Ginter was more than halfway across the bridge before he realised that he was walking alone. With a sigh, he turned to look for his ward - he still didn't like that term, but he wasn't sure what else to call the boy, since he was too young to be an apprentice - and found him frozen on the far bank of the stream, biting the sleeve of his oversized jacket.
"What's the matter, then?"
The man didn't have much experience in addressing children. His own daughter was almost an adult now, and she had never behaved as this one sometimes did, like a frightened Starly. It would do no good to coddle him, but Ginter tried to inject some patience into his gravelly tone.
"Don't tell me a swamp kid is too scared to cross a bridge."
Volo glanced back over his shoulder, looking for the place where the wagon lay waiting for their return. It had not seemed far, but the path was long and winding, and their transportation was no longer within sight. Though he might have found his way back - and the Machamp that drew the wagon must have been tame, surely? - Volo wasn't quite brave enough to go and wait there on his own.
But neither was he afraid of the bridge. It was nothing more than a few aging planks, but it was low to the ground. The river that ran beneath it, close enough to touch, was shallow and gentle. Volo had crossed the same kind of bridge many times - not this bridge, for he had never been here before, but it looked exactly the same as the one that led to the cotton fields back home.
It's not your home anymore. You don't have a home anymore.
It was this thought that had frozen him to the ground.
"Hey! Do I have to come and hold your hand?"
Though he'd meant it as a threat, Ginter would not come and hold his hand. He was at the other side of the bridge now, one hand upon his hip, the other scratching at his stubbled chin.
Volo steeled himself and wiped his damp nose upon his sleeve. Then, with eyes closed and arms tucked into his chest, he raced across the rickety planks like it was a game.
It creaks just like the one back home, too.
It's not your home anymore.
Once Volo was at his side again, Ginter rolled his eyes at the boy's ill-timed childish play, and the pair continued across the garden without another word.
The looming obstacle of the bridge was in the past. Volo had conquered it, and his reward was to be here, in the place that people calledthe Ancient Retreat.
To the right of the path was a small piece of farmland, sparsely planted with beanstalks and corn, as though its owner appreciated the idea of growing food, more than the reality. To the left was a decorative garden of similar efforts, home to some bell-like flowers in a hue of purple-blue that Volo had never seen before.
With so much to look at, visions of the swamplands and cotton fields faded, and Volo walked alongside Ginter with a brightness in his step, even a little skip now and again - for he was excited to meet Lady Cogita.
The lady's house was, by far, the finest that Volo had ever seen. Were it not for the smoke rising from the chimney at the centre of its conical roof, he may not have believed it was a regular house at all. Perhaps it was a palace, or even a temple. He tried to work out how many iterations of his family's tiny ramshackle house might have fit inside its circular wooden frame, and he was so enthralled that he did not stop to remind himself that - no, he no longer had a home, nor a family.
They passed by a metal table, its surface decorated with a colourful stone mosaic, and a single chair to match. This so intrigued Volo - the idea that somebody would choose to sit outside, when there was no need, for surely the house was plenty big enough for a table - that he was still thinking about it when they came to a stop beneath the pointed eaves. Ginter nudged him to get his attention.
"Now, you be quiet and respectful. Don't stare. Don't fidget. Don't touch anything. Don't speak unless you're spoken to. Lady Cogita doesn't welcome visitors very often, and I doubt she has any tolerance for children, so consider this a great honour."
Volo's expression was solemn as he nodded his understanding. The sharp motion of his head caused some stray locks to fall out of place. As the door opened, he tried to sweep them behind his ear so that he might look more presentable, but his fingers froze, caught in the commandment to not fidget. And so, the first time he'd laid eyes on Cogita, it had been through a thin golden curtain.
The instruction not to stare was quickly forgotten, as Volo's height placed him at just the right level to admire a stone, shaped like a droplet of water, at the neckline of Lady Cogita's elegant dress. His hand darted to the leather pouch on his belt, before he remembered that he'd given his identical stone - his mother's stone - to the guildmaster for safekeeping.
What does it mean, miss?
The boy opened his mouth to ask, but remembered that Ginter had forbidden him from speaking. And the moment had passed, for Lady Cogita had already turned her back and returned indoors. Volo watched her go, still open-mouthed, until the blue of his guardian's clothing blocked his view. Ginter beckoned to him with a wave of his hand.
"Come on, then. Don't dally outside, you're not a Pokémon."
