After The Curtain Fell
Summary: Long years after the events of MR two bit part characters bump into each other again. And why wouldn't they - everyone drifts to Ankh-Morpork in the end. There are the obstacles of a difficult past to navigate not to mention the blasted Undertaking. (Tonker/Lofty)
Disclaimer: All characters and places belong to Terry Pratchett. Author means no disrespect by borrowing them for this adventure and no monetary benefit is intended.
Warning: This chapter does make reference to an earlier physical relationships between these two women.
Prologue: Dinner Without Strings, 1: Second Chances
~X~
Walking and Talking
“Extra Extra! Read all about it! Undertaking Delays Not Due To The Wrong Kind Of Dwarfs Says Guild. Questions Asked In Privy Council. Read all about it!!”
Magda Halter, pushing her way through the Saturday crowd glanced back over her shoulder to realise she had lost her tail. Scanning the throng in sudden concern, she picked out the flash of tidy dark hair beneath a smart hat valiantly forging through the press of people and waited for Tilda to catch up. “Almost there” she said as the tide of humanity spat up the woman into the calm shelter under the wall and assured that her companion was still in one piece she led off again cutting across the pack to slip between two stalls on the other side, emerging gratefully into a relatively quiet side street.
“Sorry about that.” Magda glanced anxiously at the smaller woman as they strolled on, glad to be able at last to walk side by side and talk at a normal volume. “The streets round the market are always crazy at this time of day, I should have remembered.”
“It’s ok.” Tilda rubbed gently at her ribs where an over eager matron had shunted her to one side in a quest for the freshest cabbage. “I haven’t had much of a chance to see the real Ankh Morpork. I admit it wasn’t the introduction to the city I originally envisaged, but it’s good to be out of the lab.
“You’ve been busy?” Something had been taking up the engineer’s time; Tilda hadn’t been in for her wake-up coffee for over two weeks. Oh yes, messengers had come and gone, collecting large orders at all times of the day and night, but Magda could never be sure whether any of those had been for Tilda’s group of lunatics. The engineer might have just gone out of town. Or found another coffee shop she liked better.
Magda had prepared those orders carefully, just in case.
Picking her way through the frozen puddles that were scattered haphazardly along the rough back street, Tilda cast her mind back to the frenzied week. “It’s been… a bit more complicated than we envisaged.”
That was understating the case somewhat, making as it did no mention of the frustrating struggle to get the prototype operating, the discovery of another, as yet unidentified issue with her carefully worked out theory of air fluid dynamics, the long long days and late nights alone in the office, squinting at plans and equations. It had been a hard month for them all and Janey, finding her asleep over her paperwork, had insisted that she take a day off. Eventually, the headache beating at her temples draining her of all fighting spirit, Tilda had agreed.
And so here she was, looking about her at a city that had somehow bypassed autumn and got stuck into its winter display when she wasn’t paying attention. Wood-smoke hung heavy in the air, doing its best to draw a veil between the intrusive scent of an Ankh Morpork street and the eager tourist. The sky above was clear and all about her the breath of passers-by wreathed magical swirls and curlicues in the air. Pulling her scarf higher around her neck she drew in a deep lungful of the chill air, allowing it to wash the stuffy leftover equations from her mind. Drawing the focus of her attention back to her guide she enquired as to whether they were anywhere near their destination.
“It’s just down here.” Magda led the way down an even smaller alley. “Everyone’ll tell you to go to Tiajic’s but Ivanov has always had the best sausage.”
Tilda could hear the bustle drifting toward them from where the alley came out into one of the main cross streets. As she followed that stiff back under its too thin jacket she wondered if perhaps this had been a good idea after all. Facing a day of lying in bed attempting to sleep and fretting about her equations, pacing the guild niggling at her equations or wandering the frighteningly loud city alone whilst worrying about her equations she’d instead taken a leap in the dark and slipped into the café to ask Tonker if she would be able to take her down to Little Uberwald so she could get some groceries.
Tilda still wasn’t sure what she’d expected but after a moment of stunned silence Tonker had admitted that she didn’t work afternoons at the weekend. She’d then volunteered that she did know her way around that area of town and could probably show Tilda a few places, were that what she wanted.
Tilda had said yes, she did.
Now, the paper bag of black bread tucked under one arm, Tilda had to admit that it was nothing like what she’d envisaged. From overheard conversations and her own vague enquiries she’d learnt that this area of town was full of refugees, streets lined with people from the old country, smoking the old weed in old pipes and bemoaning the loss of old farms and cottages back in the old mountains. However, all evidence to the contrary it appeared that most of Ankh Morpork dropped into Little Uberwald on a weekend, tourists and eager shoppers alike. The main streets were crowded with a multitude of accents and though she heard a familiar word here and there, it seemed you were just as likely to hear a deliver boy sworn at in a broad Sto accent than in the sharper vowels of the home country she’d been stiffening herself against.
The smells on the other hand were startling recognizable, the scent of bread, the tang of sausage mixed with charcoal, the ever pervasive aroma of the eponymous thin stew that steamed from large cauldrons on every other stall. Ah, that stew, given enough time even a Borogravian might be able to forget the coating of grease without transfer of taste that such a meal bestowed on the back of the tongue. Providing the proof of this were the black coated and shawl wrapped figures gathered around these stalls with bowl and bread in hand, muttering appreciatively as they spooned the thin liquid toward amnesic taste buds.
Tilda was lost.
“Magda? Can we get some?” She gestured toward the tightly clustered gathering. Magda gaped at her in disbelief.
“You want to eat that?”
“Please?” She tugged at Magda’s sleeve, dragging her in the direction of the nearest stall wafting savoury smells through the crowds. Sighing and rolling her eyes at this tourist behaviour Magda allowed herself to be pulled along, indicating with an expressive shrug that she was more than willing to allow such insanity as long as no-one expected her to participate.
It tasted as bad as Tilda remembered. The addition of herbs and seasoning (an Ankh Morpork touch) couldn’t disguise the baseline flavours of fat and bland vegetables. Even the out of place chunks of meat bobbing amongst the thin gruel couldn’t save it. She made a good job of it, dipping the chunk of bread into the liquid to alleviate much of the grease (a true Borogravian never quite forgot how) and picking out the most flavoursome vegetable chunks. Eventually, avoiding Magda’s eyes she handed over the remainder to one of the many scrawny children begging amongst the crowd. Times were obviously hard because the kid slurped it down eagerly, drawing a cringe from both women as they moved away.
Dragging the focus back onto their original objective for entering this confusing muddle Magda led off in the direction of Ivanov’s Butchery and Assorted Meats. Once done there she led off again, this time in the direction of a small grocers shop, its size augmented by the vibrant display of fruit and vegetable products that stretched out to block half the street.
“Pickles” she muttered in explanation, before vanishing through the brightly coloured curtain of thin chains that served purpose as a door. As Tilda followed a hand reached out to hold back the swinging barrier, allowing her access and she murmured her thanks, slipping past Magda to halt in amazement. The tiny shop was crammed with products, with shelves stretching up to the ceiling, marking out narrow isles just wide enough to squeeze along in search of a well remembered staple or abruptly recollected taste of home.
As she paid for her purchases and Magda reached for the mesh bag Tilda realised she would have to say something. Admittedly the bag was likely to be heavy, what with the large jar of pickles and other essentials, but Magda had reached for the sausage in the butchers as well. And she’d been somewhat overly conscientious about the opening of doors and clearing an protective path through the crowds.
“Magda.” Without thinking she placed a firm hand over the thin wrist. Magda froze at her touch.
“Let me take it.” Tilda had to harden her heart not to lift her hand away, knowing instinctively as she did the effect the contact was having on the woman tense beside her. When the result she was waiting for didn't happen she spoke again more forcefully. “Let go, Tonker! Let me carry it.”
The woman turned and left without a word. Once she’d thanked the shopkeeper and gathered up her purchases Tilda hurried after the dignified figure and reaching the street looked around frantically before spotting a stiff figure further down the street. Coming up alongside she found Magda gazing intently into a shop window as though deciding whether the purchase of a black trilby was necessary at this crucial time.
“Magda?” She received no response, the dilemma of the black trilby obviously more absorbing than previously supposed. “I think there’s something we need to clear up.”
Had that been a flick of a glance in her direction through the reflecting properties of the glass they faced?
