A Turn of Light (4 page)

“While you’re there, Jenn Nalynn,” her sister suggested dryly, “thank Uncle for filling the cistern.”

“Oh.” Her chore, most definitely, to lug buckets from the fountain to fill the clever holding tank Zehr had built behind their kitchen. “I will.”

Determined not to be at fault again, at least not today, Jenn crossed the road to the mill and took the short path to Uncle Horst’s, exchanging an absent smile and greeting with Riss as the two passed one another, Riss with her darning basket over one arm and a pair of plump, skinned squirrels in hand, doubtless courtesy of Uncle Horst’s arrows.

Jenn didn’t slow to admire his small garden, though the pumpkins were nicely plump, with orange creeping over their round sides, and she could almost taste the pies and breads and soups. They’d lost last year’s. The twins had let the yearlings lead the way into the village and, with the single-minded cleverness of cattle, they’d headed for the nearest garden, trampling what they didn’t eat. She’d had words with Allin over that disaster.

He’d still proposed at her birthday. As if she’d forgive him for the pumpkins. Besides, all he wanted was to be the next miller, which he wouldn’t, since everyone knew Tadd was the twin who could hear when a gear was failing, let alone—

“Thought I heard a visitor.” Uncle Horst, who their father swore could hear a feather fall, appeared in his doorway, smiling. He was older than their father, the corners of his eyes and mouth creased in small soft lines, his gray hair starting to thin. His body was thin, too, which only went to prove Aunt Sybb’s assertion that you mustn’t judge someone by their looks since Horst could outwork any man in Marrowdell and only Davi the smith could lift a heavier weight. He’d been a soldier in Avyo; beyond that bald statement, he wouldn’t speak of the past, not even when a younger Jenn had coaxed, being curious how he’d lost the tips of two fingers on his left hand and what old wound made him limp in the damp chill of fall and become, as Peggs put it, cranky as a bear himself.

“Greetings, Uncle. I brought supper.”

“Most kind.” He took the basket from her and sniffed, closing his eyes in rapture for a moment. “You’re such a fine cook.”

Jenn chuckled. “Peggs’ the fine cook,” she corrected as always, then grimaced. “I’m sorry I forgot the cistern, Uncle. Thank you for taking care of it.”

“It was needful.” He raised an eyebrow. “Tomorrow’s laundry day.”

So it was. Meaning he expected an explanation for her negligence. In many ways, Jenn thought glumly, her “uncle” was stricter than her father. “Aunt Sybb was talking about hems,” she began. “Hems and husbands. And the sun was shining so very brightly,” that was important to mention, since Uncle Horst preferred the outdoors, too. “And I thought asters might start to bloom on such a bright sunny day and they have and—”

“And you, my dear, must respect both your aunt and your responsibilities.”

Quashed, Jenn ducked her head and said in a small voice. “Yes, Uncle. I am very sorry.”

“Actions. You must take more care to think of their consequence, Jenn Nalynn.” Uncle Horst did his best to look stern but the lines beside his mouth creased into little dimples, the way Jenn knew meant he wasn’t really angry and was having a hard time not smiling. She gazed up at him through her lashes and waited. As if sensing he’d lost his advantage, he went on, “I’m an old man. I won’t always be here to do your chores while you play in the meadow.”

Of course he would.

“Let me do your laundry,” Jenn offered. He wouldn’t ask for himself. Not for supper. Not for anything. “It’d be no trouble.” Well, it might be. His clothing ran more to well-aged leather than homespun, and as a hunter he was particular about the scents that touched his things.

“No need, thank you.” The smile she’d been waiting for. “Now go. Behave yourself. You can tell me tomorrow about the asters.”

Jenn stretched up to kiss his stubbled cheek. “I promise.”

Being the best sister imaginable, Peggs had left Jenn’s shiny black shoes, as well as a damp rag, by the kitchen door. Jenn sat on the barrel by the washtub and quickly wiped her feet, rubbing them dry on the inside of her skirt before working on the shoes. She was supposed to wear stockings with them, but her only pair had made a fine lining for her mittens last winter.

