Over the next few days, Rosa and the rest of the members of Willam's troupe settled into a routine, as they had in the past when circumstances forced them to remain overlong in one place.  Robillard bore the brunt of the labor that put food over their heads and bread in their mouths over the winter, and six nights in seven saw him in the common room of the tavern on a three legged stool, playing and singing in turn to the patrons.  Rose and Thorne would dance three times per night, and when they did Willam and Estra would complete the quintet.  But for the most part, her duties were light, and her time was her own.<br/><br/>The fact that it was Arges where they would be forced to winter remained in Rosa's mind.  Not in the forefront, but as a nagging constant that she could completely banish.  Like a sore tooth that she was compelled to worry with her tongue, she dwelled on the half-forgotten memories of her childhood in the With-Queen's country.<br/><br/>"There are no haunted places," went a line in a song Robillard had taught her.  "Only haunted people."  Even if the rest of the song never quite stuck in her mind (like so many things that people had tried to teach her over the years), that one did, and the ghosts were with Rosabella through her days in the village and her nights when thoughts of Thorne failed to keep them away.<br/><br/>She occupied herself in solitary exploration.  After a day or two exploring the village, Rosa began to walk the trails, the rocky and frozen arteries of the mountainous kingdom.  Bundled in as many layers as she could manage without losing mobility altogether, Rosabella blazed ahead along goat paths and hunter's ways, delving into the black heart of the woods and the spiny overlooks without fear.  She would often become lost, but without the pressing urgency of now to drive her into a panic, she somehow always found her way back to the village before it was her time to prepare for her dance with Thorne.<em>Feytouched</em>, she told herself every time she lost herself in the cold woods and found her way home.  "Feytouched," she told the stableboy, and laughed at his puzzled look.  She tossed the word a half dozen times more, not believing it, wearing it like a charm.<br/><br/>But for it all, sleep was not easily had even as the second week in Arges passed, and the snows had settled on the valley.  And so the young woman decided to forgo her odyssey into the wilderness and visit the herbalist.  She could not read the sighn that named it as Zelma's, but a herbalist that did not show signs of the craft in the window was a poor one indeed.  And there was the<em>smell</em>of the herbs and plants, roots and spices, strangely cured hides and rank brews that would point it out if nothing else...<br/><br/>The sky was gray and heavy with the promise of a fresh fall of snow as Rosabella pushed open the door of her herb shop.  The same motion that swept the scarf from her head and freed her long auburn curls from their confines tilted her face up into the light as she smiled at the little ringing silver bell overhead.