“I won’t have you treating me like fragile china any more Mags. One thing I learnt in those painful first months alone out there in the country was that I was stronger than most of those that fluttered around me, stronger and more prepared against the world in many ways.” Tilda noted that the woman's reflection had turned away from her somewhat as she spoke, hands thrusting hard into deep pockets. “It’s been a long time since I needed you to do everything for me.” Tilda reached out to that stiff shoulder but let her hand drop before making contact. In the glass she caught the flash of eyes, Magda warily watching her every move.
“I’ve learnt to stand on my own two feet - it was a hard lesson, but I learnt to do it.” She turned away from the window to face her friend. “Would you really take that away from me?”
“Sorry.” The muttered apology carried no grace and Magda still wouldn’t look at her. Out of the corner of her eye Tilda could recognise in the glass that old expression locked into place, hiding the frustrated anger she knew was simmering underneath. She waited. Minutes passed and the bustling life of the street continued behind them as they stood on their tense little chunk of pavement before the hats on sale. Magda shifted from foot to foot, obviously struggling with something. However, when the words eventually came she didn't spit them out but spoke softly to the sturdy boots planted next to hers.
“You’re right. I’m sorry. I’ll try and remember.” She shrugged and lifting her gaze with a wry twist of her smile met those understanding eyes across the reflection. Tilda smiled at her in the window, knocked the nearest shoulder with a closed fist, and drawing a line under the incident led the way on toward the bakery she could see on the corner.
Eventually, feet aching, they found a small coffee-shop tucked away down a dead-end alley and collapsed into the spindly chairs with sighs of relief. The place was busy and as they waited for the waitress to notice them Magda reached with barely hidden curiosity for the paper left on the nearby table. The headline caught her eye and she pushed the newsprint across the table to the one engineer sitting around this particular piece of furniture.
“Is this you?” The headline read “Undertaking Underperforming” a title that had caused the editor much pain before he allowed it to pass.
“Classified remember? Anyway it’s my day off, I’m forbidden from talking about it, Janey would kill me.”
“Janey?”
Tilda broke into a description of her irreplaceable lab manager, the somewhat slanderous sketch interrupted by the waitress bringing them minuscule cups of thick dark coffee. Apparently everyone came in here to drink the coffee of home, even those who hadn’t ordered it. Across the table they shared a surprised glance before the aroma rising from the impenetrable beverages persuaded them. Unfortunately upon tasting it took only a minute to realised the liquid was piping hot . As they sat waiting for it to cool the warmth of the room crept under their layers, causing Tilda to loosen her scarf and Magda to remove her gloves, placing them on top of the paper at her side.
“What’s that?” Tilda pointed, careful this time not to make contact.
“Oh, I caught it on a chisel.” Magda ran a finger over the healing cut on the back of her hand, as a frustrated kick under the table persuaded her to continue the tale. “I started woodwork classes, they run them in artisan’s guild, a couple of evenings a week. I’m not so experienced with the tools yet, a bit clumsy. I guess it must have just slipped.”
Tilda reached out, asking silently for a closer look and after a moments pause Magda placed her hand in the waiting palm. Tilting it to the light she traced the wound delicately, examining the extent of the damage.
“You should have that bound up. Don’t want it to get infected.”
“It’s ok, An... someone gave me some salve for it, it already looks better than it did.”
“You’ll be more careful next time?”
“I promise.” She gently tugged back and Tilda had to release the hand she’d captured. They sipped the coffee, Tilda making a face at the bitter flavour.
“You always did have a way with wood. I remember you’d be sat there with that knife, whittling, always whittling. Night after night. You made some wonderful things.” Another image dropped into her mind. Tonker carving that bloody figure over and over again, the bottle at hand, always within reach, always open. The cold blankets a heavy weight pinning Tilda down as she pretended to be asleep, fear clawing at her insides as she watched Tonker watch the knife glinting in the half light.
Hearing the intake of breath she looked up to catch the shock dawn over the face opposite as Magda realised what Tilda was remembering. “Oh gods, I'm sorry Mags.” She reached out to recapture a hand but Magda withdrew her fingers, shrinking back into her chair. There was a tense silence while Magda there, pondering something and then, seeming to have come to a decision, she drew herself back together and leant forward again, resting firm elbows on the table as she sipped at her coffee. She placed the cup deliberately between them before speaking.
“Seems there's some things we need to get clear here.” Her voice was level but she couldn't disguise the unsteadiness of the fingertip she ran around the top of her cup. “First up, you don't get to apologise for stuff that wasn't your fault.” Noting Tilda's slight confusion Magda added “you weren't the only one that had to learn some hard lessons these past years.” Her eyes dropped again and she waited as the couple on the table nearest the window paid their bill and made their way out of the café before continuing. “Second, I aint never gonna be able to sit opposite you and pretend all that stuff never happened and I don't reckon I can do this again if that's what you thought you wanted.”
“I didn't” The whisper was barely loud enough to reach across the table. Magda nodded.
“Right then.” She took a sip from her coffee. “Of course that puts us somewhere up shit creek cos I have no idea how we're going to manage hauling all that around every time we say hello.” She grinned wryly, fingers gently cradling the cup. “Damn stupid images keep cropping up all over the place since I bumped into you again. Guess it's not different for you huh?”
Tilda nodded.
“Maybe this wasn't such a good idea.” Draining the last of her coffee, Magda patted the hand still reaching out for hers, pushed back her chair and hauled herself to her feet. “We should go. I have to go to work tonight, they’re expecting me.” Tilda frowned, knowing full well the coffee shop didn’t open so late but before she could ask for clarification Magda produced the explanation. “I’m a pot and pan washer.” Gritted pride kept her talking. “I managed to get some shifts at one of the Hagar’s chain over on Elm Lane. The extra money comes in handy.”
For the night classes, Tilda realised suddenly, understanding finally what they represented to this complicated woman clawing her way back into society as best she knew how. Magda had always loved working with wood, having some kind of instinctive feel for the shape trapped within the grain and the best way to release it or if that were not possible to allude to its hidden beauty with simple strokes of her knife. But she had never alluded to it, even when they had been so long out of that place that even Tilda had come to see they were free. Never allowed herself to admit it was something that could be pursued. She had always worked at her poor scraps of wood dismissively, making out that it was just some way to pass the time, nothing she really cared about, nothing that she was proud to name as one of her skills. Seemingly more lessons had been learnt in those empty years than perhaps even Magda realised.
Tilda reached for her coffee, drinking it in one go and relishing the jolt as it raced down her gullet. Wrapping her scarf once again around her neck she followed Magda to the door, pausing before passing through to state quietly “I can stand the memories, Mags. I meant what I said about fragile china. And I'm still crazy enough to think we can find our way through this.”
They walked back in silence, but as she left the engineer on the shallow steps of the guild Magda hovered for a moment. “I hope things go better for you this week, I’ll keep my fingers crossed.” They shared a smile before Magda sketched a salute and disappeared into the dusk of the evening.
~X~
The second time Tonker her took her to The Shambling Gate and they climbed the 72 steps to lean on the parapet and gaze out over the city lain out before them in the afternoon sunset. A companionable silence fell between the two figures alone in that place between earth and sky. It seemed no other citizen had the energy or inclination to climb the dark stone staircase to impinge on their isolation. Picking absent-mindedly at the lichen that coated every visible surface, Tilda cast a glance at the still figure beside her.
“Janey asked me yesterday if I knew what I was doing.” Magda froze for a moment and then carefully relaxed again, resettling against the parapet.
“Spending more time with you, that is.”
“It’s nice.” Magda flicked the smallest flake of stone into the abyss. “She’s worried about you. Rhijan keeps trying to take me to one side, check I’m not about to explode.”
“Are you?” Tilda turned toward her companion warily, settling her hip against the wall. Beside her Magda stared out over the plains blurredly visible stretching away from the encircling city walls. Thin fingers searched along the flaking parapet, tidying the uneven stone, revealing unwittingly the mind behind those shielded eyes, hunting for the right words to clarify a most untidy situation.
“The things you make me remember were never the things I was running away from.” The merest hint of a smile lifted the corner of the mouth just visible to Tilda’s concerned gaze. But then, as she watched the smile twisted, Magda’s tone developing an edge. “There’s nothing left buried to jump out and surprise the unwary investigator. All dark secrets thoroughly exposed to the light.” A short bitter laugh gusted out into the chill air, the woman’s shoulders tight as she leant more heavily on the supporting wall.