She stood gingerly, getting her balance. That was the worst of shoes. They tipped the world in a most uncertain manner. She drew herself up straight, shoulders back, and, upon consideration, used the rag on her hands as well. With less result. She should have washed them in the river. Maybe the green nails wouldn’t show.

Jenn folded her hands together and walked decorously through the door.

Peggs smiled. “Welcome home.” She plucked a stem of grass from Jenn’s hair, then licked her thumb and applied it lightly to the tip of Jenn’s nose. “Pollen.” She resumed arranging bowls and spoons on a tray. The bowls were white porcelain, decorated with long-feathered birds in blue; the spoons were lovingly-polished silver, with handles shaped like horses jumping. The bowls were chipped, the spoons weren’t the same size, and the tray was a slab of wood Jenn had painted when she was little. Normally, she didn’t notice. Today, with leaving and cities and plans filling her thoughts, Jenn wondered what elegant matched settings graced homes in Avyo.

“Any pebbles?”

She blinked, back in the kitchen. “Some pinks. And a nice white one.” She tipped them from her pocket into the pottery jar waiting by the fireplace, then wiped her hands again. “What can I do to help?”

Peggs held out the tray. “Hold steady while I fill these.” She’d made a stew, brimming with late summer vegetables and topped each bowlful with a dollop of cream. A fresh loaf of bread waited beside the pot of butter and a berry pie sat in the bake oven, steam and purple juice bubbling through slits in the crisp golden pastry. Basic fare, Aunt Sybb called it. Her mouth watering, Jenn wondered what could be better.

Another reason to see the world, as if she needed one.

Peggs’ sketchpad leaned against the windowsill, illuminated by sunlight. Charcoal sticks of varied lengths poked up from the broken-handled baby cup she used for brushes, when in a painting mood. She’d been working on wildflowers again. “I forgot to bring asters from the meadow,” Jenn said apologetically. “They’re out now.”

“And was your meadow in a good mood today?”

No one else knew of Wisp. Whether Peggs believed or played along out of kindness wasn’t important. She listened. “No,” Jenn admitted. “We argued. But it was his fault,” she emphasized. “He said I’m never to leave home. Never!” The tray tipped, bowls sliding, and she quickly firmed her grip.

Her sister pursed her lips thoughtfully. “Do you know why?”

“There isn’t a ‘why.’” Jenn couldn’t help the sullen note to her voice. “No one will let me do what I want with my life.”

“And what might that be today?” their father inquired, stepping through the kitchen door with a broad grin. He’d scrubbed until his already ruddy cheeks shone like little apples, his sister having told him very clearly how a man mustn’t bring the soil and dust of his work into his home. As Radd Nalynn was the miller, and usually coated from head to toe either in chaff and flour, or powdered rock from dressing his stones, coming home clean took special effort. That he did it with such goodwill said everything necessary about his love for his sister.

His daughters kissed him lightly in greeting, one on each damp, overscrubbed cheek. Jenn showed him the tray. “What I want is to put supper on the table.”

Their father looked at the bowls, then at the door to the parlor. His eyes crinkled at the corners. “It’s glorious outside. Birds singing. Sun shining. We could eat on a blanket by the river.”

Peggs handed him the loaf and butter, then collected the pottery cups and ewer of water. “No, we couldn’t.”

“I suppose not.” Like a man girding himself for battle, Radd Nalynn led the way into his own home.

A more unlikely battlefield couldn’t be imagined. The Nalynn parlor was a welcoming place: bright, warm, and comfortable. This time of year, the potbellied heat stove was filled with cut flowers and the heavy throws were neatly folded in a chest against any damp, ready for winter’s comfort, while pretty quilts covered the bed in the corner. On the floor, baskets of bright rags waited to be made into rugs and bundles of straw waited to become baskets.

And, though formidable in her way, Sybb Mahavar was hardly a foe. She was the female version of her younger brother, though diligent application of powder forestalled any unseemly apple spots on her cheeks. The two had the same thick dark hair, salted white at the temples, and the same strong lines at jaw and chin. Both had soft creases at the corners of eye and mouth that suggested old grief until they smiled, which was more often than not.

