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She was 10 years old when the other girl arrived. There was no forewarning, of course, and no meeting or introduction planned -- the only two children in Candlekeep were of little significance to most of its inhabitants. Gorion told her this new one would be living at the inn, and Rashida’s inquisitive mind ran wild with questions: Living, so… she’s staying? Staying for good? But only guests stay at the inn! Did she bring a book to be let in -- did she write a book to be let in? Would a girl her junior, smart enough to write books that contain knowledge all of Candlekeep doesn’t, care about being friends? Would she ever like to play tig?
Yet the initial apprehension faded as soon as they met. Imoen had a wide smile on her face, a troublemaker’s glint in her eye, and an effusive energy to her that drew all but the stodgiest old monks to her. She could avoid attention when she wanted to be sneaky, but when she wanted to be noticed she was loud and boisterous in ways that had never occurred to Rashida. She knows so much about the world! They traded stories about what there was outside Candlekeep, the wide world Imoen had seen or heard about; Rashida told her what she knew about their new shared home, the secrets in the keep, the treasures and monsters in its cellars. They made an odd pair, some said, an 8 year old girl, short and slight and making up for it with the loudest personality, leading her older, taller, and shyer brand new friend on adventures in her own home.
Time passed and they grew together, never too far apart or at odds for too long to miss out on causing mischief when the opportunity arose. With time they were given chores, if only to keep them busy for part of the day, and even those they did together. Typically, it was a game of three parts: first, they raced each other down opposite ends of the floor. Lightning fast and practised, they turned down the beds, put a fresh candle in the chamberstick, set out fresh washcloths, and swept the floor -- whoever was first at the landing earned one point. Next, they compared the trinkets they’d found in the rooms, little things left behind by scatterbrained scholars too absent-minded to notice a missing bauble and wrinkly old wizards too rickety to scrabble around for a single copper that had rolled underneath the bed -- the more curious of the two finds won whoever had discovered it another point. The last point was awarded by Winthrop himself, unwitting participant in their game that he was -- if either of them managed to avoid a scolding for the day’s antics, she earned one point. A draw meant there was no winner, and tomorrow’s score would continue where today left off. Their longest draw streak had been a tenday that stretched nigh unto eternity, when guests possessed of excellent memory had left nothing of the slightest interest behind, and both girls had to resort to getting into Winthrop’s good graces to gain headway. Bitterly they complained to each other about having to be on their best behaviour while all of Candlekeep heaved a sigh of deepest relief.
No one game can be played forever, and when Imoen and Rashida were exactly old enough to think all adults were boring and out of touch, they scoured the books they could access for newer and more interesting games. To Imoen’s unending disappointment, they were only allowed on the first and ground floor of the library, where the most mundane books were stored -- if she wished magical instruction, Candlekeep was not like to provide it. They had no gold, precious few ways to earn any, and finally nowhere to spend it. They searched steadfastly for something they could salvage, some crumb of knowledge that had to be within their reach to follow…
The book that was to be their guide was deceptively simple at first glance -- a farmers’ almanack for those living anywhere cold enough to have a snowy winter season lasting a few months. The danger lay in what it correctly assumed about its readers -- that they were singularly bored and had access to grains. There were glass jars and bottles enough for them to salvage, grain and sugar stores full enough that nobody would miss a cup’s worth… repurposed, and a certain inn provided a fine base of operations. They set up the still one freezing winter evening, when even the inn attic they had free rein over was too cold without mitts and blankets. Sugar, wheat, yeast, and water all into one jar, just as in their painstakingly traced diagrams, then connect it to a long, long tube which would drip into another jar at the end. A row of bottles stood behind this apparatus, ready to be filled with moonshine, and now all Imoen and Rashida had to do was wait.
A tenday later their hard work had paid off, and once they had dismantled their creation and snuck back down to Imoen’s room, they prepared to sample what both of them dearly hoped was alcohol. With trembling hands each pretended she did not have and did not notice in the other, and on the count of three they mimicked what they had seen the adults do -- pour a little clear liquid into their glass, swirl it around while examining it intently, and swallow it in one go. They sputtered and coughed as their throats burned, and they held onto each other as the cough turned into laughter. This smells right, I think, and it doesn’t taste of anything else, so…? Is this really what adults go so wild for? …Should we try again, just to be sure?
They tried again but found themselves unconvinced, tried a few more times and found themselves drunk silly. Lying in a bed too narrow even for two slight girls, they held each other all the closer for how bizarrely intent the room was on spinning around whenever they moved. The world around them shrank until all either of them could see was the other girl’s face, her lips moving as she talked, curling upwards at the corner when she smiled. They pressed their foreheads together, hugged each other tight, the happier the closer together they could be. Rashida was mid-sentence, lips parted with a laugh, when Imoen interrupted her with a kiss. This is--! Interrupting is rude, Imoen, I-- Blushing fiercely and completely at a loss of words, Rashida went for the only other thought she had, kissing Imoen back.
It was a strange new world the next day, not the least for the pounding headache and dry mouth they both woke up to. It was tempting to pretend nothing had happened, nothing had changed between them, carry on as each day before -- but it was hopeless to try, stupid to ignore, and they talked through the entire morning, breakfast and all. The two of them had been inseparable almost since the day Imoen had come to live at Candlekeep, and this was just like that, only… more. Wherever it lead, they would follow this path together. The way teenagers often do, they thought they kept it a secret, and Winthrop and Gorion both did their best not to prove them too wrong.
A strange day came when Gorion had to leave Candlekeep, had to take Rashida with him and let nobody know where they went or for how long. Out of Gorion’s presence, she promised Imoen she’d write or come back -- while Imoen knew she’d never lie, promises were easy to make and hard to keep. What else did you think I would do? She asked herself as she packed a bag and left an apologetic letter to Winthrop. The time to leave came when the sun set and the night watchmen were busy looking for adults coming to Candlekeep rather than young girls leaving. With one last look back at the brightly lit windows of the keep, she snuck out past them all, ready to take on the road and the Sword Coast itself to be back at the side of the girl she loved.