The Bar at the End of the Universe

Sandry makes a frustrated noise and a fairly gruesome face as she sets about pulling stitches out of her piece of embroidery. She’s barely begun it and this is the third time her sewing has gone askew.

Ordinarily this sort of work is child’s play for Sandry. She can only assume that her thread keeps snarling because her thoughts are doing the same. The grown-ups of Winding Circle have been very closemouthed and ill at ease for the last couple of days. There are rumors of omens and portents, and the latest earthquake on Midsummer Day hadn’t done anyone’s nerves any favors.

She’d hoped that removing herself to Milliways for a few hours would ease her mind a bit, but apparently that is not going to be the case.

Distractions would be welcome.

Sandry has finally finished her gift for her Uncle Vedris, and none too soon. Midsummer is right around the corner. Sandry just wants to make sure that the sticks that form the frame fit properly into the sturdy thread loops she's made at the corners.

The wall hanging is large enough to cover over half of the table--an elaborate Tree of Life scrolling across the undyed linen in a riot of leaves and flowers and birds. It would have been a challenging piece of work for a grown woman to have completed, and Sandry is only eleven.

She is standing on a chair to better look over her work. Hands on hips, she smiles a smile of extreme satisfaction and nods.

"Perfect."

In spite of the inhospitable weather in this odd little world, Sandry has been very keen to explore outside at Milliways. So she'd worn the warmest clothes she'd had at hand (which, given that it's summer in Emelan, aren't all that warm) and a thin cloak that she'd located in Dicipline Cottage's storage room, and struck out towards the lake to see what there was to see.

She'd made it about fifteen minutes before she'd retreated back into the bar.

Sandry, for the record, is not fond of cold weather.

Now she's standing near the hearth, hands tucked underneath her arms, hopping up and down slightly, hoping that her fingers will thaw out well enough to be able to spin thread again someday.

It's going to be Midsummer before she knows it. In Emelan, at least. In Milliways it feels like Midwinter is well on its way. Sandry has her feet tucked up under her long linen skirt, keeping them away from whatever drafts might blow across the floor of the bar.

The wall hanging that she's embroidering for her great-uncle as a gift for Midsummer is coming along nicely, the elaborate Tree of Life blossoming and branching across the creamy fabric. Her workbasket is sitting open on the table beside her.

Periodically, a strand of colorful silk thread snakes its way up out of the basket and toward the girl, as if hinting that it would like to be picked next for the project.

On an earlier visit to Milliways, Sandry met and offered some sage, time-honored advice to an enchanted ferret.

One lesson that nobles teach their children is how to gracefully accept thanks. If one wished to repay a favor with a favor, it was good to accept within reason, Sandry’s father had always said. That way no one had to feel beholden.

So today Sandry has decided to accept Remy’s offer of chocolate beignets.

She’s only ever seen the word written out, so she fairly slaughters the pronunciation when she talks to Bar. But Bar seems to understand anyway, and produces a large plateful of squarish puffy pastries.

“Oh my,” Sandry says. It’s a very large plate.

But she carries it carefully to a table and gamely tries one. Her eyes widen in appreciation. Beignets, Sandry decides are very good. Unfortunately, there’s no way she can eat the entire plateful, and she can’t take them back to Winding Circle to share with her friends (as she would under ordinary circumstances) without arousing all sorts of questions.

She’d welcome someone to share them with.

Lark has assigned Sandry a book on silk production to read, which she'd obtained from one of Winding Circle's many libraries. It's an ancient and fascinating art (although Sandry had made a bit of a face at the part that described the silkworms being boiled in their cocoons so that the silk can be unraveled).

She's finished two chapters, and the book is lying open on the tabletop. Sandry, chin in hand and a small delighted smile on her lips, is taking a moment to commune with the object of her studies--the small bobbin of green silk thread that she's been carrying around in her pocket.

Lark had said that silk is a fairly standoffish material, and likes very few people. But it likes Sandry very much, if the way it's winding up from its bobbin and twining around her fingers is any indication.

Sandry is in the bar, spinning--or attempting to.

She had grown so accustomed to being told that it was not a lady's work that she hadn't quite been able to believe her ears when Lark had offered to teach her. Sandry had always thought that spinning thread was something akin to magic.

That should have been her first clue that it wouldn't be as easy as it looked.

She has almost two feet of (very lumpy) thread on her drop spindle when it reverses itself, the thread falling into clumps of wool fibers.

"Cat dirt," Sandry mutters, glaring at the mess. "Cat dirt, cat dirt, cat dirt!"

Clearly, more practice is needed. Fortunately there is plenty of time for practice at the End of the Universe.

There's a small girl in a long black dress and veil sitting at a table in the middle of the bar. By rights she should probably be quite a sad sight, but there's a smile of cautious delight on her face as she watches various patrons in turn.

Sandry hadn't told anyone at home about stumbling into this odd place. For one thing, she doubted anyone would believe her, even in a place as full of magic as Winding Circle. And for another, it's rather nice to have a secret all of her own.

She's brought her workbasket with her this time, and is setting an occasional stitch or two in a piece of embroidery in between spying out the people around her.

[Immediately Pre-Milliways.]

This? Is not her room.

Sandry hovers uncertainly in the doorway. She knows that Winding Circle is a center of magic, but she has a feeling that the sudden appearance of a tavern is strange, even for the temple city.

Still, being a curious and not particularly timid child, she doesn't hover for long. Sandry steps away from the door, looking around at this odd new place. She is a rather incongruous sight--and eleven year old girl dressed entirely in black, from her neat kid slippers to her long finely-worked dress to the sheer veil pinned over her light brown hair.

In addition, she is wearing a bewildered expression. And explanation of where she is would not go amiss.