:who: Jane Grey and Sasha
:where: the campground
:when: morning



Jane woke early enough the next day, and the sound of life through the canvas of their tent made her startle before she remembered. Morpeth. The carnival. They were in a good place. At least, for the time being. Time would tell when it came to those sorts of things. It always did.

All the same, she was awake, even as Charles slept peacefully by her side, Dulce curled at her feet. He needed the rest. She was protective of him, as if he were her younger brother. She supposed it was being his voice that made her feel that way, that and worry that the injury that had taken his own voice had left him damaged in more ways than he would let on. But she wasn't thinking about that, deliberately not thinking about it. She was thinking about getting out the case of knifes, her whetstone, and sitting out in the sunshine and sharpening them until Charles woke and they could see about some food. So she carefully did just that, silent on her feet like a cat until she emerged from the flaps into the dusty air. That was one thing the years had not made easier on her, the omni-present feeling of dust and grime. She was fairly sure her very bones were dusty, at this rate.

But she didn't complain. Complaining never did any good. She just took her knives and stone, settled on the ground by the tent, and started the meticulous process of cleaning and honing each blade, falling into the rhythm easily, her unbound hair falling around her face like a wave of chocolate as she concentrated.