Radd wasn’t a heavy man, but decades in the mill had laid muscle through his chest and arms until his body resembled a smallish barrel. Sybb was frail beneath her layers of linen and wool, her wrists and neck skin over bone. Neither was tall. Peggs was a head taller and Jenn, since last year, could look her aunt in the eye.

Something she carefully avoided doing as she carried the tray to the family table.

To encounter an unexpected problem.

For the first time ever, the long wooden table that filled the other half of the room was covered by a cloth; one of the sheets from the chest, by the look. Worse, there were flowers in what, this morning, had been a large jar of pickles in the kitchen.

As for the flowers . . .

Radd stopped in his tracks, loaf and butter pot forgotten in his hands. “We don’t pick her roses,” he said in a strangled voice. “You know that, Sybbie.”

“Which is why I was surprised to see them here,” his sister replied calmly.

Everyone turned to Peggs, who shook her head. “I wouldn’t touch them.”

The roses nodded from the jar, each dewy fresh. Loose petals patterned the white cloth beneath, forming a perfect spiral outward.

“I wasn’t home,” Jenn reminded them. The display was Wisp’s work; she was sure of it. Another apology.

But . . . he didn’t come to the village.

Not that she’d noticed before.

If it was Wisp . . . a breeze was one thing. How had he managed the pickle jar?

And, a new worry, where were the pickles?

“I’ll look after this.” Peggs put down her tray to take hold of the jar, not without a meaningful glance at Jenn, and carried it to the window right of the front door. It fit, just, on the deep sill.

“Supper smells marvelous, dear. Radd?” Aunt Sybb rose gracefully from her place on what she called their settee—a wide bench against one wall, layered with blankets and backed with cushions—and stood by her chair at the table.

Radd’s eyes hadn’t left the roses.

His sister gave a delicate cough.

“Your pardon, Sybbie.” He hurriedly put down the bread and butter in order to pull back her chair. It was more a lift of the chair to get it over the edge of the thick braided rug that filled the center of the wood floor, the chair itself made of rounds of birch with their bark peeled off, tied together. It was their best, free of creaks and with new soft cushions tied to seat and back.

The cushions, along with many other useful items, had been made by the Treff from dresses Aunt Sybb had brought last summer, seams carefully picked apart and every scrap of fabric saved. Their aunt had given the cushions a most thoughtful look on her arrival, but made no comment. Jenn wondered if she’d noticed the small pearl buttons were now on most of the men’s shirts.

It was likely. The reversal of fortunes that left her brother penniless and exiled wasn’t something discussed, nor was the ultimate use of her gifts. Wisp was right; her aunt didn’t lack kindness.

Or resolve. When Jenn finally looked directly at her aunt’s face, the lift of one shapely eyebrow made it clear their earlier discussion of the day—be it hems or husbands—wasn’t over. She gave an accepting nod. Being dignified and adult probably included listening to all of a lecture, not just the part she couldn’t avoid.

Radd helped his sister sit and took his place. As he cut thick slices of bread, steam rising from inside, Peggs placed a full cup at each setting, doing her best to avoid the rose petals on the cloth.

Having put down her own tray, with some relief, Jenn put a bowl of stew in front of her aunt, from the left, with a spoon. She served her father, then put out her supper and Peggs’.

The sisters sat, hands neatly folded. No need for a lantern or candles yet; the late afternoon sun shone through from the kitchen and played its beams over the table, picking out the deep red of the petals, embossing the simple cloth. Their aunt’s keen eyes studied them, then lifted to regard Jenn’s nose.

Jenn froze in place.

Aunt Sybb’s brows began to draw together.

Slurp!

Her glance flashed to her brother, who halted his spoon halfway from his lips to return the most innocent look possible. “I expect poor manners from these deprived children, Radd Nalynn, not from you.”

Jenn focused on her bowl, doing her best not to smile. There was nothing—beyond rust, according to their aunt—wrong with their father’s table manners. After all, he’d grown up in Avyo, and once owned six of the city’s great mills, as well as a tannery.