The place looks quite a bit different, now. The desk sits tidily in its new home, looking quite pleased with itself. It's still settling in, and feels a bit more formal than the once-bar's used to, but the coloration of the wood almost matches the wood of the shelves behind the bar. Alchemist's tools sit on the shelves that once contained glasses and spirits, and they are more at home with both the desk and the shelves; it's clear they are helping to introduce the two. The wine has departed, along with two of the empty bottles, but the hard spirits, beer, and additional empty bottles still remain, perched on the bar. Around them are shards of glass and gemstones, glittering in a dark and brilliant rainbow of color, carefully laid out on the counter top.

A space has been cleared on the part of the floor that has not yet been claimed by moss. What tables and chairs remain are the ones that were not quite fit for the tall performance hall; rot has set into them. It's a strange sort of rot; it smells of a place that is not here. Like it originated in, or from copying a more material plane, not like it's something inherent to this place that so furtively keeps things.

There’s not so much left to be done here: she can feel it shifting. Once, the bottles on the bar would have fit there: now, they’re out of place. She takes them down, considers their labels. The bottle of hard spirits, and the one of fine beer... tucked in behind the left leg of the player’s chair in the airy place. The cheaper beers... tucked into her pantry. Though she might never drink them, that doesn’t mean they couldn’t be used as ingredients towards something else - and she likes their smooth glass, their amber shine, their fading labels. They feel proper. 

The remaining empty bottles can join their filled kin in her apartment: she retrieves the ones she left on the fountain rim as well, since they’re no proper signpost now. 

Back into the not-bar, the becoming-place. The rotted chairs and tables no longer fit: she carries them out delicately, careful of their weaknesses, and leaves them in the fountain courtyard. Perhaps a breath of drier air will help them be their truer selves again: all she can do is ask, and see if the world answers. 

Back to her apartment, to the herbs in her spice rack. Here is something that suits: a deep green strand of leaves, smelling of faraway and citrus. 

... oh. Oh! A grin flashes to her face, and she snatches up the salt. She had thought this was a poor alternative, but -

Down down down to the storage room! Up with the false-bottomed box! In to the once-bar! She slaps the box down on the stolid bar, the crack of it echoing in the empty space. 

She pulls out the false bottom, then pauses - what to do with the signet ring and locket? But a glance at the new desk is all the answer she needs: the signet slips in with the sealing wax, the locket in a small, private drawer, close to hand for whoever sits and works there. 

Back to the bar! She sweeps up the gleaming glass and gemstones with reckless abandon, not caring for the nicks the glass cuts in her bare palms: then she lets them fall through her fingers into the treasure-box, filling the false bottom to the brim. Delicately, she seats the false bottom back into place: atop it, she lays the dagger in a bed of citrus-smelling leaves and paper flowers, the fine beer stolen back from its place by the player’s seat to serve as an offering on the makeshift altar. 

Turning, she takes one long stride to the cleared space amid the mossy tiles: with a dozen careful steps widdershins, salt pours from its glass, forming a ritual circle on the damp floor. Citrus and aged wood, salt and water: when her glass runs out, the once-bar smells far more like a ship’s cabin than any land-bound hall. 

She steps back from her work, and smiles. 

“Waybound,” she whispers: and she knows that it is a name. 

She looks around. Nothing is wrong. Nothing is out of place. The witch-captain’s desk sits where it ought to sit, golden signet ring gleaming, midnight quill poised to write. The altar is filled with treasure and offerings. The tomes and tools are all well-kept. The circle is ready, the athame sharp.

All that is needed now is a priestess. 

She closes the door.

She goes back to her bed.

She sleeps, and no dreams trouble her.

When she wakes, all in her apartment and bookplace is as she left it. No gift of spectacles today, it seems.

The alleyway has changed, though; there is no longer a clever hidden door nestled beneath vines. The courtyard still contains the front entrance of the witch-captain's altar room, but it seems to have decided that it would rather its back door go somewhere else.

Now, the back door opens to an ocean, nestled between dark glittering rocks in a secluded cove. The sky is a dull grey, but the sea is a brilliant blue, clear and bright as any of the jewels contained within the treasure box.

She smiles, feeling the wind ruffle her hair. Her hands sting in the salt breeze: she does her best to ignore them. 

Closing the door, she slips back out to the courtyard. 

Carefully, she swaps the sky-blue shard of glass with the amber one. 

