By late afternoon Stahlia’s back, neck, and shoulders ached and the tapestry workroom grew close and confining. When she left the workshop and crossed the small stretch of yard to return inside the cottage, however, its emptiness crept into her bones. Percia regularly departed after midmeal to prepare for the dancing classes she taught in the village center. Wren wasn’t puttering around or curled up with a book; Tilim wasn’t playing on the floor with his tin soldiers as he had as a little boy.
Worst of all, Wilim wasn’t on his way home from his circuits, soon to arrive full of praise for her cookery and brimming with stories of his day’s encounters for them to chew over. It had been nearly a year since his death, and though Stahlia could struggle on when she kept busy, at times his absence smote her with renewed force.
Stahlia rubbed a palmful of liniment on her neck. Then she walked idly through the house, discontented with everything she saw. The floor wanted sweeping, the table sanding, the hearth ash clearing, and the windows washing. Baki lay in a circle near the fireplace nibbling on his thigh. That damn dog shed with every breath. And how was she supposed to make supper out of the scant foodstuffs left in the larder?
Overcome by discontent, she threw her cloak over her shoulders and went outside, Baki following by habit. The days clipped shorter, and the vegetable garden sat in a frozen, unsightly jumble of dead stalks and eddies of leaves. Idly, she checked on Syrup in the barn. His stall smelled, and he acted put out she hadn’t brought him a treat. He kept lipping at her clothing. “Quit it,” she told him, and then felt bad at taking out her peevishness on Wilim’s faithful old friend. She really should think about selling him—the expenses for two horses were heavy—but she couldn’t face the prospect. She let him out into his paddock for a change of scenery and fresh air, and his breath condensed in clouds around him. The sun fought its way through the late-afternoon clouds, piercing them in scattered places with streams of thick light.
Movement from the road caught her eye. Stahlia watched until she could make out Lemle, wearing a large rucksack. A hoof stuck out of it. Baki ran to him, wagging his stub tail.
“Afternoon, missus,” he called out when close enough. “I brought down a deer, and me and my uncle thought your family might like a hindquarter.”
“That’s so thoughtful of you, Lemle! It’s true, no one goes hunting for us these days. Come in the house for a cup of tisane to warm up and keep a grumpy old lady company.”
When Lemle came in, she added logs to the fire, hung the kettle, and lit the lantern.
Of the many people who had stuck by them since the double tragedies, Lem and Rooks had been the most stalwart. It had been Lem who had encouraged Percia to start her school and who had helped her surmount every obstacle. Rooks spent a great deal of time with Tilim, teaching him the weaponry skills the boy was so keen to master.
Lemle appeared to be as eager for a good chat as she was. He told her the whole story of how he’d brought down the doe. When she topped off his cup he reported the gossip swirling around town that Thom had gotten the Daverly girl with child and was refusing to marry her.
Stahlia tsked her disapproval. Then she asked, “How is your uncle faring this week?”
Lemle lost his wicked grin. “His ankles look awful swelled up, and his breath comes short. We had the healer round four days ago—cost a drought damn fortune—but he just said something cruel about nature taking its course.” Lemle’s brow darkened as he muttered, “Goddard’s a greedy, heartless fellow.”
“I’ve never liked him neither,” said Stahlia. “I’m sorry to hear about Rooks; I’ll make a broth with the venison bones and ride up tomorrow or the day after to give it to him.”
“You’ve no need to trouble yourself, missus,” said Lemle.
“No, no. Do me good, and do Syrup some good to move about,” said Stahlia. “Come look at my latest tapestry. This one’s for the Millerville Church of the Waters.”
Stahlia took him out to her workroom. He admired the tapestry on her loom, his finger lovingly tracing some of the outlines.
“I think, for the top of the waves, where they crest,” Stahlia pointed, “I need to work in lighter colors. Lavender, maybe. Not white. Or yellow, though I don’t have any on hand and I’d have to order some.” She squinted at her weaving from several angles.
“It’s really splendid,” Lemle enthused.
“You know, just now, when I was outside, an image of a new piece came to me. ‘The Lay of Queen Chilandia’ describes light just like this afternoon, solid rays streaming through the clouds, when she is returning from burying her father in a crypt in Rortherrod. I’ve never attempted Chilandia’s Trail of Mourning. She would be dressed in gray, her blue hair all falling down with grief, wearing a mourning circlet.… Attendants would be in the background, uncertain of how to help their queen. And it would be late fall, exactly like this.”
She laughed at herself with a touch of bitterness. “But who would want to hang the Trail of Mourning in their great room?”
“Lots of people can relate to mourning, missus,” said her young visitor, wise beyond his years.
“I suppose it would all depend on whether I could capture this light precisely. The light would make her grief grand, not gnawing and fretful.”
“There’s an engraving in your book about Chilandia,” said Lemle, pulling the wrapped volume out of his waist apron. “I brought it back to you today.”
He started to turn to the page, but Stahlia forestalled him. “Let’s go in the cottage for some more tisane.”
Inside, Lemle found the page quickly, and he pointed out the crosshatching that gave the queen’s horse depth and volume. Stahlia wondered how many times he had studied each engraving. When Percia had told her that Lem’s dream was to apprentice to an engraver, Stahlia had worried that the young man was now too old for any master to take on as an apprentice, but he certainly appreciated the craft.
“Well,” she said, “I’ll tuck Chilandia in the back of my mind. I need to finish this one about Queen Cressa’s last voyage first.” She slapped her knees. “I’ve got to get supper started, Lemle, but you’ll join us tonight, won’t you? It would be so nice to have company.”
“I’d best get home. I hate to go because your house is so cozy, but I don’t like being gone from my uncle too long. Thanks for the tisane—I always say that yours is the best brew around.”
Lemle opened the door. “Ah! Here comes your family, missus,” he called over his shoulder as he exited.
And in a moment Tilim and Percia tumbled inside, with cold cheeks and happy eyes, flooding the small, shabby house with cheerfulness. Stahlia was pleased to be able to promise them venison steaks—that is, after they took care of Barley, mucked out Syrup’s stall, and finished all the other chores they had neglected earlier.
She secretly relished her children’s grumbles as she set about fixing them a good supper.