Dream d2688-s: A Candle Stub, an Inkpot

I had a dream where...

I had a dream where the ledger room held its breath at first light, the window going grey-gold at the east edge, and I was at the table buckling the satchel over the thin book when I noticed what else I had gathered without deciding to.

The candle stub went in first, wrapped in cloth so the tallow would not mark the pages. Then the inkpot, barely a third full, the cork dried at its rim. A folded square of linen for the nib. Three loose sheets I had not yet copied in, corners dog-eared from the nights I had carried them in my coat pocket instead of the book, which had been full.

Lano pressed her nose to the satchel flap and held it there. I let her.

The keys went in last: the long iron one for the Ruins of Pewterlow, the short brass one for the road gate at the third crossing. I did not need both and I took both. The candle and the inkpot together come to less than my coat. The keys are what I feel in my shoulder after an hour on the road. I have carried the Ruins key for eight days and not used it. The Ruins of Pewterlow has more roads out than any other place in the second book, and nobody is on any of them.

Lano's tail moved once, slow, and she sat back on the stone floor.

I set the satchel down and held it by the strap with both hands. The weight was right. Not light, not wrong. Eight nights in one room, forty-three cold places still to go, and the weight was right. I shouldered the satchel and Lano trotted to the door and stood.

I looked back at the room: the lamp out, the chair pushed in, the table clear of everything but the ink stain from the second night. The ledger room does not record its own departures. I closed the door behind me.

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