of the Master's study while you been... Away." The girl tugged on her clean tunic, looking out of place in a room full of blades and oil and leather, dim and cluttered.
"I can do it fine," Arista said.
The maid shrugged. "Alright," she said, moving to close the door. She hesitated just before she did. "T'was nice, what you did for Miss Violetta," she said, and then she was gone.
Arista frowned. What she had done? What had she done? Nothing, really. But if it pleased them, she supposed that was a good thing. After all, Gregor had been kinder to her, even if it had been odd. And being rid of Cook's shouting could never be a bad thing.
Arista gave a little huff through her nose, scratching at her eye patch and kneeling down to check for dust under the furniture, which there was much of. She might have been fishing for dust for a long time, had the ground not suddenly jolted and knocked her forward onto her elbows.
Arista pushed herself up, heart hammering against her ribs. The furniture had moved. Swords had jostled from where they were stored. A jug on the table had tipped over and cracked, water spilling out of it and pooling on the floor. The ground- the ground had moved.
A hand clamped down on Arista's arm, yanking her upwards, and she nearly screamed. But it was only Gregor, yanking her outside, his fingers digging into her skin. The ground still wasn't steaty. It seemed to shake, trembling as much as Arista's quivering hands.
"Earthquake," Gregor said grimly, his brow creased stopping in the courtyard and letting go of Arista's arm to instead grip her shoulder, more gently. His fingers would probably leave bruises, she thought as she rubbed away the pain and glanced up at him. She felt unsteady, her legs wobbly, the ground beneath her betraying her.
The shaking stopped after only a few seconds, and only then did Gregor relax, blowing out a breath. He glanced down at Arista. "You alright?"
She nodded. "Think so," she muttered. "What... what was that?"
"An earthquake," he said, looking distracted, running his fingers down his gray beard. "Some say they are the nymph's curses, some say it's angry gods trying to break out of the earth, some say there are oceans storming underneath us."
Arista wasn't sure what to say to that. "What do you say?" she decided on.
Gregor looked at her like he'd forgotten she was there. "I say I'm glad no one was hurt, and we're tempting fate with more questions. Go and fetch me some of whatever cook made for lunch, and then you can leave."
Arista blinked. "It's early."
He shrugged, slipping off his jacket and striding for his workroom. "I have no students for the next two days. My food?" he called over his shoulder.
Arista scurried off, dropping her rags with the laundry and ladling Gregor a bowl of stew, Cook still pretending not to see her. She poured him a tall glass of ale as well, watered down just a bit, since she could tell he was going to ask for it later. Then she opened the gate and slipped into the street, deciding to run to the square for a drink and a splash of water on her face, since it was yet early to go to see her stonemason.
Aristsa hurried on, skirting the walls to stay out of trouble and squinting as she passed a sunny patch of alley. Five raggedly-dressed children ranging from about seven to about fourteen stood in a circle in the alley, tossing about a half deflated leather ball. Arista quickened her pace, knowing each by name and face and hoping they wouldn't see her. But the oldest of the bunch, a tall and wiry youth named Lluca everyone called Feather to keep from confusing him with the other twenty Lluca's on the street, called out to her. "Oy! Lippie! You wanna play? We need one more to... Holy mountain! What happened to your face?"
"Nothing," Arista muttered.
"Huh. Well, can you still play with one eye, right?"
Arista glanced up at the sun. "Yeah," she said finally. "What are we playing?"
The game was simple, but rough, and easy enough even with only one eye. Ariste was shoved, and bashed against the wall, and pushed to the ground. She was called nymph-spawn and shadow-devil and lippie. But no one yanked off her headscarf, or hit her, or spit on her. The other street children were cruel to her quite often, their loyalties liquid, but there were moments like these. When they were grappling for a ball in the streets, or climbing the side of a building to tick off the people in it, or running from the city guard, or pawing through heaps of rubbish heaps and calling out their findings. Times like those, it tended to feel like they were banded together against everyone else. But they never lasted long.
When they were all banged up and panting, Arista's knees and elbows skinned, a small boy with a tear-stained face and his older brother stomped up to them. Both boys were fresh-faced and well-fed, their cheeks round and plump, their clothes plain and shabby but clean. A few of the beggars in the group grinned at each other when they saw him, Arista looking at her feet instead, as the bigger boy stomped straight up to Feather.
"You," he snarled with courage that wasn't going to last long. "Give my brother his ball back, you dog!"
Feather laughed at that. "Dog, huh? That's funny. Can't come up with anything better, Angelface? Ricca!" he called to the grubby little girl holding the ball. "Give the ball back to Angelface here."
Ricca threw the ball to Feather, who tossed it from hand to hand as he took a step closer to the boy, who did not look quite as angry or quite as brave as stepped back. He let Feather back him against the wall, snivelling like a kicked dog. Feather slammed the ball against the wall, and it let out a wheeze as the last of the air escaped it. By now the boy was shaking, and he outright whimpered when Feather cracked his knuckles. "Lemme show you a little something first," he said.
Arista ran before the first blow fell. She ran, though she was still sore from the game, fast enough that she never heard the jeers and howls. She drank at the fountain and splashed water on her knees, until the impatient woman behind her bopped her on the head with a basket and told her to stop hogging the water.
A quick glance to the clocktower told her the time was right. It felt like it had been years since she had last seen her stone mason. For a moment she feared she had forgotten the way, but her feet took the familiar path with ease, and soon she could see the tree in the distance. For the first time that day, Arista smiled as she grabbed a low branch of the olive tree and hauled himself up.