As she gathered her skirts and headed briskly up the staircase she hoped the view was worth the strain on her tender lungs, bruised from the ill-fated excursion to the Teparda bog the evening before. The effects of the poisonous air of the bog lingered, even though she had been careful to wear surgical gauze over her nose and mouth. Malicson had insisted she see the view from the Northeast garrison tower and he had insisted in a way both frightening and intriguing, so here she was climbing the five flights of stairs to the top.
Three flights up and her lungs ached. It had been challenging to escape her evening household duties so she hoped to get back before it was noticed that she was gone. She reached the top, a spare circular room with one tall narrow window. It was almost dark and she could see the dancing bonfires on the river bank to the East. The Jompays had gathered for their monthly lune ritual and the flames glowed rich pinks, purples and blues from the spices thrown in as they circled the fires in solemn weavings, which reminded her from that height of inner clock workings.
She looked to the North and saw what Malicson had wanted her to see. A thin greenish mist clung to the rooftops of the houses in the Jacka neighborhood. The neighborhood where her mother lived.
(a story I am working on)