“Fair enough.” Tilda shifted back to look out over the city again, her gaze roving over the bustle of streets below. “Look - you can see the new Undertaking line going in.”
Magda grunted, following the line of her finger. “It’s making a hell of a mess.”
“You know what they say; you can’t make an omelette without breaking eggs.”
“Just cos you’re breaking eggs don’t mean we’re all gonna end up with a tasty meal at the end the process.”
Tilda grinned, pleased with the outcome of her distraction tactics. They stood for a moment in more cheerful silence.
“How did your egg breaking go this week then?”
“Urgh.” Tilda slumped over the parapet. “Don’t ask. Possible solution number 38 tested and found non-viable... Possible solution number 39 tested and found non-viable… Possible solution number 40 tested and found non-viable. You get the general drift.”
“What’s the problem?” Tilda threw her a look. “Ah, classified?”
“Classified.”
“I got to use a lathe this week.” Magda dropped the information into the pool of their conversation and stepped back to see its effect. Tilda, drawn out of her introspection glanced over, waiting curiously. Eventually, her interested gaze producing no visible effect she bumped the silent figure beside her for a renewal of the tale.
“They were teaching us about wood turning. I made a bat.” Tilda began with congratulations to be interrupted with a dour “eventually”.
“Oh.” Tilda bit her lip. “How many?”
“Four.” Magda nodded proudly. “Total disasters, every one.”
“What did you do with the last one?”
“Got it behind the door.” She shuffled her feet against the cold. “I can’t decide what to do with it. D’you want it for your minions?”
“They’re not minions.” Tilda restated the contradiction mildly as beside her Magda snorted unrepentantly into her hands. “I may have to borrow it for the blasted prototype though. I swear that thing is possessed by a rogue spirit.”
“Feel free, I expect they’ll give us the chance to make more should your dratted machine decide to eat it.” Magda straightened, drawing her jacket more firmly around her shoulders before returning to her resting position against the parapet. This movement inadvertently reminded Tilda of the difference in quality between their outer layers.
“We should go down, it’s freezing up here. These hands are too important for the future transportation network of this city to lose any fingers to frostbite.” She hauled herself off the parapet wishing a silent au revoir to the city, its tangle of streets vanishing into the dusk as the filigree necklace of individual scattered specks of light began to stretch out its tendrils over the dark brooding mass below.
Pausing at the trapdoor that Magda held open graciously Tilda took one last look at the wide sky, painted in the unreal colours of a fading winter sunset. “This was a good idea.” She put a gentle hand on the arm of the figure beside her in the gloom and added a quiet “thank you”. Left behind on the rooftop Magda cast a glance round at the shabby exposed stone and shrugged before slipping through the gap and carefully closing the hatch behind her.
Once away from the distracting view both woman found themselves shivering uncontrollably in the dank chill of the stairwell and Magda fought valiantly to control the chattering of her teeth as she followed the sound of Tilda’s trembling shivers down what seemed endless flights of stairs. When they eventually emerged at street level both were more than willing to find a warm bolthole. However, Magda balked in the doorway of the pub across the street, unwilling to expose Tilda to those memories. But she was overruled by her companion who was frozen to the bone and vocally adamant that she‘d be damned if they were going to wander the streets until they found a warm place that didn’t serve booze in some guise or other when there was one right there. When Tilda explained succinctly that Magda could ruddy well have a mulled tea and be grateful for it as she dragged her in through the heavy door, Magda decided there was nothing for it but to acquiesce graciously.
They squeezed into a small corner and wrapping their hands round the piping hot mugs settled down to the pleasant process of warming up. A blazing fire roared in the inglenook and around it a cheerful set of students appeared to be enjoying that age old practice of discovering common music played in far off countries and finding it “deep”. Currently they were carolling along to an old Lancre folk tune, though thankfully hedgehogs were not mentioned. The new arrivals subsided into their steaming mugs and attempted to block out the caterwauling.
Some time later, tipping her mug to get the last millimetre of liquid Magda came to the cosy conclusion that her toes were warm again. Life was good. She could even look with kindness on the students, now entered onto a Genuian ditty. Opposite Tilda pushed back her chair. “Another?”
Magda nodded and by the time Tilda came back with the mugs the students had finished their happy session. As Tilda settled into her seat they shared a relieved smile while around them the pub rejoiced at the blessed quiet. Able at last to talk Magda opened an enquiry about the recent election of guild council members and sat back to listen to Tilda talk.
Suddenly the flow of words dried up and catching Tilda's eyes across the table Magda knew she recognised the tune as well. The violinist, previously forced to play whatever the wassailers had demanded, was now free to pick out soft melodies, those his fingers remembered but that had never been fettered by being written down to mould away in empty libraries. He’d been drifting from phrase to phrase, snatches of this tune and that but seemed to have settled into a soulful melody, his eyes half closed as his fingers danced over the strings.
“Damnit, the old tunes get everywhere.” Magda dropped her eyes to her drink.
“I don’t think it’s Borogravian… I remember this tune. An old man played it...” Tilda struggled against the mist, trying to grab the memory that flittered so elusively. Across the table Magda frowned as the music continued, images dropping into her mind, stubble under her feet, the all pervasive scent of dried grasses, the tug of tired muscles resisting as tempting waves of sleep rolled up from the quiet deeps.
“The old man… in the barn, that summer.”
Tilda’s eyes cleared at Magda’s words, the memory dropped into her mind, its detail as clear as the day she’d first heard the scraping of strings.
They had come down from the hills to find the valley in the midst of its wheat harvest. They’d left Borogravia long months before, crossing the high mountains to lands where they were unknown and therefore presumably free. Despite this they had been unable to shed their intrinsic wariness of being seen or questioned and they’d originally planned to make their way straight down through the farmland at night without stopping. The village at the end of the valley was their next aiming point, offering as it did the chance to renew their provisions before the next stage of their secretive journey. But fate stepped in to lend a hand and that first night they slept too long in the field margin, huddling under the hedge. Awakening to the sound of industrious activity Magda had opened her eyes to squint through the swaying leaves at a mob of village folk stretched out across the field, making short work of cutting down the crop. She’d woken Tilda with a soft touch, whispering to calm her as she explained the situation.
For hours they’d lain silent, watching the men and women working their way down the field. It was clear there would be no escape until the work was done, trapped as they were in the thickest part of the hedge they would be unable to move unobserved until the field was empty once more. Sure that they couldn’t be spotted as long as they lay unmoving they’d turned their curious attention to the harvest folk in an attempt to pass the time. Such a mismatched collection of people they were as well, not just the farmer and associated family as they’d originally assumed. It seemed other refugees than them were making their way across country to some as yet undetermined destination. As the line wended past their hiding place they’d overheard two grizzled old men talking in the familiar language of home. Pricking up their ears they’d received the information that the folk of this valley were willing in times like this when labour available was less than needed, to welcome any pair of hands that could put in a days work without complaint for a copper or two and a solid meal at the end of the day.
As was her job, being de facto leader of their expedition despite Tilda beginning at last to take an interest in life again, Magda began to form a plan. If these folk were willing to drop a copper or two in the hand of a wandering labourer without being inclined to closely question his origins she’d seen no reason not to take advantage of that. Tilda had originally been strongly against the idea, her fear of anyone other than Magda still crippling. But as the sun had crept across the azure blue sky she’d came round to the idea, eventually admitting that there wouldn’t be any harm in giving it a go, they could always run should anyone take too great an interest in them.
They’d presented themselves as two brothers, refugees from the ever present war that threatened to roll over their country once again. They would have preferred to avoid any reference to Borogravia at all, but they couldn’t disguise their accent or the difficulty they had stumbling though the dialect their employers spoke. That saved them however, restricting conversation to hand gestures and short commands, no need to tell their made up tale as there were few that would understand it.
They’d pushed their way down the valley with the rest of the itterant workers, moving from farm to farm as they became more skilled in the swinging of a scythe and the gathering of the cut sheaves. No one questioned their relationship, the general attitude being to leave the uncommunicative alone as long as they put their days work in, there were more garrulous folk to fill up the gaps in conversation.
