There's only so much cooped-up-at-the-inn a girl can take.
It's hard, being so new. No steady job (yet) means no spending money; not knowing much about the city yet means not being sure if any of the places clearly meant for hanging out and meeting people would even let her in the door (is there a drinking age here? what is it?; but not wanting to go crazy means needing to get out for a while.
She'd seen a notice tacked to one of the boards at the inn about this cathedral. It looks beautiful, and spending an afternoon exploring it would pass the time without a large outlay of funds or worry over too much trouble (she hopes). People should at least be nice there, too, right?
But once she's there, tea, cookies, and a brief guide by one of the kind clergy around the main sanctuary leave her wanting a reason to linger. It's quiet here, peaceful; she's reluctant to go back to the inn this afternoon until she must.
She leaves a few coins in the collection box, grateful enough to want to repay the kindness shown to her, superstitious enough to believe that maybe parting with some of her money shows faith that it will return, that that energy put out there might come back to her when it's needed. And then she sees the sign asking for volunteers, and she asks to help.
That's how Lena finds herself working quietly down at the end of a long table, giving each basket a quick once-over to make sure bottles won't tumble and break when they're delivered, and tucking the card with the kind words into each one before lining them up to be taken away. Between being industrious and being sort of naturally reticent, she hasn't quite gotten much to talking, but it's clear from the darting glances and polite if awkward smiles she offers the others that it's nerves and not poor manners.
She lifts a basket experimentally, and a can of soup bails out one side, rolling down the table noisily.
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It's hard, being so new. No steady job (yet) means no spending money; not knowing much about the city yet means not being sure if any of the places clearly meant for hanging out and meeting people would even let her in the door (is there a drinking age here? what is it?; but not wanting to go crazy means needing to get out for a while.
She'd seen a notice tacked to one of the boards at the inn about this cathedral. It looks beautiful, and spending an afternoon exploring it would pass the time without a large outlay of funds or worry over too much trouble (she hopes). People should at least be nice there, too, right?
But once she's there, tea, cookies, and a brief guide by one of the kind clergy around the main sanctuary leave her wanting a reason to linger. It's quiet here, peaceful; she's reluctant to go back to the inn this afternoon until she must.
She leaves a few coins in the collection box, grateful enough to want to repay the kindness shown to her, superstitious enough to believe that maybe parting with some of her money shows faith that it will return, that that energy put out there might come back to her when it's needed. And then she sees the sign asking for volunteers, and she asks to help.
That's how Lena finds herself working quietly down at the end of a long table, giving each basket a quick once-over to make sure bottles won't tumble and break when they're delivered, and tucking the card with the kind words into each one before lining them up to be taken away. Between being industrious and being sort of naturally reticent, she hasn't quite gotten much to talking, but it's clear from the darting glances and polite if awkward smiles she offers the others that it's nerves and not poor manners.
She lifts a basket experimentally, and a can of soup bails out one side, rolling down the table noisily.