We left the Valley of the Dronk, and continued our trek to the cottage Quace had shown us on the map.
It was well off the main path, surrounded by thick woods; A much more inviting place to stay than the safe-house, and with no threat of turning into baby goats. The roof was tiled with bark shingles and the walls were of split logs. The front door was flanked by small windows.
Inside, the cottage was dry and warm. There was a rocking chair, a rug made of angora elephant, a framed bed, and a painting over the fireplace.
After dumping our packs on the bed, we went outside and explored the area around the cabin. Not far off, there was a grove of wild Mink-Mer trees. Their branches hung low from the weight of the fruit on them. I plucked one and we shared it, the sugary juice running down our chins.
To the south, a stream trickled down from nearby mountain peaks, run off from the thawing snows many miles above us.
I've looked back on our time in that cabin, and longed to return to those memories. It was the best time of our life. We were free from worry and concern, and our love continued to deepen. I can only think of one moment when it all went stink-bad.