It was at the harvest supper the valley had thrown on the last night where they’d heard the fiddler. Apparently it was traditional. Every year at the end of the gathering-in, the last farm, the largest one at the lower end of the valley where the soils were most fertile, put on a feast and knees-up for everyone remotely associated with the harvest. There had been cider, a large ham, a table groaning beneath a multitude of varying pies, and a band - in the form of a fiddler, reedy flute player and little drummer boy who’s feet didn’t yet touch the floor as he sat swinging his legs on a box.
People had laughed and danced and ate and danced some more.
The two brothers from Borogravia in their tattered clothes with their quiet shuttered eyes sat away from the noise in a protected corner, watching the revelry in with occasional puzzlement. Around them lay the evidence of their meal, crumbs and apple cores, still half full mugs of last years cider clasped between work worn hands. A farmer’s daughter had asked Magda to dance, but she’d managed to refuse politely enough, feeling the tension ease out of the dark figure beside her as they watched the girl walk away. Even if Tilda was able to be left alone Magda didn’t really want to dance. It looked complicated, the interaction between men and women appearing so simple to them as they moved to the music, but a foreign language to her.
But the music had been pleasant. The lively tunes that had set their feet tapping, birthing a desire in Magda to dance, whether she could or not, just to let the music move through her and take her where it will. And then there were the slower melodies that the fiddler drew from his instrument when the dancers drew aside to rest. Beautiful soaring melodic lines and achingly painful deep jagged refrains that pulled open old wounds in the two silent listeners hidden in the corner, hurting and in the same moment applying balm to wounded spirits with those simple harmonies.
They’d sat there until late in the evening, whilst one family after another wended their way homeward through the dusk. They’d been allocated sleeping space in the hayloft and the soft sweet smelling grasses were a siren call for tired muscles, but they sat on, watching couples dancing in slow circles below the soft light of the lanterns. It was just when Magda was wondering if she could slip an arm around Tilda’s shoulders without anyone noticing that the farmer’s wife slipped into their corner, startling them out of their dreams. She’d offered a small earthware pot of some kind of salve, explaining with simple gestures that it was to be rubbed into muscles, to ease the tightening. Reaching out to take it Magda’s other hand had slipped unconsciously to her shoulder, kneading gently at the knot there. Ever since the Fathers had put her shoulder out of joint that one time she’d had trouble after heavy exercise. The woman had smiled at them, nodded and slipped away. As Magda had sat there processing this new information Tilda had picked the pot out of her hand, sniffing interestedly at its contents. She’d stood, purpose in her movement and stretching back for Magda’s hand had tugged her away, the two girls walking hand in hand across the farmyard - leaving the lighted barn behind them.
It took a moment for their eyesight to adjust to the darkness of the cattleshed. Scrabbling blind towards the ladder Magda had bumped into a soft yielding figure that giggled in the quiet. She’d attempted to grab for the tease, but off balance from the cider had instead stumbled into the door of a loosebox. The giggle again rang out in the darkness. Feeling her way with hands outstretched towards the source of that giggle Magda found her hands held in a strong clasp and guided to the ladder up to the hayloft.
Enveloped in the scent of sweet grasses, the two girls had lain back amongst the prickly bedding waiting for the unsteadying effects of the cider to retreat. Her night vision growing Magda had turned to the figure she could now pick out as darker against the background gloom.
“You’m a little minx.”
The figure had giggled again. A beautiful sound to one who had held on through those dark days when it was uncertain if Tilda would ever even take notice of the world again, never mind smile. Magda had been exhausted, her whole body one large ache, previously unused muscles screaming out at the treatment they’d been forced into, but it had been a great summer. She’d relaxed back into the softness, stretching out with a sigh. Beside her she felt the change in the slope of the hay as Tilda sat up.
“Give us your shoulder.”
Magda had rolled away, sitting up to pull the ragged shirt over her head, the pull in her shoulder causing her to wince and hiss between her teeth. She’d felt the cool touch of hands against her skin, Tilda’s fingertips wandering gentle to find the knot before smoothing the salve over the tight muscle. The gentle fingers had turned firm, rubbing in the balm with small probing circles and Magda had leant back against the pressure, the undoing opening up down her back, her head drooping in sudden relaxation. The fingers had moved wider, moving out across her back, loosening old tensions in her neck, slipping down to drive strong thumbs under her shoulder blades. She’d been caught out unexpectedly in a yawn, stretching away from the wandering hands before returning willingly to their realm.
It had happened so simply, those light fingers drifting almost unconsciously from searching out knots in muscle to cautious exploration. Aware suddenly that soft fingers were soothing their way up her side and tracing along her spine Magda had turned in surprise to catch darkling eyes that spoke to her of times long past and needs un-named.
The first kiss had been all gentleness, a slow exploration or territory once well known but not trod for many months now. Magda had pulled back - searching those dark eyes, needing to know that this was what Tilda wanted, that she was present, all of her, needing to be sure. Even with that evidence staring her in the face she had been all tenderness, so slowly unwrapping the fragile girl, exploring hands soothing over soft skin, tasting, always a light touch, hesitating at every breath of response.
“Tell me if it’s too much.” And the soft laughter she’d been given in reply had been a gift beyond price as Tilda ambushed her, pressing her back into the soft piles of cushioning grass.
They’d taken their time, up there amongst the sweet hay, privacy ensured by the party still on-going in the barn across the way. The music had drifted in and wended its way into their love-making, Tilda murmuring a repeated chorus quietly into responsive skin as she traced her way along sharply relieved bones.
That had been the beginning of the good times. The times before a secret buried darkness clawed its way into Magda’s nightmares and started her onto the path of destroying everything they had managed to build together. That night Tilda hadn’t had the dreams. She’d slept right through, a calm smile solidly stable on her face whenever Magda, prickled into wakefulness by hay against bare skin, looked over to check her slumber. It was the first night of many that she slept through. And the first night of many that Magda didn’t. Back then, as she lay curled around the quietly sleeping figure, she’d had no inkling of the turmoil that was bearing down on them from a distant horizon.
“I can still taste that cider.”
Magda blinked, the smoke darkened walls of the pub coming back into focus. The fiddler had just lifted the bow from the strings, bowing to the smattering of applause. He broke immediately into a lively ditty, Ankh Morporkian in origin judging by the lusty singing that sprung up from the straggle of long term drinkers at the bar.
“It was good cider.” Magda buried her nose into her mug, the tea not precisely cold, but no longer warming. Across the table she thought she could pick out a faint blush staining Ms Tewt’s pale cheeks. Seemingly she wasn’t the only one that remembered certain parts of that evening with perfect clarity. Magda's lips twitched momentarily as she raised her cup, refining her earlier her statement for greater emphasis.
“It was great cider.” And Tilda had raised her cup to clink the two together gently.
Later, her feet carrying her automatically away from the guild after saying her goodbyes Magda had watched dispassionately as the darkness attempted to swell forward from the back recesses of her mind. As usual the stirring of the pot always came with consequences but she didn’t regret a moment of it even as ugly memories that had merely lain hidden beneath the surface that beautiful untainted summer night raised familiar heads. She’d meant it when she’d said that the images Tilda brought back were not something she would run from. It had been a difficult struggle to sort through the unpleasant rubble leftover from those years but the shadows didn’t frighten her any more.
For all her equanimity there was a sour taste in her mouth, a taste she knew would linger, a familiar acrid tang only one substance declared it could wash away. It might be a good thing after all if she should accidentally bump into Rhijan this evening, after her shift... Perhaps she should ask Nell whether she could mention it to the dwarf... The clock of the guild behind her struck the half hour and drawn back to the present Magda shook her head clearing the swirling temptations behind her eyes. There was a full evening ahead, waiting for her participation. First: to work. There were pots and pans and plates to wash and then when that was done she had to go home (via Rhi if she wasn’t too tired) and hop into bed so that she could rise eager eyed in the morning and make coffee for lazy Sunday morning patrons.
Later, as she made her way home, shivering through the chill of the early hours she found she didn't need to make a detour and drag Rhi out of bed after all. It had been a busy night, but thankfully Vince had been on duty and though she'd spent the evening up to her elbows in dishwater the time had passed quickly in the swirling haze of quips and digs flashing back and forth between him and Tony. A song drifted up through the mist and she quickened her pace, the call of her bed strong after a long day. Fumbling her key as she attempted to quietly manipulate the lock she found herself caught up in a massive yawn but the smile that crept over her lips as she silently closed the door behind her stayed as she crept up the stairs. Stretching out under chill sheets only moments later Magda let the memories wash over her, the warmth of those harvest days spreading out through tired muscles in relaxing waves. But before she could join more than a few images together in jerky display she dropped into soft dreamless sleep.
