It tastes rich and not-too-sweet and... slightly savory, actually. It's sort of a weird place to find it, but it clearly works for the berry well enough.

... hm! 

... she smiles, and eats another one. They're very themselves. All of them are very themselves.

She licks her fingers when she's done, and rinses them in the basin, and drinks two whole glasses of water and stares at the glass and drinks a third, more slowly this time. 

Now, what needs tending... 

She goes back down to the place of waiting things, and goes through the bureaucratic desk's drawers. 

Pens, inkwells, paper and parchment, sealing wax that's a deep purple, but no signets to be found. There are several ledgers that are neatly filled out with what look to be tax records, but most of the contents of the desk seem to be ready for use.

She tests the inkwells. Still fresh? All black, or are there any unexpected colors?

Still fresh, every one. Most are in black, but several are in dark purple or blue, and one's decided to write in silver, and another has decided to write in lavender.

Hmmm. 

She carries one of the heavier grimoires down and lays it atop the desk, then steps back to look at it again.

The intricate decorative engravings on the desk certainly fit with the aesthetic of the grimoire. While there isn't any shelving built specifically for housing books, there is a flat top above the drawers that could house books well enough. Bookends are probably necessary for the stability of the books themselves, but this could certainly work.

Well then. 

She takes everything out of the desk, including any of its drawers that seem amicable, and neatly arranges the pile atop some of the nearby boxes. 

She squats, gets her fingers in beneath short edge of the desk, and tries to lift it - not much, just enough to get it off the floor.

With all of its drawers and contents, it's surprisingly light. Not precisely easy to lift, but manageable.

All she needs is time, then. 

Out the door, down the street, into the former bar. She walks the path first before she follows it, carefully clearing the way. It should fit here against the far wall, on the barer stone, yes?

It does indeed!

Now for the hard part.

Up with the feet, over an inch, down. Around to the other side. Up with the feet, over an inch, down. 

Up, over, down. Up, over, down. Gradually, she walks the desk towards the doorway. 

The cramped and cluttered quarters make this process difficult, and a few things need to be moved out onto the street to make room for the desk's journey, but the desk moves all the same. Little by little, the desk is shuffled to the door.

... this next bit will be trickier. 

She squirms under the desk and around past the door, nearly banging her knee on the doorframe in the process.

Up to the apartment for a drink of water and a splash of water on her face. Her arms ache. She ignores them. She brings a piece of the fruit bread down, and eats it while she plans out the move across the cobbles.

There's a slight lip to the bottom of the door's frame, but it's not too pronounced. It shouldn't make it difficult to get the desk across the threshold. More troublesome is that the floor of the storage shed is slightly above the cobblestones of the road; about an inch and a half of space.

She hums. She takes one of the smaller, sturdier boxes out, and presses it between her hands. It seems sturdy enough...

Laying it atop the quarrelsome cobbles, she shifts it slightly, checking the fit and stability of her improvised step.

The box takes a few minor shifts to find the correct position, but then settles into its new role well enough. It is sturdy and stable and should hold her well enough.

Up, over, down the step. Up, over, down to the cobbles. 

She leaves it there for a moment while her arms recuperate, half in the door, half out of it. 

... She tests the cobblestones gingerly with her feet, sucking in an uncertain breath. Well. Nothing left to do now but press on. 

Up, over, down. (Wobble.) 

Up, over, down. (A tap against the doorframe, and a wince.)

Up, over, down. (The expected scraping sound doesn’t come. She breathes a sigh of relief.)

Up, over, down. (Halfway there.) 

Up, over, down. (The wind gusts: her knuckles whiten on the hard wood.) 

Up, over, down. (Almost free.)

She leans on the desk, breathing heavily. Now for the dangerous part...

In slowly, carefully, breathe out hard to squirm around the door jamb, careful, don’t tip it, it could all go horribly wrong -  

Her hands slap down on the polished wood from the other end.

She takes a breath, and smiles shakily. 

Up, over, down to the step. (Cobbles grit as the other end of the desk slides.) 

Up, ov- Was that a creak of wood? Is a leg caught? She freezes halfway down the step, the whole weight of the desk on her upraised knee. Her foot turns slightly on the block - she can feel it shifting - 

She shoves hard, scattering cobblestones. The box kicks up against her shin, and the desk slams down with a crack of protesting wood.

She grabs it before it can tip, a jolt of terror forcing speed from her protesting arms and bruised leg: it sways, but doesn’t fall. The alley is a bit of a mess, and she’s cracked one unlucky stone right through - but the desk is safe, seated well between the cobbles. 

It’s okay. Everything is alright. 

She picks up the cracked stone: ruby crystals glitter inside it, beautiful as they are bloody. 

She takes the geode to the fountain’s board, and sets its halves down as a pair of opposing rooks.

She checks the desk again, making sure it’ll stay secure in the space in the alley. She pats it gently so it knows that she’ll be back. 

She goes up to her apartment. She carefully eats precisely one slice of fruit bread, and drinks one glass of water. She waters the plant in its too-small pot: then back to the alley, and the other half of the move. 

She has the rhythm down, now, and the break let her rest her arms: she doesn’t so much as scuff the moss getting the desk to its proper place inside the once-bar. 

Then, its contents: not the tax records, but the grimoires, the ink of silver and midnight-purple, the quills and paper, the drawers, the seals, the alchemist’s calipers and parchment and all. 

She breaths out a sigh, and turns to survey the once-bar again.