Though it was only a case of stepping over the threshold, the distance between outside and inside seemed great. Volo's steps were quick and frantic as he ran to catch up.
From its very first introduction, the house was breathtakingly grand: not just one door, but two, with ornate metal handles. In the centre of each door, a wooden lattice was inlaid with panels of a frosted material that let the light pass through. Some of the panels were red, creating sunset even though it was barely midday. Could this be glass? Volo's fingers tingled with wonder, but he rolled them into tight fists and held them determinedly at his sides.
Don't touch anything.
Beyond the door lay yet another distraction, for while the house's entrance was at ground level, this was merely a foyer, with three steps leading up to the main chamber. Volo could not understand its purpose, since he'd never seen anything like it, but he imagined it was a place for Lady Cogita to judge the worthiness of her visitors, before they were permitted to see the rest of her abode.
While he waited to be judged worthy, the child's gaze crept up the short staircase, landing once again upon the stone at Lady Cogita's neckline, as though it were a homing beacon. Though he knew it was simply the difference in where they were standing, Volo could have easily believed that Lady Cogita was truly that tall. Taller than Ginter.
"Would you please shut the door, boy? It's very cold."
Volo had wondered what her voice would sound like, but he couldn't decide whether it had met his expectations or not. This puzzled him, and he wondered if it was because he couldn't decide how old Lady Cogita might have been: he had not yet dared to look at her face. There was something grandmotherly about the way she spoke, but she did not sound frail. She spoke slowly, quietly, but with a smoothness that reminded Volo of honey.
Ginter's voice was such a contrast, Volo almost jumped when the man spoke.
"Do as the lady says, then. What's wrong with your ears today?"
Volo's face burned, and he was glad of the excuse to turn his back. As he did, he heard Ginter's heavy boots ascending the Staircase of Worthiness, coupled with a deep sigh.
"Sorry…he was…in the Mirelands…don't think he's ever…"
Though he knew that he was being talked about - as though the small task he'd been given was so far away as to put him out of earshot - the beautiful translucent material that decorated Lady Cogita's doors was much more interesting. Overcome by temptation, the boy brushed his fingertips over it as he closed the door. To his fresh eyes, it looked as though it should have been a liquid, or at least something soft and yielding. To his surprise, it was more akin to solid ice, but it did not melt under his touch.
When Volo withdrew his hand, he noticed that his fingers had left streaks of filth. His chest was pierced with horror. Should he try to clean it? With what? His dirty clothes? The spit on his sleeve?
You weren't supposed to touch anything!
Maybe they won't know.
"You can come here, you know." This time, it was Lady Cogita's honeyed voice that caused Volo to flinch. "You don't have to stay down there."
Volo brushed a sudden tear from his eye. Once it was gone, he did not continue to cry, but his hand remained on his cheek, trying to hide his reddened face as he returned to Ginter's side. Though they were few, the steps felt incredibly steep. He waited for someone to remark upon how long it had taken him to close a door, or perhaps even the stains he'd left upon the precious glass, but Ginter and Cogita continued their conversation as though nothing had happened.
"…reminds me of that joke…you know, the one about being raised in a barn…wasn't actually far from that…"
With his head bowed lower than it had been before, Volo's attention now fell upon the floor, and the crime of his fingerprints was soon forgotten. He had never seen a wooden floor fixed in place - not plain boards laid upon mud, destined to rot, but wood so clean that it shone. It was cut into small pieces, arranged in an interlocking square pattern which Volo traced with his eyes. Just as he began to do the same with the toe of his sandal, trying to get some idea of the texture, another sharp nudge from Ginter persuaded him to stop.
Don't fidget.
Don't stare.
But…could it be considered staring, if he kept his eyes moving…? After a brief glance at Ginter to check that he was not being watched, Volo decided that it was worth a try.
He raised his head to see what else he could find to captivate himself, and his hungry gaze quickly settled on a tower of shelves laden with an assortment of plants - some of them were herbs that grew in the Mirelands, too - ceramic pots, and stacks of empty bowls. Between the bowls, the odd book lay here and there, too old and too far away for Volo to read their tattered spines.
Lady Cogita must have been a wonderful cook. The amount of crockery she owned suggested that she might even have cooked for guests, and the metal pot upon the unlit stove was plenty big enough to serve a whole village. And yet, Volo noticed that there was nowhere for guests to sit. The room had a table, but just like the one in the garden, it had only a single chair beside it.
