< previous page page_119 next page >

Page 119
"Mariah." The broad grin lit his toadlike face, and Mariah smiled back. "Like this." He showed her how to arrange the plates and tankards along wooden rails of various sizes nailed to the wall. As she worked, she noted the paper, ink bottle and quill she had forgotten in the kitchen the previous night.
That was what she would work on when she returned to the privacy of her room later. But this early in the evening it was lighter in here, with the larger windows, so she decided to practice here first. She waited until René left, then sat on a bench at the long utility table. She carefully wiggled the stiff cork out of the ink bottle without spilling any, then dipped the end of the quill into it.
Her first touch of point to paper turned into a big, black blotch.
She tried again. Another big, ugly inkspot. "Damn!" she said aloud. At this rate, she'd be able to give excellent Rorschach psychology tests to the people of this time, but she'd never be able to keep notes for herself.
"Do you have a problem, Mariah?"
She started in her seat. Her right hand, on the table, nearly upset the ink bottle, but Thorn caught it.
"I have no problems." She knew she sounded petulant, particularly since she'd kept her jaw clenched as she spoke. He'd crept up on her yet again.
"We have already established that you are literate." He sat beside her. "Why is it you do not know how to write?"
She felt heat emanating from his hip as it nearly touched hers, and she scooted quickly down the bench.
He reached out to take the quill from her, deftly dipped its end into the ink, then began to write in a bold, swirly hand, "Thorn Inn, West Pennsylvania."
There was a question pending, and she was not certain how to respond. "II learned with different writing tools. A . . . pencil would help." Were there pencils now? She doubted they'd be the neat graphite sticks of her era, jacketed in wood of yellow or some more decorative design. And with handy erasers, too.

 
< previous page page_119 next page >