It has been five years since Lilian arrived in Thresh.
Knight Liam took it upon himself to take her in, despite her assurances that she can make it on her own. Eventually, she realized that the ability to own land, take on a job, and defend herself is necessary to live on her own.
Of course, once she admitted to herself that he felt like family, he left her at his parents' place and went back to school to get an actual title as Sir Knight.
She taps the page with the butt of her pen, her cheek squished against the heel of her palm. On the page, ideas for poems to write and various doodles circle the center. Eight years old and counting, the writer is the first to admit that her attention span is subpar to what she had at twenty.
As soon as she thinks of it, her feet start to swing with the need to move. The young girl sighs and closes the journal. It looks like it is time to see what...Grandfather is up to.
Lilian slides down from the chair, careful to not trip this time. Her size is unusually small for this region, though she is adamant that she is perfectly healthy. The fact that she was found in a place of magic already stringing together compound-complex sentences and other cognitive development markers of someone significantly further along in years must count for something.
She cringes at the run-on sentence. Rambling is not becoming of an author, even if that title is from another life. Furthermore, even if she used to have the ability to stay focused on a single topic, Lilian does not have it now.
She shakes her head then runs off, her pigtails flying wildly with the motion. She must away to get prepared.
After a moment's search, approximately three minutes, the girl finds her adoptive grandparents relaxing in the crafting shed. The old man sits at the drafting table in his old rickety chair and the old woman at her weaving bench beside him. They are preparing for the autumn festival in five days' time.
Like every autumn, Devlin is finishing a design meant to represent the past year. It will take him a day to add it to his lute, which he will play as he sings the ballad that he has been writing all year. From the corner of her eye, she can see that there is only so much space left on the instrument: enough for three designs at most.
For some reason, this observation makes her heart clench. Devlin Ward has been playing the lute since he was a young apprentice. Every year since he got it, he added a design, even if it was just a rose or star. The designs have become more complex over time, and it is said by the townsfolk that the day he cannot add something to the instrument is the day he will stop playing.
She shakes her head and ignores it. He can always look for gaps to fill, after all. She turns to the other person in the room.
Fia is busy spinning enough yarn to keep her busy during the winter months. Vivid yellows and greens flash as they turn from clumps of fluff to threads, and reds and purples were already set aside for the twisting process. The woman prepared blue first because it is a 'despondent color', and she prefers to prepare orange last because it is the color of the poppies she has on her logo.
The old woman looks up from her wheel and smiles. "Hello, my little author. How are you today?"
She asks this every time she sees Lilian, even if it has been only five minutes or, in this case, an hour. For not the first time, Lilian wonders if the old woman is pulling her leg.
She smiles, hugging the journal to her chest. "Hello, Grandmother. I am doing well, and I think I have a decent number of ideas for the upcoming festival. How are you today?"
The woman's brown eyes soften. "I am doing well, dear. Quite well, indeed."
Lilian had only started calling Knight Liam's parents Grandmother and Grandfather a couple months ago. The words still have the heavy emphasis of titles instead of terms of endearment, but it makes them so happy when she uses them.
She still calls the protagonist of her novel Knight Liam. It is better than calling him Sir Ward or Seeker of the Meadow of Light.
Speaking of the Meadow of Light, she turns to Devlin with a pleading look. He does not miss a beat or even turn around. "You are too young to go to college, intelligent or not."
The young girl pouts momentarily, then hastily backpedals. She clears her throat and stands straight, as though she is in a contract meeting.
"The youngest person to attend was only nine years old when he started, and he did well enough. I am quite certain that I will do very well. The contest for the scholarship will be on the last day of the festival, and you said that my poetry is thought-evoking. Can I not just enter to see what happens?"
Devlin turns around and sighs, rubbing the space between his brows. "You ask this every year, and I give you the same answer. Now is the time for play and light-hearted learning, not politics and swim-and-sinking."
He drops his hand from his forehead and looks at her sadly. "I know Liam had fun there and made friends, but I also know he was miserable. Please trust us when we say that it is not time yet. Wait until you are of age."
She looks down, cheeks red with embarrassment and a little shame at her behavior. Her journal feels heavy in her arms. The knowledge of the past she wrote weighs on her.
Her mind immediately begins rationalizing to ease the pain. Every protagonist needs some character development, and she was kinder to hers than other, more successful, authors were. If she had known that this would become reality, then she would have written an idyllic story about peace and happiness and exploration for the pure fun of it that would have never sold a single copy.
Now at ease, Lilian nods.
"I understand. Sorry for pestering you about this. I know you are looking out for me. Thank you."
The man's face softens, and he pats her on the shoulder. "I know this is difficult for you to understand. Thank you for trying to understand."
He looks down at her journal, noticing her tight grip. He holds out his hand.
"Is there something you would like to show me?"
She opens the journal to the page that she was working on and hands it to him. He scoots over on the chair so that she can explain the mechanics that went into the design. Eventually, Fia puts down her wool and walks over, settling behind the two.
They talk about their plans for the autumn festival.
Fia waxes poetry about the different carved goods that will be there and wonders out loud in a hinting way if her favorite cane maker will be there. Devlin chuckles when he thinks of the young musicians' stand that will surely set up shop near the sweets stand and whispers conspiratorily that perhaps someone might start selling ear plugs. Lilian lists her top three books and a few extra that she will be looking for at Traveling Text-tiles, hoping that the magical tablets hold up to what she imagined.
"Will Knight Liam be joining us?" The young girl asks wistfully. It has been a few months since he left to complete knight school. She still thinks that fighting in a war, leading an effort that saved the ruling family, and finding the source of magic should count for course hours.
Her readers were right, she admits. He does need to go through the official process.
Over her head, Fia and Devlin exchange glances. She can tell that a conversation passed between the two of them in those glances. Such secrecy only makes her suspicious, and alliteration only gives her a headache, so she tries to not question it.
"Perhaps, but the college only started its break a couple days ago, so I'm not sure if he'll make it," Fia hedges. "However, we can still look for something that he will enjoy, no?"
Lilian perks up slightly. The lack of disappointment in the woman's words means that there is not something to feel disappointment about. Knight Liam being unable to make it would be something to be disappointed about. Therefore, Knight Liam will make it, but it is a surprise.
She nods, affecting a disappointed yet determined demeanor. "I think he still likes collecting paper for his flower collection. Maybe we can start with that?"
As a new conversation sparks, Lilian rubs her forehead, a headache brewing. Nevertheless, she smiles. The festival will be fun.