Noirette's eyelids fluttered open to a ceiling of rough-hewn beams, their knots staring down like ancient eyes etched into wood.
Dust motes danced in slivers of light piercing through a narrow window, the air heavy with the scent of aged stone and faint lavender—likely from bundles hung to dry in the corners.
Her body ached in dull waves, as if every muscle had been stretched taut and released too suddenly, leaving echoes of strain.
The narrow bed beneath her creaked softly with her shift, its straw mattress firm against her back, covered by a quilt patched from wool scraps in muted earth tones.
She blinked, vision sharpening on the figure seated beside the bed.
Blanchette occupied a low stool, her narrow frame angled toward the window, snow-white hair catching the light like threads of frost.
Her hands formed a bridge, fingers interlaced, chin resting lightly upon them in a pose of idle contemplation.