~X~
Disclaimer: All characters and places belong to Terry Pratchett. Author means no disrespect by borrowing them for this adventure and no monetary benefit is intended.
Warning: This chapter does make reference to an earlier physical relationships between these two women.
Prologue: Dinner Without Strings, 1: Second Chances
~X~
Walking and Talking
“Extra Extra! Read all about it! Undertaking Delays Not Due To The Wrong Kind Of Dwarfs Says Guild. Questions Asked In Privy Council. Read all about it!!”
Magda Halter, pushing her way through the Saturday crowd glanced back over her shoulder to realise she had lost her tail. Scanning the throng in sudden concern, she picked out the flash of tidy dark hair beneath a smart hat valiantly forging through the press of people and waited for Tilda to catch up. “Almost there” she said as the tide of humanity spat up the woman into the calm shelter under the wall and assured that her companion was still in one piece she led off again cutting across the pack to slip between two stalls on the other side, emerging gratefully into a relatively quiet side street.
“Sorry about that.” Magda glanced anxiously at the smaller woman as they strolled on, glad to be able at last to walk side by side and talk at a normal volume. “The streets round the market are always crazy at this time of day, I should have remembered.”
“It’s ok.” Tilda rubbed gently at her ribs where an over eager matron had shunted her to one side in a quest for the freshest cabbage. “I haven’t had much of a chance to see the real Ankh Morpork. I admit it wasn’t the introduction to the city I originally envisaged, but it’s good to be out of the lab.
“You’ve been busy?” Something had been taking up the engineer’s time; Tilda hadn’t been in for her wake-up coffee for over two weeks. Oh yes, messengers had come and gone, collecting large orders at all times of the day and night, but Magda could never be sure whether any of those had been for Tilda’s group of lunatics. The engineer might have just gone out of town. Or found another coffee shop she liked better.
Magda had prepared those orders carefully, just in case.
Picking her way through the frozen puddles that were scattered haphazardly along the rough back street, Tilda cast her mind back to the frenzied week. “It’s been… a bit more complicated than we envisaged.”
That was understating the case somewhat, making as it did no mention of the frustrating struggle to get the prototype operating, the discovery of another, as yet unidentified issue with her carefully worked out theory of air fluid dynamics, the long long days and late nights alone in the office, squinting at plans and equations. It had been a hard month for them all and Janey, finding her asleep over her paperwork, had insisted that she take a day off. Eventually, the headache beating at her temples draining her of all fighting spirit, Tilda had agreed.
And so here she was, looking about her at a city that had somehow bypassed autumn and got stuck into its winter display when she wasn’t paying attention. Wood-smoke hung heavy in the air, doing its best to draw a veil between the intrusive scent of an Ankh Morpork street and the eager tourist. The sky above was clear and all about her the breath of passers-by wreathed magical swirls and curlicues in the air. Pulling her scarf higher around her neck she drew in a deep lungful of the chill air, allowing it to wash the stuffy leftover equations from her mind. Drawing the focus of her attention back to her guide she enquired as to whether they were anywhere near their destination.
“It’s just down here.” Magda led the way down an even smaller alley. “Everyone’ll tell you to go to Tiajic’s but Ivanov has always had the best sausage.”
Tilda could hear the bustle drifting toward them from where the alley came out into one of the main cross streets. As she followed that stiff back under its too thin jacket she wondered if perhaps this had been a good idea after all. Facing a day of lying in bed attempting to sleep and fretting about her equations, pacing the guild niggling at her equations or wandering the frighteningly loud city alone whilst worrying about her equations she’d instead taken a leap in the dark and slipped into the café to ask Tonker if she would be able to take her down to Little Uberwald so she could get some groceries.
Tilda still wasn’t sure what she’d expected but after a moment of stunned silence Tonker had admitted that she didn’t work afternoons at the weekend. She’d then volunteered that she did know her way around that area of town and could probably show Tilda a few places, were that what she wanted.
Tilda had said yes, she did.
Now, the paper bag of black bread tucked under one arm, Tilda had to admit that it was nothing like what she’d envisaged. From overheard conversations and her own vague enquiries she’d learnt that this area of town was full of refugees, streets lined with people from the old country, smoking the old weed in old pipes and bemoaning the loss of old farms and cottages back in the old mountains. However, all evidence to the contrary it appeared that most of Ankh Morpork dropped into Little Uberwald on a weekend, tourists and eager shoppers alike. The main streets were crowded with a multitude of accents and though she heard a familiar word here and there, it seemed you were just as likely to hear a deliver boy sworn at in a broad Sto accent than in the sharper vowels of the home country she’d been stiffening herself against.
The smells on the other hand were startling recognizable, the scent of bread, the tang of sausage mixed with charcoal, the ever pervasive aroma of the eponymous thin stew that steamed from large cauldrons on every other stall. Ah, that stew, given enough time even a Borogravian might be able to forget the coating of grease without transfer of taste that such a meal bestowed on the back of the tongue. Providing the proof of this were the black coated and shawl wrapped figures gathered around these stalls with bowl and bread in hand, muttering appreciatively as they spooned the thin liquid toward amnesic taste buds.
Tilda was lost.
“Magda? Can we get some?” She gestured toward the tightly clustered gathering. Magda gaped at her in disbelief.
“You want to eat that?”
“Please?” She tugged at Magda’s sleeve, dragging her in the direction of the nearest stall wafting savoury smells through the crowds. Sighing and rolling her eyes at this tourist behaviour Magda allowed herself to be pulled along, indicating with an expressive shrug that she was more than willing to allow such insanity as long as no-one expected her to participate.
It tasted as bad as Tilda remembered. The addition of herbs and seasoning (an Ankh Morpork touch) couldn’t disguise the baseline flavours of fat and bland vegetables. Even the out of place chunks of meat bobbing amongst the thin gruel couldn’t save it. She made a good job of it, dipping the chunk of bread into the liquid to alleviate much of the grease (a true Borogravian never quite forgot how) and picking out the most flavoursome vegetable chunks. Eventually, avoiding Magda’s eyes she handed over the remainder to one of the many scrawny children begging amongst the crowd. Times were obviously hard because the kid slurped it down eagerly, drawing a cringe from both women as they moved away.
Dragging the focus back onto their original objective for entering this confusing muddle Magda led off in the direction of Ivanov’s Butchery and Assorted Meats. Once done there she led off again, this time in the direction of a small grocers shop, its size augmented by the vibrant display of fruit and vegetable products that stretched out to block half the street.
“Pickles” she muttered in explanation, before vanishing through the brightly coloured curtain of thin chains that served purpose as a door. As Tilda followed a hand reached out to hold back the swinging barrier, allowing her access and she murmured her thanks, slipping past Magda to halt in amazement. The tiny shop was crammed with products, with shelves stretching up to the ceiling, marking out narrow isles just wide enough to squeeze along in search of a well remembered staple or abruptly recollected taste of home.
As she paid for her purchases and Magda reached for the mesh bag Tilda realised she would have to say something. Admittedly the bag was likely to be heavy, what with the large jar of pickles and other essentials, but Magda had reached for the sausage in the butchers as well. And she’d been somewhat overly conscientious about the opening of doors and clearing an protective path through the crowds.
“Magda.” Without thinking she placed a firm hand over the thin wrist. Magda froze at her touch.
“Let me take it.” Tilda had to harden her heart not to lift her hand away, knowing instinctively as she did the effect the contact was having on the woman tense beside her. When the result she was waiting for didn't happen she spoke again more forcefully. “Let go, Tonker! Let me carry it.”
The woman turned and left without a word. Once she’d thanked the shopkeeper and gathered up her purchases Tilda hurried after the dignified figure and reaching the street looked around frantically before spotting a stiff figure further down the street. Coming up alongside she found Magda gazing intently into a shop window as though deciding whether the purchase of a black trilby was necessary at this crucial time.
“Magda?” She received no response, the dilemma of the black trilby obviously more absorbing than previously supposed. “I think there’s something we need to clear up.”
Had that been a flick of a glance in her direction through the reflecting properties of the glass they faced?
