Chapter Twenty-Seven
The Farmstead in the Black Hills
Halithe had her doubts when the wagon pulled up the next morning.
But Dayva turned out to be a bright, brown bird of a girl with a happy smile, bringing a cartload of broadcloth, wool, and linen, a gift from her Ma.
Lanning, her Da, rode in the wagon with her, a taciturn man with black hair and a broad beard with two white stripes at his chin.
“You’re a carpenter?” Rosalind asked after the introductions and at his nod, had pulled him aside and started to talk about looms.
Herself’s eye lit up at the cloth, and she immediately made plans for every length. In the days that followed, Halithe discovered quickly that it was fun to be “Leeda.”
Sewing didn’t seem so boring when you were surrounded by people working on a goal. She could sew a straight seam when it was for a purpose.
Like for her Papa’s new outfit.
“Stop wiggling,” Rosalind huffed.
“I am not ‘wiggling’,” Ritathan said, attempting to keep his dignity intact while standing in the middle of the room and wearing only his trous.
“If you would stand still, this would go much faster,” Rosalind said, measuring his arms with a length of twine. “Then you can get back to your chores.
Ritathan raised an eyebrow.
Halithe grinned and returned to her work. The Hearth Mother had set them all to various chores. She even had Ritathan working in the kitchen, much to his dismay.
Captain Roth had tried a few times to get Halithe into sword classes, but Amari had said that could wait. And she’d not spared herself. She sat not a few feet away, expanding the waist in one of her own trous.
On the other side of the room, Dayva chirped, “You’re very tall,” her dimples showing. “I don’t think I have ever met someone so tall. I thought my brother was tall, he towers over my Da, but you are taller even still. I’ve never met anyone so very tall before and—”
Halithe paused in her sewing to see if Dayva actually ever took a breath.
At the Court, one didn’t chatter. One might gossip quietly, in soft whispers and asides, but every public word was weighed.
But talk spilled out of Dayva, who rattled on, and amazingly, none of it was cruel or spiteful.
She just talked, about everything and everyone, and it mattered not a bit that her audience didn’t know the people she talked about.
Dayva, Halithe decided, had never found a silence she couldn’t fill.
At first, Halithe was sure she would find it annoying.
But it wasn’t; Dayva’s observations just washed over her as she sewed.
It was restful, in an odd way. Halithe didn’t have to think or respond, or fear any harsh gossip.
Just listen to Dayva’s voice and the occasional distant clatter of wooden swords from outside.
It didn’t seem to bother Amari or Rosalind either, since while Dayva’s babble never stopped, neither did her hands.
She was a hard worker, and good with the twins, who were currently chasing each other around the sewing circle, grabbing chairs and skirts and trous and chortling.
Dalan clearly thought this was great fun, grinning madly.
Lara was scowling, trying to catch and wrestle him to the floor.
Lady Amari had been quick to start cutting and sewing for their growing bodies. But one of the first items on her list was making a new tunic and trous for Rye, in grey and brown.
Not that Halithe thought those colors would make him look any less scary, at least, when he wanted to be.
“Done?” Ritathan asked in a voice that made it clear he was.
“Yes,” Rosalind stepped back, marking her twine. “With your arms. Legs now.”
Halithe suppressed a laugh as Ritathan heaved a much put upon sigh and allowed Rosalind to finish her work.
“If I can now be excused,” Ritathan asked as he reached for his old, black, silken robes.
Dayva watched him with open envy. “Such cloth,” she said with reverence. “I’ll never be able to weave such cloth.”
“Nonsense,” Rosalind said. “All you need is the right loom and materials. Although silk thread will be hard to come by,” she conceded.
“You never know,” Amari said. “But for now, I’ll take good, useful, woven cloth over fancy silks.” She looked at Ritathan pointedly. “Orval is at his sword lesson, so if you have nothing else to do, there are beans waiting to be snapped there in the kitchen.”
“Ah,” Ritathan said.
She fixed him with a look. “Unless you’d like to sew?”
“Beans it is.” Ritathan sighed, and retreated with his dignity mostly intact and his silks wrapped around him.
Amari chuckled, then tried to stifle a yawn that caught her unaware.
“You should rest,” Rosalind said, starting to measure out a length of cloth.
“We need to get this done,” Amari said. “I’ll nap with the children.”
