by Mira Zamin
Calista carefully closed the door behind her and slipped through the steaming kitchens, seeking an exit and finding one where the rubbish was thrown out for later collection. Her heart beat furiously in her throat. Fingers trembling as she peered around, she discovered that Potita was no longer in sight and only a single cook turned the pot diligently. So absorbed was he in his mindless labor, that he did not look up as Calista cautiously skirted the corners, picked up a knife from a table, and slipped through the backdoor.
Her skin still tingling with anxiety, she tiptoed against the wall, which demarcated the boundaries of the inn and towards the street, and followed the dim light from the windows. There were still a few hours before dawn. She could see only the faintest outline of the bricks and streets, but it was enough to jar her into familiar recognition.
Purposefully, she walked towards the street, suddenly hyper-aware of her surroundings: the slightest motion caught her eye, the faintest noise was enough to make her jump and the somewhat frequent sight of a person nearly sent her into hysterics. She herself felt highly visible, as if a halo surrounded her, pointing her out to searchers.
She fingered the hilt of her knife absently: it was a crude utensil, the handle rough and unfinished but the blade was sharp enough. Working through the dark streets, Calista stumbled upon a stone, nearly cutting herself but, more dangerously, nearly allowing a yelp to escape her lips. Standing up and shaking the new robe Potita had given her free of dirt, she worked towards the villa. Draped in shadows, she felt the uneven walls prick into her skin as she ran her hand along the rain-slick stones to give her some sense of definition in this rapidly darkening world. The moon bobbed in and out from behind its thick, grey cloak of clouds that were only beginning to unload their burden.