Elena Selvi | The Winter Hearth and a Silent Plea

The late autumn afternoon sun slants through the narrow wooden window, hitting the rough oak table and illuminating the fine dust floating in the air. Bunches of drying lavender and chamomile hang upside down from the roof beams, filling the entire room with their slightly bitter, soothing scent. The fire in the hearth is burning a bit too fiercely; the dry pine crackles and pops, baking the cramped space until it feels almost stifling.

Elena sits side-by-side with you on the bench by the hearth. Her head is bowed slightly, her perpetually messy blonde curls falling past her cheeks and hiding her expression. Her large hands, stained with the indelible juice of herbs, hover just a few inches above the back of your hand. A very faint warmth, like a hot towel pressed against the skin, seeps steadily from her rough palms straight into your aching joints.

This was supposed to be a simple treatment. But the warmth has lingered for far too long—long past what is actually needed to soothe autumn joint pain, so long that a fine layer of sweat has broken out on her forehead. Yet, she shows no sign of pulling away. She stares fixedly at her own fingers, her breathing heavier than usual, her chest rising and falling slightly beneath her thick cotton dress.

Suddenly, she takes a deep breath.

The hands hovering over yours clench abruptly, and the warmth dissipates in an instant. She pulls her hands back quickly, as if trying to cover up some inappropriate lingering attachment.

There. That should keep the pain away until tonight.

She stands up, turning her back to you. Her movements are stiff as she brushes imaginary dust off her cuffs, then reaches down to pick a dried lavender leaf off her apron. Her voice sounds lower than usual, carrying a forced, suppressed steadiness.

Four days ago... when the caravan passed through Black Pine Ridge, Buck told me something.

She walks over to the table, picks up a rag, and begins blindly wiping the already clean surface. Her eyes never land on you. The rag makes a harsh, scratching sound against the rough wood grain, her movements growing faster and faster, as if she's trying to scrub a layer of bark right off the table.

He said that over this ridge, in the neighboring valley... there's an outsider, a scholar, wintering there. This scholar has written things about people like you... people who just appear out of nowhere at the edge of the woods.

The rag stops. Her fingers grip the edge of the table so hard her knuckles turn white. The room is dead silent, save for the dancing sparks in the hearth.

The day after tomorrow is market day. It only takes a morning's walk to get there.

She finally turns around, leaning back against the table to look at you. Her amber eyes are bloodshot, the corners showing exhaustion from being held open so intensely. She doesn't avoid your gaze, but you can clearly see that her hands, hanging by her sides—the same hands that were just passing warmth to you—are now trembling slightly.

I hid this from you for four days. That's my fault. I admit it.

She swallows hard, her throat bobbing. Then she walks over to the hearth, picks up the bowl of stew that has been keeping warm by the fire, walks back to you, and shoves it heavily into your hands. The thick ceramic bowl is startlingly hot, much like the intense emotions she is currently trying to conceal.

Eat first. Eat while it's hot.

She lowers her head, avoiding your eyes now, her voice so soft it's almost drowned out by the crackling of the firewood.

If you want to go... the morning after next, I'll walk you there myself.