the babe to come.
Jenn had been rocked to sleep in it, but by Zehr’s wife, Gallie. Gallie had been her wet nurse, about to wean her twins when Melusine, her dearest friend, died in childbirth. Gallie’s big heart had easily accommodated not only another baby, but a grieving Radd Nalynn and his young daughter as well.
They saw too little of Gallie these days. She was busy tending Loee, the tiny baby a joyful surprise to both parents, as well as her much older brothers.
Her father settled into the rocker’s cushions; Jenn sat on the nearby bench. The forlorn stack of her aunt’s luggage waited against the wall; the house toad, for whatever reason, was in the midst of slowly climbing to the top, moving each clawed foot with implacable precision. She’d have to make sure it was gone in the morning, before Aunt Sybb spotted it.
Porch lights were beginning to glow here and there in the village, though the last rays of the sun flooded the valley.
The treeless ivory of the Bone Hills was almost white, tinged blue in the distance. From here, she could see every one. She idly counted the five to the west, lower than the surrounding crags. They were called the Fingers and ran alongside one another, herding the river into the valley then splitting it, so part ran through Marrowdell while the rest writhed north in impassable cataracts. Their work done, the Fingers buried their tips in the fields. To the south rose the Spine, its massive slope and crown heaves of barren rounded stone, girdled by meadow and rugged forest. A path led up it. A path no one took.
Nestled between the base of the Spine and the first curved Finger, alongside the Tinkers Road, lay the empty farm, Jenn’s meadow, and Wisp.
Elbows on her knees, she leaned her chin into her hands and pondered what to say to him. No need to mention marriage right away, she decided with relief. She’d ease in to the subject of his taking a man’s shape, how they’d be better friends, the many other advantages, such as Peggs’ pie. If the wishing could be trusted, the marriage part would take care of itself anyway. They’d be in love, wouldn’t they?
Meanwhile, her father rocked back and forth, sipping his tea; a comfort and company.
Until he planted his boots on the porch and leaned forward, cup between his hands. “I visited your mother.”
Meaning he hadn’t gone to the mill at all, but past it and Uncle Horst’s, and through the gate to the secluded glade the villagers had made home for their dead. It wasn’t a great ossuary, like the ones in Avyo, where, as Aunt Sybb explained, for a small tithe your bones could mingle with those of your Ancestors. Instead, there was a peaceful spot beneath the crags, shaded by old trees and carpeted in wildflowers. Those who’d moved on and were now Blessed were buried in the ground, as close to one another as could be done without disturbance. Little Ponicce Uhthoff, in her mother Larell’s arms. Mimm Ropp, who’d drowned saving her son. Riedd Morrill.
And Melusine Nalynn.
There was a fine bench for visitors; Zehr and Davi had crafted it, complete with fanciful iron legs. It was taken into a barn before the snow each winter and its return, freshly painted, each spring was a festive event. Uncle Horst had bought carved blessing sigils for each of those buried, having them shipped all the way from Weken. These were raised on poles, set so the sun would shine through and cast their names and Heart’s Blessing on the ground throughout summer.
Aunt Sybb thought it a much better place to rest than a proper ossuary. Jenn wanted to see one anyway.
Her father’s going there . . . it was his habit when troubled or perplexed. A condition usually brought about by his beloved daughters, truth be told. Jenn gave a little shrug. “I ask your pardon, Poppa—”
“No need, Dearest Heart. I find it easier to think, near your mother.” He seemed to find his tea of engrossing interest, then looked up at her. “I realized
Jenn had been rocked to sleep in it, but by Zehr’s wife, Gallie. Gallie had been her wet nurse, about to wean her twins when Melusine, her dearest friend, died in childbirth. Gallie’s big heart had easily accommodated not only another baby, but a grieving Radd Nalynn and his young daughter as well.
They saw too little of Gallie these days. She was busy tending Loee, the tiny baby a joyful surprise to both parents, as well as her much older brothers.
Her father settled into the rocker’s cushions; Jenn sat on the nearby bench. The forlorn stack of her aunt’s luggage waited against the wall; the house toad, for whatever reason, was in the midst of slowly climbing to the top, moving each clawed foot with implacable precision. She’d have to make sure it was gone in the morning, before Aunt Sybb spotted it.
Porch lights were beginning to glow here and there in the village, though the last rays of the sun flooded the valley.
The treeless ivory of the Bone Hills was almost white, tinged blue in the distance. From here, she could see every one. She idly counted the five to the west, lower than the surrounding crags. They were called the Fingers and ran alongside one another, herding the river into the valley then splitting it, so part ran through Marrowdell while the rest writhed north in impassable cataracts. Their work done, the Fingers buried their tips in the fields. To the south rose the Spine, its massive slope and crown heaves of barren rounded stone, girdled by meadow and rugged forest. A path led up it. A path no one took.
Nestled between the base of the Spine and the first curved Finger, alongside the Tinkers Road, lay the empty farm, Jenn’s meadow, and Wisp.
Elbows on her knees, she leaned her chin into her hands and pondered what to say to him. No need to mention marriage right away, she decided with relief. She’d ease in to the subject of his taking a man’s shape, how they’d be better friends, the many other advantages, such as Peggs’ pie. If the wishing could be trusted, the marriage part would take care of itself anyway. They’d be in love, wouldn’t they?
Meanwhile, her father rocked back and forth, sipping his tea; a comfort and company.
Until he planted his boots on the porch and leaned forward, cup between his hands. “I visited your mother.”
Meaning he hadn’t gone to the mill at all, but past it and Uncle Horst’s, and through the gate to the secluded glade the villagers had made home for their dead. It wasn’t a great ossuary, like the ones in Avyo, where, as Aunt Sybb explained, for a small tithe your bones could mingle with those of your Ancestors. Instead, there was a peaceful spot beneath the crags, shaded by old trees and carpeted in wildflowers. Those who’d moved on and were now Blessed were buried in the ground, as close to one another as could be done without disturbance. Little Ponicce Uhthoff, in her mother Larell’s arms. Mimm Ropp, who’d drowned saving her son. Riedd Morrill.
And Melusine Nalynn.
There was a fine bench for visitors; Zehr and Davi had crafted it, complete with fanciful iron legs. It was taken into a barn before the snow each winter and its return, freshly painted, each spring was a festive event. Uncle Horst had bought carved blessing sigils for each of those buried, having them shipped all the way from Weken. These were raised on poles, set so the sun would shine through and cast their names and Heart’s Blessing on the ground throughout summer.
Aunt Sybb thought it a much better place to rest than a proper ossuary. Jenn wanted to see one anyway.
Her father’s going there . . . it was his habit when troubled or perplexed. A condition usually brought about by his beloved daughters, truth be told. Jenn gave a little shrug. “I ask your pardon, Poppa—”
“No need, Dearest Heart. I find it easier to think, near your mother.” He seemed to find his tea of engrossing interest, then looked up at her. “I realized
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