Does she make feasts just for herself?
What if she's a witch?
He rose onto tiptoes, curious as to what may lie on the top shelf. He was not disappointed when he glimpsed a metal-edged box with a lock on the front. There was no way of knowing what it contained, but the mere sight of it was food for his imagination.
(He would never find out what lay in that box, but he often thought about it, even now, imagining everything from long-untouched Poké Balls to ancient love letters.)
Satisfied with his visual rummaging upon the shelves, Volo turned his head and his attention towards the opposite side of the room, where several robes hung upon a rail, as though they were intended to be displayed rather than worn. Volo thought about his mother, and he could only recall her wearing two dresses, both of them a similar shade of faded blue. It seemed that Lady Cogita, too, preferred to wear the same colour: all of her dresses were black.
Volo glanced at Cogita's teardrop stone again, but his gaze moved on quickly - don't stare - grazing past her waistline to examine a large platform, built upon wooden legs. The pillows at its head suggested that it must have been a bed, but it was unlike any bed that Volo had seen. He thought of his own comfortable bedroll, waiting in the wagon, and how it folded up so neatly that even a younger child than himself could have carried it. If Lady Cogita's bed had a mattress beneath its layers of dark blankets and furs, it must have been far too thick and heavy to roll up. Volo's brows knitted together and his nose wrinkled.
She leaves her bed there all the time? Even when she's not sleeping? Even though it takes up all that space?
This was one question too many, and Volo felt that he could no longer hold them all within his head. He looked up at Ginter with a faint pout, resisting the urge to tug at the fur-cuffed sleeve of the man's uniform.
"I never met a child with such a loud face."
Volo barely heard Lady Cogita's remark, as the two adults' conversation had faded into background noise once again. It took him a moment to realise that they had both stopped talking, and now they were the ones breaking the commandment to not stare - or was that instruction meant for him alone?
The boy dipped his head in shame, but he found that he could not remain still under this woman's gaze. He looked up at her again, this time allowing his eyes to travel higher than the teardrop stone at her breast.
Rather like his own, Cogita's hair swept closely over her left brow. Hers was silver in colour, as though it were made to match her eyes. Or perhaps that was the effect of time…? Volo did not know how old a person needed to be before their hair would turn grey - he glanced at Ginter, whose hair was somewhere between gold and silver - but Miss Cogita did not seem to be old enough.
As he himself grew older, Volo would note that Cogita's eyes did not reflect light the way others' did. But for now, as a child who hadn't the courage to keep eye contact for more than a heartbeat, he could only say that she looked on him more kindly than he'd expected, in spite of all his mistakes and his loud face. Faint lines at the corners of her eyes and mouth suggested that she knew how to laugh, but he still could not guess how old she might have been, or even if she was older or younger than his own mother.
"Stop staring." Ginter gave Volo a light-hearted slap on the back and nodded to their host. "So. Flour next month?"
"Yes. Better bring extra. It's been a long time since I made bread."
Cogita smiled at Volo as if she expected him to understand. He did not, for he had scarcely heard. He only knew that the lady was smiling at him. By now, his mouth had fallen open into an ungraceful 'O' of wonder, which then widened into a toothy grin. Emboldened by the sudden warmth that he felt, Volo tapped Ginter on the arm.
"Can I come back with you, sir, when you bring the flour?"
The merchant looked down at him with a shrug. "This is Miss Cogita's house. You can't just invite yourself."
"Yes, Ginter, do bring him back. I should like to hear about his villa-…" Cogita's eyes widened and she raised a white-gloved hand to her lips. Her other hand reached out to touch the boy's shoulder. "Forgive me, lost one. I meant to say…if you come again, I'll share a story with you."
"Miss Cogita has many stories," Ginter added as an endnote, patting Volo's other shoulder while he spoke.
Cogita nodded and gestured towards the door with an open hand. Though it was a signal for them to leave her house, Volo found her breathtakingly graceful in that moment.
As they were walking across the garden, Volo turned to look behind him, twisting his neck so drastically that he was almost going backwards. He stumbled now and again, and Ginter would not save him if he fell, for the man was several paces ahead by now. But Volo hardly noticed. His view of Lady Cogita narrowed to a thin line as she slowly closed the door, and with a quick flutter of terror, Volo thought of his fingerprints upon the glass. But when their eyes met again, just for another second, he was sure she was still smiling.