Ottla helped Varda to her feet, emptied her pails of water into the enormous pot suspended over the fire, unfolded a piece of paper, and tipped something, herbs or spices, into the pot. With a stick, she stirred. With the same stick, she swept the broken eggs into the ashy edges of the fire pit.
The kitten, separated abruptly from her breakfast, flicked her tail. She reminded me of Agrippina then.
“Come,” said Ottla at last, linking an arm through Varda’s. I was glad when she turned to me and said it a second time: “Come.”
But I did not take her arm. “I need my jacket.”
A sigh. “Varda. Give her back the jacket.”
Biting her lip, Varda slipped her arms out and thrust it at me. I put it on. Checked the pockets. There was the rubber tubing. There was the Captain’s book. I returned the glasses to their pocket.
“All right?” Ottla linked her free arm through mine.
“No—wait.” I went and got the kitten, who’d been licking at the spot where the eggs had been. A drop of yolk clung to the triangle of fur just below her mouth.
“Who are you mourning?” I spoke quietly into Ottla’s ear as we joined the people ringing the wagon. A hum rose from the group, a low vibration that made a kind of raft to carry the musician’s keening.
“Our grandfather.”
“Your grandfather? But you said”—I thought of how easily she’d said it, twirling her shawl, almost scoffing—“last night you said he’d be all right!”
She turned to me with such a look.
“Well?” she said. “And so he is.”