Nothing new was built in Marrowdell. When the settlers arrived, twenty-three years ago come fall, the homes and barns had been here, empty and waiting. The fountain had been here too, though it hadn’t filled until Zehr Emms touched its stones, the water having waited to be needed. The rust-red road and hedges had been here, gates open, and the fields of grain. The gardens had been ready to plant with vegetables. Though they’d found berry bushes, the apple orchard arrived with the settlers, Kydd Uhthoff having filled his portion of the family wagon with saplings from their home in Avyo.
From then on, all had stayed the same. The house picked by the Nalynns stood by the tall gristmill and overlooked where the river’s slow meander quickened into the first rapids and the bank became steep. The Emms took one nearer the fountain; old Jupp and the Uhthoffs lived across the garden and road, next to the orchard. The Treffs, Morrills, and Ropps lived near the common pasture.
The mill was Marrowdell’s largest structure, half again the height of a barn. Traced by dust, golden sunbeams slipped between its weathered outer boards into its open heart. Whole logs, stripped of their bark, rose through the floors to the roof high overhead, their girth wider than the arms of three children could hold. At each level, support beams met them like dancers who gripped one another against the strain.
The floors were of thick planking, gray and polished by use. The main floor, reached through sliding doors wide enough for a wagon, housed the great wheel that hung over the river. In summer, the wheel was still, its pulleys and wooden gears loose and patient, the hopper tipped up. The millstones lay beside their open case, being dressed for the coming harvest. Jenn could draw their elegant pattern in her sleep, having spent the last few years as miller’s apprentice. This season, she’d been trusted to deepen the grooves on her own, her father doing the final sharpening. The hard stone was reluctant, which also described Aunt Sybb’s feelings about one of her nieces wielding a chisel. But no one else in the village had the talent.
Below, in the basement, was the stone-lined raceway, dry for now. Once its gate lifted in invitation, the river would run through to turn the great wheel. Gears would engage, leather belts take the strain, and everything would move. Jenn loved it all, from the millstones and their dancing shoe, to the conveyor that caught the millings and took them up to the loft to be cooled, screened, and bagged. She’d run errands up and down the wide open stairs that went up alongside the hopper, stairs in winter the villagers decorated with pine boughs and ribbon for the Midwinter Beholding, when the loft would be transformed with light and music.
Otherwise, until harvest, the mill was an empty, peaceful place, redolent of grain, dust, and the river, a useful spot to house Aunt Sybb’s fancy Avyo coach, carefully tarped against the damp in a back corner of the main floor.
On the far side of the mill, closest of all to the outside world, stood the solitary building Uncle Horst called home. He wasn’t really her uncle. He’d come to Marrowdell without family, so the Nalynns added him to theirs. Horst wasn’t really his name, but once a very small Jenn pronounced it that way, he’d kept it as his. Uncle Horst helped Radd in the mill, when he wasn’t hunting, and at all times he watched the road, though for what Jenn couldn’t imagine. He avoided the tinkers’ tents, other than to have his knives sharpened or boots resoled, and, though he escorted her from Endshere and back each year, likewise avoided Radd’s sister. Which might have had something to do with relinquishing his place at the Nalynn table during her visits, except that Uncle Horst wasn’t like that. He wouldn’t begrudge family their rightful place. He respected Aunt Sybb, that was all, and was shy.
The Nalynn home wasn’t full of noisy small children and bags of dripping cheese, like the Ropps’. It wasn’t austere like the Uhthoffs’, with Master Dusom’s shelves of books, or full of industry like the Treffs’. It might not contain the fine cabinetry of the Emms’ or the musty secrets of old Wagler Jupp—and lacked bear teeth—but it was, Jenn nodded to herself, as she always did walking up her sloping path, the best home of all.
Stripped of other wealth, Melusine Nalynn had nonetheless brought treasures to start her new life: a baby daughter in her arms and a cutting from her favorite rose. Both had grown strong and beautiful. Peggs, with her black flowing hair, glad smile, and doe-soft brown eyes, had no equal in Marrowdell—an opinion that whenever expressed drew a flustered blush to her fine white cheeks and a quick denial to her lips. Which made it no less true.
The rose climbed the river side of their home, covering its logs with a blaze of red blossom all summer, reaching around to frame the girls’ bedroom window and nod over the roof, filling the breeze with heady fragrance. Bees and butterflies loved it. Each summer, bluebirds nested within its thorns. Each spring, Radd pretended he didn’t check the bare woody stems every morning until the first buds appeared. The tender plant shouldn’t have been able to survive the winter, let alone thrive.
But this was Marrowdell.
Jenn couldn’t make herself scowl at her mother’s rose. She’d ask it for a cutting herself, when she left. And return, often, to visit.
Feeling better, she went around back. Aunt Sybb didn’t approve of bare feet in the parlor, which was what the front half of their house became during her visits, even though it was also Radd’s bedroom, the dining room, and where the entire family sewed or read or talked during winter, when not at the mill. Separated by a curtain, the kitchen, with its fireplace, oven, and cookstove, filled the back half. A ladder beside the fireplace led to the loft and the warm cozy room Jenn shared with Peggs; a little too warm, admittedly, some midsummer nights, but perfect in winter.
Jenn stuck her head through the open kitchen door, too sunblind to more than guess at her sister’s shape, and whispered urgently. “Did she notice I was gone?” Their aunt also didn’t approve of “traipsing off,” her term for the myriad earnest excuses, some of them real, Jenn produced for having been outside in nice weather instead of inside. Inside being lectured. “Am I late for supper?”
“Not to eat it,” came the tart reply.
Jenn winced. She’d promised to help with the preparations, hadn’t she. Time flew in the meadow. “Sorry, Peggs.”
A basket was thrust at her. “Run this to Uncle, Good Heart, and all’s forgiven.”
Jenn slipped her arm through the handle and lifted one edge of the covering cloth. The aroma wafting upward with the steam made her mouth water. It wasn’t as if Peggs needed help anyway. Until the dishes. “I won’t be long.”
“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.
A Turn of Light Page 3
