An open bottle of wine sat on the desk in front of her, the glass beside it and it's contents rippling still with the recent movement of being poured. Somewhere in Connlaoth's countryside, workers with their calloused hands and aching backs, were making the glass and planting the vines and praying to a god that the country's seasons would not take it. The curtains billowed out from the open window, Eloise's skin prickled even from under the protection of clothing, when she breathed it was a sharp piercing blow to her nose. The chair creaked as she sat back, fingers curling around the wine glass, fingertips turning a pinkish hue. The only candle in the room flickered, sending the shadows dancing on the desk, on the books and papers spread out.
Back home when she was a child she often found her mother sitting alone in a room. She would disappear for hours at a time leaving her with her father if he was home, or with her ailing grandparents. As a girl, she would ask questions as a thrall to her naivety; keening to her elders 'Why?'. And back home, it was explained in a way so that a child could grasp it. Sometimes, the world wasn't always the way you wanted it to be.
