By Moonlight Wrought (Bt Moonlight Wrought) by John Crandall Page B

each other, said good-bye, Melissa gave him directions and Dirk
finished loading the wagon so that he could make the final delivery and then
get ready for the big meal that night.
     
             Dirk arrived early at Melissa’s.  He
waited on the street as long as he could bear before going inside and trudging slowly
up to the top floor of the three-story building, trying not to be too early. 
He knocked:  timidly at first, each rap more bold than the last.  “Come in,”
Melissa’s voice rang out clearly through the thick door.  Dirk peered inside: 
Melissa stood by a small table which was littered with a bloody mess of
feathers.  A long hunting knife, also blood spattered, protruded from the table
top.  Near Melissa was an old stove and on it were two large iron pots, steam
rolling up from them.  The only other items in the small room were a bed (the
covers on it messed), a large chest, and a tremendous longbow sitting in the
corner.  “Well, come in,” Melissa repeated.   “Have a seat.”  She motioned to
the bed.
             “You shouldn’t just say ‘come in.’ What
if I had been a bad man?” Dirk asked as he looked about.
             “I think a bad man might find that I can
be a worse woman,” she said in a rather fell way.  Her eyes were lost for a moment
then she laughed lightly and nodded.  “Well, sit down.”
             Unsure of just where to sit, Dirk put
himself at the foot of the bed, on its very corner as if afraid to touch the
bed itself.  Melissa cleaned up the carcass and stored her cooking herbs in
their pouch.  She pulled a lantern from the chest, placed it upon the lid and
struck it alight.  With a heave, she shoved the table toward the bed, the legs
skipping and sputtering as they slid across the warped, knobby floor, then set
the light upon it and slid the chest around to sit opposite the bed.
             “Maybe you’ll be more comfortable here,”
Melissa said, patting the lid of the cedar chest.  Dirk rose and moved around
the table, but he was not yet ready to sit down. 
             He was surprised; the room was a lot like
his own.  He knew that furnishings were not all that important, since, if like
him, Melissa spent very little time inside anyway.  For the working class of
Andrelia, there was always work to be done, earning what little pay people of
their lot could.  The lantern was dim, not more than a few candles worth of
light, casting long shadows into which Dirk ventured to reach the bow in the
corner.  “I hope you brought a knife,” Melissa called as she stirred the pot.
             “Yes,” Dirk said, feeling for the small
knife that he always wore on his hip he used for cutting knots, opening crates,
and other work-related tasks, as well as for eating.  He then picked up the
bow, pulled it, and pretended to shoot an arrow.
             “Did you have a hard time finding me?”
Melissa asked, looking to the dinner and not at her new friend in the corner.
             “No.”
             “It should be ready soon...the dinner, I
mean.”  Melissa stopped primping the food and turned to look at Dirk, leaning
against the wall with her arms folded.  Dirk glanced up from the bow as he
lowered it, placing the weapon back in the corner. 
             “You are lucky…living in a building where
you can have a stove.  Costs extra doesn’t it?”
             “Yes.  Though I guess in the long run I
might save money cooking my own food.  It is expensive to eat in the market, I
have learned.  And the food isn’t that good,” she said with a chuckle.  “You
don’t have a stove?”
             “Oh no.  I can’t cook and can’t afford a
room with a stove.”
             “Is it that much more?” she asked.
             “Oh yeah,” he scoffed.  When she still
looked puzzled he continued.  “All these old wooden buildings with stoves