“I won’t have you treating me like fragile china any more Mags. One thing I learnt in those painful first months alone out there in the country was that I was stronger than most of those that fluttered around me, stronger and more prepared against the world in many ways.” Tilda noted that the woman's reflection had turned away from her somewhat as she spoke, hands thrusting hard into deep pockets. “It’s been a long time since I needed you to do everything for me.” Tilda reached out to that stiff shoulder but let her hand drop before making contact. In the glass she caught the flash of eyes, Magda warily watching her every move.
“I’ve learnt to stand on my own two feet - it was a hard lesson, but I learnt to do it.” She turned away from the window to face her friend. “Would you really take that away from me?”
“Sorry.” The muttered apology carried no grace and Magda still wouldn’t look at her. Out of the corner of her eye Tilda could recognise in the glass that old expression locked into place, hiding the frustrated anger she knew was simmering underneath. She waited. Minutes passed and the bustling life of the street continued behind them as they stood on their tense little chunk of pavement before the hats on sale. Magda shifted from foot to foot, obviously struggling with something. However, when the words eventually came she didn't spit them out but spoke softly to the sturdy boots planted next to hers.
“You’re right. I’m sorry. I’ll try and remember.” She shrugged and lifting her gaze with a wry twist of her smile met those understanding eyes across the reflection. Tilda smiled at her in the window, knocked the nearest shoulder with a closed fist, and drawing a line under the incident led the way on toward the bakery she could see on the corner.
Eventually, feet aching, they found a small coffee-shop tucked away down a dead-end alley and collapsed into the spindly chairs with sighs of relief. The place was busy and as they waited for the waitress to notice them Magda reached with barely hidden curiosity for the paper left on the nearby table. The headline caught her eye and she pushed the newsprint across the table to the one engineer sitting around this particular piece of furniture.
“Is this you?” The headline read “Undertaking Underperforming” a title that had caused the editor much pain before he allowed it to pass.
“Classified remember? Anyway it’s my day off, I’m forbidden from talking about it, Janey would kill me.”
“Janey?”
Tilda broke into a description of her irreplaceable lab manager, the somewhat slanderous sketch interrupted by the waitress bringing them minuscule cups of thick dark coffee. Apparently everyone came in here to drink the coffee of home, even those who hadn’t ordered it. Across the table they shared a surprised glance before the aroma rising from the impenetrable beverages persuaded them. Unfortunately upon tasting it took only a minute to realised the liquid was piping hot . As they sat waiting for it to cool the warmth of the room crept under their layers, causing Tilda to loosen her scarf and Magda to remove her gloves, placing them on top of the paper at her side.
“What’s that?” Tilda pointed, careful this time not to make contact.
“Oh, I caught it on a chisel.” Magda ran a finger over the healing cut on the back of her hand, as a frustrated kick under the table persuaded her to continue the tale. “I started woodwork classes, they run them in artisan’s guild, a couple of evenings a week. I’m not so experienced with the tools yet, a bit clumsy. I guess it must have just slipped.”
Tilda reached out, asking silently for a closer look and after a moments pause Magda placed her hand in the waiting palm. Tilting it to the light she traced the wound delicately, examining the extent of the damage.
“You should have that bound up. Don’t want it to get infected.”
“It’s ok, An... someone gave me some salve for it, it already looks better than it did.”
“You’ll be more careful next time?”
“I promise.” She gently tugged back and Tilda had to release the hand she’d captured. They sipped the coffee, Tilda making a face at the bitter flavour.
“You always did have a way with wood. I remember you’d be sat there with that knife, whittling, always whittling. Night after night. You made some wonderful things.” Another image dropped into her mind. Tonker carving that bloody figure over and over again, the bottle at hand, always within reach, always open. The cold blankets a heavy weight pinning Tilda down as she pretended to be asleep, fear clawing at her insides as she watched Tonker watch the knife glinting in the half light.
Hearing the intake of breath she looked up to catch the shock dawn over the face opposite as Magda realised what Tilda was remembering. “Oh gods, I'm sorry Mags.” She reached out to recapture a hand but Magda withdrew her fingers, shrinking back into her chair. There was a tense silence while Magda there, pondering something and then, seeming to have come to a decision, she drew herself back together and leant forward again, resting firm elbows on the table as she sipped at her coffee. She placed the cup deliberately between them before speaking.
“Seems there's some things we need to get clear here.” Her voice was level but she couldn't disguise the unsteadiness of the fingertip she ran around the top of her cup. “First up, you don't get to apologise for stuff that wasn't your fault.” Noting Tilda's slight confusion Magda added “you weren't the only one that had to learn some hard lessons these past years.” Her eyes dropped again and she waited as the couple on the table nearest the window paid their bill and made their way out of the café before continuing. “Second, I aint never gonna be able to sit opposite you and pretend all that stuff never happened and I don't reckon I can do this again if that's what you thought you wanted.”
“I didn't” The whisper was barely loud enough to reach across the table. Magda nodded.
“Right then.” She took a sip from her coffee. “Of course that puts us somewhere up shit creek cos I have no idea how we're going to manage hauling all that around every time we say hello.” She grinned wryly, fingers gently cradling the cup. “Damn stupid images keep cropping up all over the place since I bumped into you again. Guess it's not different for you huh?”
Tilda nodded.
“Maybe this wasn't such a good idea.” Draining the last of her coffee, Magda patted the hand still reaching out for hers, pushed back her chair and hauled herself to her feet. “We should go. I have to go to work tonight, they’re expecting me.” Tilda frowned, knowing full well the coffee shop didn’t open so late but before she could ask for clarification Magda produced the explanation. “I’m a pot and pan washer.” Gritted pride kept her talking. “I managed to get some shifts at one of the Hagar’s chain over on Elm Lane. The extra money comes in handy.”
For the night classes, Tilda realised suddenly, understanding finally what they represented to this complicated woman clawing her way back into society as best she knew how. Magda had always loved working with wood, having some kind of instinctive feel for the shape trapped within the grain and the best way to release it or if that were not possible to allude to its hidden beauty with simple strokes of her knife. But she had never alluded to it, even when they had been so long out of that place that even Tilda had come to see they were free. Never allowed herself to admit it was something that could be pursued. She had always worked at her poor scraps of wood dismissively, making out that it was just some way to pass the time, nothing she really cared about, nothing that she was proud to name as one of her skills. Seemingly more lessons had been learnt in those empty years than perhaps even Magda realised.
Tilda reached for her coffee, drinking it in one go and relishing the jolt as it raced down her gullet. Wrapping her scarf once again around her neck she followed Magda to the door, pausing before passing through to state quietly “I can stand the memories, Mags. I meant what I said about fragile china. And I'm still crazy enough to think we can find our way through this.”
They walked back in silence, but as she left the engineer on the shallow steps of the guild Magda hovered for a moment. “I hope things go better for you this week, I’ll keep my fingers crossed.” They shared a smile before Magda sketched a salute and disappeared into the dusk of the evening.
~X~
The second time Tonker her took her to The Shambling Gate and they climbed the 72 steps to lean on the parapet and gaze out over the city lain out before them in the afternoon sunset. A companionable silence fell between the two figures alone in that place between earth and sky. It seemed no other citizen had the energy or inclination to climb the dark stone staircase to impinge on their isolation. Picking absent-mindedly at the lichen that coated every visible surface, Tilda cast a glance at the still figure beside her.
“Janey asked me yesterday if I knew what I was doing.” Magda froze for a moment and then carefully relaxed again, resettling against the parapet.
“Spending more time with you, that is.”
“It’s nice.” Magda flicked the smallest flake of stone into the abyss. “She’s worried about you. Rhijan keeps trying to take me to one side, check I’m not about to explode.”
“Are you?” Tilda turned toward her companion warily, settling her hip against the wall. Beside her Magda stared out over the plains blurredly visible stretching away from the encircling city walls. Thin fingers searched along the flaking parapet, tidying the uneven stone, revealing unwittingly the mind behind those shielded eyes, hunting for the right words to clarify a most untidy situation.
“The things you make me remember were never the things I was running away from.” The merest hint of a smile lifted the corner of the mouth just visible to Tilda’s concerned gaze. But then, as she watched the smile twisted, Magda’s tone developing an edge. “There’s nothing left buried to jump out and surprise the unwary investigator. All dark secrets thoroughly exposed to the light.” A short bitter laugh gusted out into the chill air, the woman’s shoulders tight as she leant more heavily on the supporting wall.
“Fair enough.” Tilda shifted back to look out over the city again, her gaze roving over the bustle of streets below. “Look - you can see the new Undertaking line going in.”
