8th moon of 335 AC
> I will not forget you. I will not forget our son. And I will see you again.
> Yours, now and forever,
> Bael
That was how his letter ended. When she read his words the first time, it had been through such grief that her tears had smudged some of the letters. She had blotted them away as best she could, panicked that she would lose them, desperate for the ink not to disappear. When she read them now, squinting at them in the candleless darkness of the ship’s cabin, it brought her a comforting numbness that she could slip into before sleep. She couldn't sleep any other way. The ship’s swaying was tortuous and nauseating. It hurt her eyes to stare at something stationary for too long, but still she stared at the letter every night until she was too exhausted to keep her eyes open. She would sleep fitfully until the sun rose, at least, and then it was time for another day of misery and seasickness and sailors who gave her looks. She hated it all, and yet she hoped it would last, because the Dreadfort would be no better for her.
At least at night, she was alone with her thoughts, and with Bael’s words. It was the best she could have of him. With her thumb, she gently traced his signature. She hadn't ever noticed the funny way he wrote his B’s, with a flourish at the end through the last loop. Why hadn't she noticed? It looked like someone’s mouth smiling at her. His mouth. She felt the corners of her lips turn up before she gave a quiet sob.
I’m going mad. I'm losing myself.
Bile rose in her stomach and she forced it back down. No. It's just this damned boat.
Roslyn was wrapped in a thin blanket, sitting cross-legged atop the bed which she had to share with Serra Mollen, who was fast asleep, her hair obscuring half of her face. The wetnurse slept on a pallet below them. Roslyn had refused her services, at least until they landed in White Harbor. The woman’s presence alone made her so anxious she could hardly stand it, and she had been terribly rude to her, snapping at every single thing the woman said. Erion Snow and her father and the guards were quartered down below. Her son lay next to Serra, little lip puckered out as if he were dreaming of something he found vexing. Roslyn calmed herself with a deep breath, forcing out the ill feelings for the wetnurse and everything else. She reached forward to give Petyr’s nose a gentle tap with her finger, and the baby sighed, squirmed, a
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This is a painting I've inherited from my grandfather. I don't know much about it, other than it seems to be made of a single piece of wood.
On the back it says: Flight into Egypt, Beato Angelico - Galleria Antica & Moderna, Florence
After googling Beato Angelico it seems kinda unlikely that it's an original, but it still looks fairly old.
Also, although I'm not sure about this, it seems like Galleria Antica & Moderna changed name around the 1920s to Galleria dell'Accademia.
This is a painting I've inherited from my grandfather. I don't know much about it, other than it seems to be made of a single piece of wood. On the back it says:
Flight into Egypt, Beato Angelico - Galleria Antica & Moderna, Florence
After googling Beato Angelico it seems kinda unlikely that it's an original, but it still looks fairly old.
Also, although I'm not sure about this, it seems like Galleria Antica & Moderna changed name around the 1920s.
