The next morning Caewen gathered the things she had collected from the shelves and cupboards. She had a sizeable pile of coins and precious stones, as well as a small jewellery box packed with necklaces and the like. All of these, Caewen confirmed with Fetch lacked anything magical about them, or at least, inasmuch as the shadow-thing could detect by sniffing and tasting them. She then dropped into a seperate drawstring bag the following: a handful of rings, both plain and some set with stones, along with an amulet, three necklaces, a coin made of a strange black metal, and a jet-encrusted circlet. These, Fetch thought were enchanted with spells that were not wholly evil, but he was unable to tell what their powers or arts might be. So, she took them, but did not dare put them on. Who knows what might result. She also packed away several bundles of dried leaves, some withered mushrooms, and a jar of grey powder: all of which Fetch claimed had healing properties, if properly prepared before use. There was a good store of food in the house, and Caewen took everything that was likely to survive more than a few days on the road. Hard cheese. Salted meats. Dried apples. A small sack of dates, which she had never seen before, let alone tasted. She ate one, and found it to be cloying in a delightful sort of way. She took also a couple bottles of wine. Anything that would not last, Caewen threw out onto the grassy turf outside. Hungry sparrows immediately began searching the discards. On her way out the door for the last time, Caewen noticed a hefty bronze key hanging on a hook.
“I suppose I should lock the place up? Or it’ll be ransacked by boggarts.”
Fetch tsssked. “If you like… though, I am unsure that we shall ever pass this way again.”
“Still,” she said.
“There we are. Pigheadedness. Tsssch. I’m glad to see you feeling better.”
“Am I though?” Caewen lifted the key and walked outside. As she stood on the threshold stone, she shut the door and locked it. The key went into the bag with the various unidentified magical trinkets.
She looked about. The sun was rather pale and sad. A white disc, barely shining through a hazy, cold sort of cloud. If she squinted eastward, Caewen was sure she could pick out the distant glimmer of water. She guessed she was looked at the inland Sea of Asthe. She would need to circle a long way south to get around its shores by southern trackways.
“Well,” she said, shouldering her bags, “I suppose we had better get walking. It’s a long way that we’ve got ahead of us, and there’s bare enough time.” As she stepped heavily down the hill, she was struck for the first time by the lack of a shadow. She had not noticed it so much, that is, when she had been inside the dimly lit home. It had not bothered her. But here, in the daylight, the absence of a shadow left her feeling somehow naked, and unpleasant in her skin. The more she dwelled on the loss, the more uneasy she felt.
“Folks are going to think I’m a witch, the moment they see me.”
“Tsssk. You are a witch.”
“I suppose so.” She paused long enough to look over her shoulder then, south and west, across hills that rolled away to distant southern oceans: mere scrapes of buttery greyness at the edge of the horizon. “I wonder how the others are faring?”