Phoebe woke to sunlight streaming through her window. She groggily sat up on her stiff straw mattress, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes. She looked around the room and suddenly felt a dizzying wave of vertigo. She didn't recognize the room, and when her mind reached for a reference of what her room was supposed to look like, it fell through empty space, leaving her reeling. Phoebe steadied herself against the bed, glad to already be sitting down.
Her mind cast about for an explanation as to why she was waking in an unfamiliar location, and the memories of the cave, the walk from there to her current location, and a certain shapeshifting somebody returned to her mind. The difference between being able to remember something and not was enough to bring Phoebe great relief. She took a deep breath and looked about the room again, grateful to at least now recognize it from last night.
Phoebe pulled back the covers and swung her legs out of the bed, stretching and yawning. I may not remember if I've had better nights of sleep before, but somehow I doubt it. She looked fondly at the thick woolen blanket and the woolen mattress and pillow stuffed with straw, and then over at the tray that had at one point held a bowl full of rich stew and now held an empty one. And that was nice, too.
She got up from the bed and started changing back from her thin shift to the clothes Cackle had given her. She was just pulling the greenish leggings up when she suddenly noticed that neither it nor the tunic she was already wearing had threads or stitching. She looked uncertainly to the bed, the individual woolen threads on the blanket and the seams of the mattress plainly visible, and back at the clothes she was donning, which had neither. The tunic seemed to be light like cotton, and the leggings were thick and supple like leather, but neither had seams or individual threads to note.
Swallowing her doubts, Phoebe shook her head to herself. It didn't matter. Cackle wasn't going to hurt her. He wasn't allowed. The dubious nature of the clothes aside, they were comfortable.
She donned the cloak and was putting on the boots, sitting on the edge of her bed to make it more accessible, when there was a knock at the door. She looked up at it, startled slightly, then took a steadying breath and called out, "Come in!"
The barkeep from the night before walked in, a tray of food balanced in one hand with the practiced ease of experience. Avoided eye contact with Phoebe and strode swiftly to the other tray from the night before, deftly switching the places of the two and walking back out of the room without a word. Phoebe was surprised at how normal it felt.
Am I used to being waited upon? Shrugging off the thought, she finished tying her laces and pulled the tray onto her lap. Another bowl full of something hot, this time what looked like rolled and stewed oats, was accompanied by a spoon. Dipping the spoon into the meal, she took a bite and was surprised to recognize the taste of honey. Her mind automatically pulled for reference for a memory of honey, but the familiar yet bitter feeling of vertigo was all it found instead. Phoebe clutched at the tray suddenly, trying to steady herself. She growled in frustration.
Is it going to be like this forever?! She cried out to herself. Am I going to always be reaching, and never finding? Is every new place and experience going to unbalance me like this?!
The urge to throw something beset her, but she resisted, taking a deep breath. Calm down, Phoebe. Yelling and throwing things rarely solves anything, and nevermind how I know that! Cackle warned me that I was reeling from a loss I barely understand, and I promised to spend a time without my old memories. I'll just have to make new ones.
Phoebe looked at the bowl of stewed oats with honey. The spoon was on top of the oats, where she'd dropped it. She took another deep breath and picked it out of her food, licking it clean in one smooth motion. She then took a determined bite of the oats. She held her mind firmly to the moment, refusing to allow it to try to reminisce, and instead focusing on every aspect of the taste and texture of the oats. She took note of the way the spoon tasted in her mouth once she'd removed the oats. She rubbed one thumb against the tray, memorizing the way the wooden texture felt against her hand. She put the spoon into the oats for another bite, scooping them away and shoving them into her mouth. And another. And another.
Soon enough, the bowl was empty. Phoebe set down the tray, leaving the spoon on it. She took a deep breath once more, satisfied. There. Now I'll remember this if I eat honey again.
There was another knock at her door. This time, it was accompanied by a slightly muffled voice.
"Ready. Pheebs?"
Phoebe groaned. It was definitely going to be a long day.