“It would be lovely to have this all done by the Summer Solstice Festival,” Dayva chirped. “My brother is planning to make my Da’s salted caramel cream for the Luring Dance.”
“What is—” Rosalind started, but she didn’t get far. Dayva laughed.
“Oh, you wouldn’t know what that is!” Her dimples got even deeper.
“It’s a dance, where those that wish to show their willingness to be courted stand in a circle with a treat in a small bowl with a very long-handled spoon.
They can’t move from the circle, they can only call and cajole those who dance around them, and entice them with a bit of sweet on the spoon, and try to lure them into reach.
If you get a sweet, you are supposed to offer a kiss in exchange.
” Dayva blushed. “Before sunset, it’s for the older folks and young kids.
But later, after dark, I guess it’s a bit more serious.
“What else goes on?” Amari asked.
“The entire town gathers in the square.” Dayva chirped. “There’s music and talk and feasting and…dancing.” She tripped over her words. “People come from the outlying farms and join in. It’s so much fun.” She looked up, smiling happily. “You will come, won’t you?”
“We’ll see,” Amari said gently. “We may not be welcome.”
Dayva’s face fell, and she squirmed in her chair, clearly not comfortable with that truth.
“You should,” she said stoutly, then perked up. “My Da makes the best salted caramel cream, but my brother just burns his.”
“How many brothers do you have?” Amari asked, and Dayva was off and running.
To Halithe’s joy, the days that followed piled on one another, passing swiftly. There was work, lots of work. Her hands blistered and her nails grew rough, and her skin hadn’t been creamed and perfumed in ages. But no one cared, least of all her.
Instead, she was proud of the pantry, starting to fill with stores for the winter, and proud that manor grew more comfortable as the days passed, as they created cushions and drapes and other homey touches. Proud of her progress in all her lessons. Even if they were hard or frustrating.
“You have proven you can light a candle,” Ritathan said. “Try to put one out.”
Halithe snuffed the one before her with her fingers and gave her teacher a grin.
He raised an eyebrow.
She sighed, focused on the wick and re-lit it with her power, then stared, trying to figure out how to extinguish it. After a bit, she frowned. “This is hard,” she muttered.
“Really?” Ritathan asked. He picked up a bean and snapped the end off to remove the string. “And here I thought everyone could do it.”
She sighed and re-focused.
Even history was interesting, when Hisself talked. As planting season came on, the other kids tended to only stay long enough for the reading and writing. But she and Yfin and Cirda were a constant.
Amari had managed to convince the Lord High Baron to move his office up to the rooms that were clearly intended for that purpose, but only by placing the nursery next to it. She’d also frowned at the idea of sitting and listening with idle hands.
So every afternoon, they climb the stairs to what Orval called his library, even though there were no books, bringing hand work with them. Dayva would slip out of the nursery while the babes napped, and they’d work and listen to the Lord tell them stories.
Something about the Lord High Baron came alive when he talked about the past. Halithe got the impression that he knew all these people, from so long ago. But he didn’t just talk about their glories. He also talked about their failings, their mistakes, how they fixed them, how they didn’t.
What was confusing was when he talked about who had written the story, or who had translated it from the ancient tongues, and what their motives were. What their flaws were.
She’d never thought about that, and when she’d protested, the Lord had fixed her with those mild blue eyes.
“Why would they be any different from you and I? Why should a few hundred years make them perfect?”
The best part, the absolute best part, was that Lord High Baron Orval seemed to know the exact moment when their attention started to waver.
Just before she shifted in her seat, just before Yfin started to jiggle his knee, he’d announce the lesson done for the day.
They’d clatter down the stairs, intent on fishing or going into the woods to gather whatever was in season. Nuts, fruit, the rare bee colony.
Sometimes, Roth would propose a game of “stalk the prey.” They’d be given a small area in which to hide while he tried to find them. Dayva was the best at that, when she could play, being so small.
One morning, the day dawned bright and clear and glorious.
The Lord High Baron had meetings with Jerrold and the Elders of some of the surrounding villages.
So after chores and their morning lessons with Roth, they would be free for the afternoon, and there were berries and nuts to gather and mushrooms to hunt.
Halithe hurried through her chores and lessons, then ran up the stairs to the office where Ritathan was working.
“Can I go gathering with the others?” she asked breathlessly.
“Of course,” Ritathan nodded. “Try not to bring back any mushrooms.” He shuddered.