Then her attention slides to the lost chairs and tables. Has a night in drier air done anything for their sickness?

They have dried some, and subtly feel less... springy. Sturdier. Not quite enough to trust them with weight again, but certainly better. The signs of rot still remain, but the warped scars have faded into swirls of blue-grey, stark against the dark wood. It seems likely that this treatment will suffice for them, though they probably all need a bit more time.

She nods consideringly, and absently smears her hand against her dress. 

... she looks down. Her wounded hand has left a rust-red streak of half-dry blood across her good dress, and is starting to smart... rather sharply, now. She hisses in a breath: this won’t do. This won’t do at all. 

Settling down to a shaky seat on the edge of the fountain, she absently catalogs her aches and pains. There are... more than she’d noticed, now that she looks for them. The stinging cuts in her palms and her fingertip where the hungry glass bit her. The dull ache in her arms from moving the heavy desk, not to mention all those chairs and tables. The crick in her back from sleeping on the stone floor, not aided at all by the heavy lifting she’s been doing. The twist of her ankle from that faltering step off the falling block: she must have landed worse than she’d noticed. Her whole body feels heavy and ill-fitting and misused. 

...she lays her head in her lap, and cries softly.

Her tears pass, eventually. Sniffling, she stands, pulling her dress closer around herself, trying her best not to stain it: then she goes to look for anything that could be used as a bandage.

One of the scarves is made of a soft, grey almost-cotton, absorbent and stretchy and plain. If that won't do, some of the scraps from the burgandy robe are available to her.

She ties the scarf tightly around her bandaged palms, leaving her with a pair of scarf-cuffs. She tests her range of motion: inconvenient, but better than cutting apart the poor scarf or staining the rich burgundy of her to-be skirt. 

She sits at the table by the window, and eats. There’s only half a loaf of bread left, now: she stares at it morosely. 

Her apartment is quiet and still and safe. After a little while, she can hear the gentle sound of a light rain, just outside of her window.

She... supposes she could go out in the rain to. To work on the lost things’ place. She could do that. 

For some reason she doesn’t want to. 

... she takes down one of the books from the last librarian’s bookshelf, curls up in bed, and opens it to the first page. If she’s going to be sad anyway, she should at least be sad for a good reason. 

The book is light and hopeful, and the plot is almost childish, but it has heart where it counts. For all that the tale lacks in narrative creativity, it makes up for in loving descriptions and an expansive world of wonder and beauty. The protagonist is a little flat, but it's clear he's meant to be. He's a set of shoes to fill so the reader can be swept away to a land of adventure, where evil is always easily solved with liberal application of sword and spell, and the good guys always have a happy ending.

She sighs, and sets the book down on the bedside table.

It’s all... raggedy and overstuffed and turnabout and sunbright. Not at all what she had wanted. 

She looks down at the stained gray cloth wrapped around her hands, and sighs again. 

She curls up even closer, and tries to sleep. 

The rain outside continues in a slow mist, making soft pitter-patters on the roof and windowpane. It's a strange change from silence.

She sits bolt upright in bed. 

The furniture!

Down down down the stairs, out into the rain, fuck the rain, hands slapped onto the closest table as the rain pitter-patters off its surface. She pulls awkwardly, and it unsticks itself from the muddy ground of the courtyard - but her shoes slip, and she has to rebalance herself. Up and onto her shoulder, and quick as she can back down the alleyway and no don’t bang against the doorframe yes go you stubborn bastard I’m trying to help you THERE. 

She lets out a shuddering breath, gathers up all her indignation, and storms back out for the next one. 

It takes her five trips. The waterlogged scarf wrapped around her hands goes on the second: she bleeds on the chairs, but that’s better than leaving them out there to rot. Her hair is soaked through. Her dress is soaked through. Her everything is soaked through. Her library is full of waterlogged inconsiderate tables and chairs and it’s a wonder she hasn’t ruined any of the books. 

... She’s left the scarf in the mud out there. 

She kicks the damned blasted inconsiderate doorframe and goes to retrieve the scarf from the fucking rain even though her fingers are numb and her skin’s gone white and her skirt’s become more of a hobble than a piece of clothing. 

She’s stepped on it. Twice. It takes her a good five minutes to find it, and by then her bones are shivering, her teeth are chattering, and her hands have balled up into frozen, half-useless paws. It slips from her senseless fingers: she grits her teeth, grabs a handful of mud along with it, and hunches her way back through the rain to fling it onto the nearest table.