She will not give in...

Gave in.

Kiema blinkingly opened her eyes to the dawn?s temptation. The sharp twist to insides, a pang of nausea, and the acceptance of the day cascaded through her. Rising from her bed, swinging her legs over the side, she let raven eyes fall upon the prepared wood on the small table across from her. She had not worked fast enough.

Bare feet touched upon the cool wooden floor, the air of morning in its sweet freshness tickled her through the light shift she wore. Auburn hair, unruly after the night?s rest, fell into her eyes, irises lightening so swiftly to a startling cornflower blue, as her hand stretched out to touch the pieces of the vihuela. Her shield unfinished, now she had a glimmer of memory to shelter and keep safe from tarnishing.

Without dressing for the day, inspiration filling her from that memory kept inside the center of her like a small sun radiating warmth and light through her body, she took up her work again, to complete the construction and tune its five courses. This instrument would not be a symbol of confinement, but a sounding of release.

"I weep vain tears: blood would less
bitter be,
Yet poured forth gladlier, could it
profit thee." - Epipsychidion, P.B. Shelley

Kiema waited patiently at the Black Wren Cafe, its nearness, just east of the Marketplace, made it well known and near to her accommodations. The day was chill and cloudy, discouraging many from sitting out in front of the cafe. Most of the patrons were huddled inside with their warm coffees and teas. Kiema enjoyed the brisk feel, and kept her seat at a table out of doors.

Her auburn hair, ribbon-less, often escaped the slender leather tie, caught with the fingers of wind and brushed in her eyes. It was just at one of these moments, when she once again took a lock from her vision, that two men approached with charming smiles and bowed to her, "Mistress Buie, our employers will be so pleased that you have chosen to meet with us."

In a brief assessment, their clothing was well kept, dark of colors and not faded with washing. The style suitable to those of a middle class, but not of the fashion she was accustomed to seeing on those of her homeland. No, these were gentlemen of another time, so fickle the Nexus being, and they wore their suits, cravats, and hats with ease so it was certain they were not dressing up outside their custom. Their canes tucked beneath arms when they bowed and rested the tips again on the cobblestones next to their polished black shoes. "Would it not be better to take our conversation inside? The wind is being unusually irksome today." One man, an older man with a finely trimmed beard of coal and grey, grinned. His companion, a slightly younger man, beardless possessing deep blue eyes and shoulder length dark hair, made no move.

"Of course," Kiema rose lithely and entered the cafe. Before she could select a table, the younger man took her elbow gently and guided her to a table near the back.

When they all had discarded their outer garments of cloak and coats, settled upon their seats, the older man spoke, "I am Mr. Lattimer, and this is Mr. Warren, and it is our great honor to speak with you about the benefit concert planned."

"Benefiting whom?" Kiema cut to the chase with a subtle smile.

"I told you, Mr. Lattimer, Mistress Buie would not hedge words when speaking, only in song." Mr. Warren's smile hid something, but without her gift, Kiema would not presume its meaning.

"You believe you know me well, then, Mr. Warren?" A tilt of her head as a serving lass brought a pot of tea and three cups, obviously requested before their arrival. It looked like much of this was preplanned.

"I know your music, Mistress Buie, and have had the pleasure of hearing you many times in the Marketplace. It is from my word our employers are eager to add you to their list of performers."

"I am honored, and if you would only be so kind as to tell me the particulars, I would be able to give you an answer." She studied the man again, but without condemnation. Rarely were the wealthy without their eccentricities. She could dance to their tune to a point.

"Two weeks hence, to benefit the cemetery. You are right to think it an odd request," he added upon seeing Kiema's brows raise, "but so many of the graves no longer have family to look after them." Mr. Lattimer bemoaned.

"And," Mr. Warren interjected, "it is a sorry time when we cannot provide some means to continue honoring those dearly departed citizens and at least keep the grounds in good order."

"And who are these employers with such great hearts to show concern over the graves of strangers?" Kiema queried lightly.

The two men smiled, a matching smile, and Kiema found that she was quiet incapable of guessing the emotion behind them.

And thus thy memory is to me
Like some enchanted far-off isle
In some tumultuous sea- -- To F..., Edgar Allan Poe

She needed the steady, quick pace of walking. Chill air to cool her face and subdue the staccato thoughts. Most of all, she desired the time alone, perfectly without gift and images and remembrances, to know why she was angry.
Garnet red irises, she could feel them unlike any other time when her eyes would change, irritated as an irremovable eyelash caught beneath her lids. Her vision was not conducive to more than vague awareness of stepping over curbs, a turn taken, and avoiding walls. She found herself at the river?s edge, affording length of space to pace and a quick breeze to flutter her sleeves and hair and soothe an untempered mind.

First order of business, calm the rage that festered inside. Second, she must find out why she had let it overtake her. A distant melody of memory siren called her attention. It had served to calm her many times in the past when she had used her rage as a tool. This she drew forth and sang, in her soft but sure lyric soprano, to soothe her.

?Of meadows far and lakes of deep dreaming,
I hear the call of life?s sweet keeping.
In towered halls and rooms of weeping,
Hold back the fires so frail??

She sang on, the irritation of her eyes subsiding, and as she strolled beneath the main bridge, she set her mind upon the path of discovery. Why?

In the calmer state, she knew why, and the answer was so simple. It was the abuse of time. Mortals, immortals, long lived and half dead, it did not matter. Each wasted time, abused its generosity in feeble ploys to save themselves from pain. A further invasion into the thought was buried another realization: unable to force happiness. She could not make people see what they should. She had not been able to before when she first met Lucien and he suffered from the separation from his love.

How clear those days were amid a fog of memories. She could not do more than be there for him, see him through those days, and falter in her purpose. She had not meant to seek deepening an attachment not hers to have. It was honest happiness that he was bound in joy when joined again with Alysia. She wished him life?s gifts through love above all.

Out flew the web and floated wide;
The mirror crack'd from side to side;
"The curse is come upon me," cried
The Lady of Shalott. - The Lady of Shalott, Alfred, Lord Tennyson

A serene smile brightened her face and blue eyes looked upon the entry of the Minstrel Guild Hall, as her unguided steps had brought her. Stepping beyond the dark stained oak door, she glided past the common room and swiftly up the stairs. As she opened the door to her room, she stepped on something that sounded distinctly like paper.

She closed her door, locking it in her habit, and went to light the bedside candle. A small rush of flame set to the wick of the low burnt candle, and she returned to the door where a note with a familiar seal lay on the floor. The paper seemed crumpled and had experienced exposure to unfriendly weather. She picked up the note swiftly and returned to sit on her bed where she broke the seal and unfolded the paper.

The ink had run with the effects of water making the words hard to read to the faint light. An unfamiliar hand wrote in swift, small strokes.

Mistress Buie,

Our failings to find the history of our last dealings with the Sedlaral continue to leave us unprotected. Eight more of our guildmates have gone to the Meadowlands. Seek what you can find in that realm. Perhaps other travelers have left word.

It was signed by the third undersecretary of the council. The note released to her bedside table, and her fingers reached to pinch the candle out. She lay back on her bed, closed her eyes, and drifted into the night sounds.