Magda grunted, following the line of her finger. “It’s making a hell of a mess.”
“You know what they say; you can’t make an omelette without breaking eggs.”
“Just cos you’re breaking eggs don’t mean we’re all gonna end up with a tasty meal at the end the process.”
Tilda grinned, pleased with the outcome of her distraction tactics. They stood for a moment in more cheerful silence.
“How did your egg breaking go this week then?”
“Urgh.” Tilda slumped over the parapet. “Don’t ask. Possible solution number 38 tested and found non-viable... Possible solution number 39 tested and found non-viable… Possible solution number 40 tested and found non-viable. You get the general drift.”
“What’s the problem?” Tilda threw her a look. “Ah, classified?”
“Classified.”
“I got to use a lathe this week.” Magda dropped the information into the pool of their conversation and stepped back to see its effect. Tilda, drawn out of her introspection glanced over, waiting curiously. Eventually, her interested gaze producing no visible effect she bumped the silent figure beside her for a renewal of the tale.
“They were teaching us about wood turning. I made a bat.” Tilda began with congratulations to be interrupted with a dour “eventually”.
“Oh.” Tilda bit her lip. “How many?”
“Four.” Magda nodded proudly. “Total disasters, every one.”
“What did you do with the last one?”
“Got it behind the door.” She shuffled her feet against the cold. “I can’t decide what to do with it. D’you want it for your minions?”
“They’re not minions.” Tilda restated the contradiction mildly as beside her Magda snorted unrepentantly into her hands. “I may have to borrow it for the blasted prototype though. I swear that thing is possessed by a rogue spirit.”
“Feel free, I expect they’ll give us the chance to make more should your dratted machine decide to eat it.” Magda straightened, drawing her jacket more firmly around her shoulders before returning to her resting position against the parapet. This movement inadvertently reminded Tilda of the difference in quality between their outer layers.
“We should go down, it’s freezing up here. These hands are too important for the future transportation network of this city to lose any fingers to frostbite.” She hauled herself off the parapet wishing a silent au revoir to the city, its tangle of streets vanishing into the dusk as the filigree necklace of individual scattered specks of light began to stretch out its tendrils over the dark brooding mass below.
Pausing at the trapdoor that Magda held open graciously Tilda took one last look at the wide sky, painted in the unreal colours of a fading winter sunset. “This was a good idea.” She put a gentle hand on the arm of the figure beside her in the gloom and added a quiet “thank you”. Left behind on the rooftop Magda cast a glance round at the shabby exposed stone and shrugged before slipping through the gap and carefully closing the hatch behind her.
Once away from the distracting view both woman found themselves shivering uncontrollably in the dank chill of the stairwell and Magda fought valiantly to control the chattering of her teeth as she followed the sound of Tilda’s trembling shivers down what seemed endless flights of stairs. When they eventually emerged at street level both were more than willing to find a warm bolthole. However, Magda balked in the doorway of the pub across the street, unwilling to expose Tilda to those memories. But she was overruled by her companion who was frozen to the bone and vocally adamant that she‘d be damned if they were going to wander the streets until they found a warm place that didn’t serve booze in some guise or other when there was one right there. When Tilda explained succinctly that Magda could ruddy well have a mulled tea and be grateful for it as she dragged her in through the heavy door, Magda decided there was nothing for it but to acquiesce graciously.
They squeezed into a small corner and wrapping their hands round the piping hot mugs settled down to the pleasant process of warming up. A blazing fire roared in the inglenook and around it a cheerful set of students appeared to be enjoying that age old practice of discovering common music played in far off countries and finding it “deep”. Currently they were carolling along to an old Lancre folk tune, though thankfully hedgehogs were not mentioned. The new arrivals subsided into their steaming mugs and attempted to block out the caterwauling.
Some time later, tipping her mug to get the last millimetre of liquid Magda came to the cosy conclusion that her toes were warm again. Life was good. She could even look with kindness on the students, now entered onto a Genuian ditty. Opposite Tilda pushed back her chair. “Another?”
Magda nodded and by the time Tilda came back with the mugs the students had finished their happy session. As Tilda settled into her seat they shared a relieved smile while around them the pub rejoiced at the blessed quiet. Able at last to talk Magda opened an enquiry about the recent election of guild council members and sat back to listen to Tilda talk.
Suddenly the flow of words dried up and catching Tilda's eyes across the table Magda knew she recognised the tune as well. The violinist, previously forced to play whatever the wassailers had demanded, was now free to pick out soft melodies, those his fingers remembered but that had never been fettered by being written down to mould away in empty libraries. He’d been drifting from phrase to phrase, snatches of this tune and that but seemed to have settled into a soulful melody, his eyes half closed as his fingers danced over the strings.
“Damnit, the old tunes get everywhere.” Magda dropped her eyes to her drink.
“I don’t think it’s Borogravian… I remember this tune. An old man played it...” Tilda struggled against the mist, trying to grab the memory that flittered so elusively. Across the table Magda frowned as the music continued, images dropping into her mind, stubble under her feet, the all pervasive scent of dried grasses, the tug of tired muscles resisting as tempting waves of sleep rolled up from the quiet deeps.
“The old man… in the barn, that summer.”
Tilda’s eyes cleared at Magda’s words, the memory dropped into her mind, its detail as clear as the day she’d first heard the scraping of strings.
They had come down from the hills to find the valley in the midst of its wheat harvest. They’d left Borogravia long months before, crossing the high mountains to lands where they were unknown and therefore presumably free. Despite this they had been unable to shed their intrinsic wariness of being seen or questioned and they’d originally planned to make their way straight down through the farmland at night without stopping. The village at the end of the valley was their next aiming point, offering as it did the chance to renew their provisions before the next stage of their secretive journey. But fate stepped in to lend a hand and that first night they slept too long in the field margin, huddling under the hedge. Awakening to the sound of industrious activity Magda had opened her eyes to squint through the swaying leaves at a mob of village folk stretched out across the field, making short work of cutting down the crop. She’d woken Tilda with a soft touch, whispering to calm her as she explained the situation.
For hours they’d lain silent, watching the men and women working their way down the field. It was clear there would be no escape until the work was done, trapped as they were in the thickest part of the hedge they would be unable to move unobserved until the field was empty once more. Sure that they couldn’t be spotted as long as they lay unmoving they’d turned their curious attention to the harvest folk in an attempt to pass the time. Such a mismatched collection of people they were as well, not just the farmer and associated family as they’d originally assumed. It seemed other refugees than them were making their way across country to some as yet undetermined destination. As the line wended past their hiding place they’d overheard two grizzled old men talking in the familiar language of home. Pricking up their ears they’d received the information that the folk of this valley were willing in times like this when labour available was less than needed, to welcome any pair of hands that could put in a days work without complaint for a copper or two and a solid meal at the end of the day.
As was her job, being de facto leader of their expedition despite Tilda beginning at last to take an interest in life again, Magda began to form a plan. If these folk were willing to drop a copper or two in the hand of a wandering labourer without being inclined to closely question his origins she’d seen no reason not to take advantage of that. Tilda had originally been strongly against the idea, her fear of anyone other than Magda still crippling. But as the sun had crept across the azure blue sky she’d came round to the idea, eventually admitting that there wouldn’t be any harm in giving it a go, they could always run should anyone take too great an interest in them.
They’d presented themselves as two brothers, refugees from the ever present war that threatened to roll over their country once again. They would have preferred to avoid any reference to Borogravia at all, but they couldn’t disguise their accent or the difficulty they had stumbling though the dialect their employers spoke. That saved them however, restricting conversation to hand gestures and short commands, no need to tell their made up tale as there were few that would understand it.
They’d pushed their way down the valley with the rest of the itterant workers, moving from farm to farm as they became more skilled in the swinging of a scythe and the gathering of the cut sheaves. No one questioned their relationship, the general attitude being to leave the uncommunicative alone as long as they put their days work in, there were more garrulous folk to fill up the gaps in conversation.
It was at the harvest supper the valley had thrown on the last night where they’d heard the fiddler. Apparently it was traditional. Every year at the end of the gathering-in, the last farm, the largest one at the lower end of the valley where the soils were most fertile, put on a feast and knees-up for everyone remotely associated with the harvest. There had been cider, a large ham, a table groaning beneath a multitude of varying pies, and a band - in the form of a fiddler, reedy flute player and little drummer boy who’s feet didn’t yet touch the floor as he sat swinging his legs on a box.
People had laughed and danced and ate and danced some more.
The two brothers from Borogravia in their tattered clothes with their quiet shuttered eyes sat away from the noise in a protected corner, watching the revelry in with occasional puzzlement. Around them lay the evidence of their meal, crumbs and apple cores, still half full mugs of last years cider clasped between work worn hands. A farmer’s daughter had asked Magda to dance, but she’d managed to refuse politely enough, feeling the tension ease out of the dark figure beside her as they watched the girl walk away. Even if Tilda was able to be left alone Magda didn’t really want to dance. It looked complicated, the interaction between men and women appearing so simple to them as they moved to the music, but a foreign language to her.
But the music had been pleasant. The lively tunes that had set their feet tapping, birthing a desire in Magda to dance, whether she could or not, just to let the music move through her and take her where it will. And then there were the slower melodies that the fiddler drew from his instrument when the dancers drew aside to rest. Beautiful soaring melodic lines and achingly painful deep jagged refrains that pulled open old wounds in the two silent listeners hidden in the corner, hurting and in the same moment applying balm to wounded spirits with those simple harmonies.
They’d sat there until late in the evening, whilst one family after another wended their way homeward through the dusk. They’d been allocated sleeping space in the hayloft and the soft sweet smelling grasses were a siren call for tired muscles, but they sat on, watching couples dancing in slow circles below the soft light of the lanterns. It was just when Magda was wondering if she could slip an arm around Tilda’s shoulders without anyone noticing that the farmer’s wife slipped into their corner, startling them out of their dreams. She’d offered a small earthware pot of some kind of salve, explaining with simple gestures that it was to be rubbed into muscles, to ease the tightening. Reaching out to take it Magda’s other hand had slipped unconsciously to her shoulder, kneading gently at the knot there. Ever since the Fathers had put her shoulder out of joint that one time she’d had trouble after heavy exercise. The woman had smiled at them, nodded and slipped away. As Magda had sat there processing this new information Tilda had picked the pot out of her hand, sniffing interestedly at its contents. She’d stood, purpose in her movement and stretching back for Magda’s hand had tugged her away, the two girls walking hand in hand across the farmyard - leaving the lighted barn behind them.
It took a moment for their eyesight to adjust to the darkness of the cattleshed. Scrabbling blind towards the ladder Magda had bumped into a soft yielding figure that giggled in the quiet. She’d attempted to grab for the tease, but off balance from the cider had instead stumbled into the door of a loosebox. The giggle again rang out in the darkness. Feeling her way with hands outstretched towards the source of that giggle Magda found her hands held in a strong clasp and guided to the ladder up to the hayloft.
Enveloped in the scent of sweet grasses, the two girls had lain back amongst the prickly bedding waiting for the unsteadying effects of the cider to retreat. Her night vision growing Magda had turned to the figure she could now pick out as darker against the background gloom.
“You’m a little minx.”
The figure had giggled again. A beautiful sound to one who had held on through those dark days when it was uncertain if Tilda would ever even take notice of the world again, never mind smile. Magda had been exhausted, her whole body one large ache, previously unused muscles screaming out at the treatment they’d been forced into, but it had been a great summer. She’d relaxed back into the softness, stretching out with a sigh. Beside her she felt the change in the slope of the hay as Tilda sat up.
“Give us your shoulder.”
Magda had rolled away, sitting up to pull the ragged shirt over her head, the pull in her shoulder causing her to wince and hiss between her teeth. She’d felt the cool touch of hands against her skin, Tilda’s fingertips wandering gentle to find the knot before smoothing the salve over the tight muscle. The gentle fingers had turned firm, rubbing in the balm with small probing circles and Magda had leant back against the pressure, the undoing opening up down her back, her head drooping in sudden relaxation. The fingers had moved wider, moving out across her back, loosening old tensions in her neck, slipping down to drive strong thumbs under her shoulder blades. She’d been caught out unexpectedly in a yawn, stretching away from the wandering hands before returning willingly to their realm.
It had happened so simply, those light fingers drifting almost unconsciously from searching out knots in muscle to cautious exploration. Aware suddenly that soft fingers were soothing their way up her side and tracing along her spine Magda had turned in surprise to catch darkling eyes that spoke to her of times long past and needs un-named.
The first kiss had been all gentleness, a slow exploration or territory once well known but not trod for many months now. Magda had pulled back - searching those dark eyes, needing to know that this was what Tilda wanted, that she was present, all of her, needing to be sure. Even with that evidence staring her in the face she had been all tenderness, so slowly unwrapping the fragile girl, exploring hands soothing over soft skin, tasting, always a light touch, hesitating at every breath of response.
“Tell me if it’s too much.” And the soft laughter she’d been given in reply had been a gift beyond price as Tilda ambushed her, pressing her back into the soft piles of cushioning grass.
They’d taken their time, up there amongst the sweet hay, privacy ensured by the party still on-going in the barn across the way. The music had drifted in and wended its way into their love-making, Tilda murmuring a repeated chorus quietly into responsive skin as she traced her way along sharply relieved bones.
That had been the beginning of the good times. The times before a secret buried darkness clawed its way into Magda’s nightmares and started her onto the path of destroying everything they had managed to build together. That night Tilda hadn’t had the dreams. She’d slept right through, a calm smile solidly stable on her face whenever Magda, prickled into wakefulness by hay against bare skin, looked over to check her slumber. It was the first night of many that she slept through. And the first night of many that Magda didn’t. Back then, as she lay curled around the quietly sleeping figure, she’d had no inkling of the turmoil that was bearing down on them from a distant horizon.
“I can still taste that cider.”
Magda blinked, the smoke darkened walls of the pub coming back into focus. The fiddler had just lifted the bow from the strings, bowing to the smattering of applause. He broke immediately into a lively ditty, Ankh Morporkian in origin judging by the lusty singing that sprung up from the straggle of long term drinkers at the bar.
“It was good cider.” Magda buried her nose into her mug, the tea not precisely cold, but no longer warming. Across the table she thought she could pick out a faint blush staining Ms Tewt’s pale cheeks. Seemingly she wasn’t the only one that remembered certain parts of that evening with perfect clarity. Magda's lips twitched momentarily as she raised her cup, refining her earlier her statement for greater emphasis.
“It was great cider.” And Tilda had raised her cup to clink the two together gently.
Later, her feet carrying her automatically away from the guild after saying her goodbyes Magda had watched dispassionately as the darkness attempted to swell forward from the back recesses of her mind. As usual the stirring of the pot always came with consequences but she didn’t regret a moment of it even as ugly memories that had merely lain hidden beneath the surface that beautiful untainted summer night raised familiar heads. She’d meant it when she’d said that the images Tilda brought back were not something she would run from. It had been a difficult struggle to sort through the unpleasant rubble leftover from those years but the shadows didn’t frighten her any more.
For all her equanimity there was a sour taste in her mouth, a taste she knew would linger, a familiar acrid tang only one substance declared it could wash away. It might be a good thing after all if she should accidentally bump into Rhijan this evening, after her shift... Perhaps she should ask Nell whether she could mention it to the dwarf... The clock of the guild behind her struck the half hour and drawn back to the present Magda shook her head clearing the swirling temptations behind her eyes. There was a full evening ahead, waiting for her participation. First: to work. There were pots and pans and plates to wash and then when that was done she had to go home (via Rhi if she wasn’t too tired) and hop into bed so that she could rise eager eyed in the morning and make coffee for lazy Sunday morning patrons.
Later, as she made her way home, shivering through the chill of the early hours she found she didn't need to make a detour and drag Rhi out of bed after all. It had been a busy night, but thankfully Vince had been on duty and though she'd spent the evening up to her elbows in dishwater the time had passed quickly in the swirling haze of quips and digs flashing back and forth between him and Tony. A song drifted up through the mist and she quickened her pace, the call of her bed strong after a long day. Fumbling her key as she attempted to quietly manipulate the lock she found herself caught up in a massive yawn but the smile that crept over her lips as she silently closed the door behind her stayed as she crept up the stairs. Stretching out under chill sheets only moments later Magda let the memories wash over her, the warmth of those harvest days spreading out through tired muscles in relaxing waves. But before she could join more than a few images together in jerky display she dropped into soft dreamless sleep.
~X~