A Turn of Light

by Julie E. Czerneda

  Jenn tightened her arm over the sketchpad and made sure she had a good grip on the plate. Nothing could make her budge from this spot now.

  But when Peggs finally answered, her voice was heavy. “Is it natural and healthy to want someone who doesn’t know you exist?”

  Who in Marrowdell didn’t know her sister? Jenn frowned.

  “Of course. As well as frustrating, maddening, and tiresome. Men can be such fools, adorable as they are. That’s when—” a pause during which she imagined their aunt gently patting Peggs’ hand, “—you turn to your family.”

  “Oh, no,” Peggs protested. “No. I don’t want—I don’t need—”

  “Oh, yes, you do. As does your father, not that he’ll take my good advice and scoop up that fine and capable Nahamm woman before someone else realizes old Jupp won’t live forever.”

  “Aunt Sybb!”

  This was better than one of Roche’s spooky storytellings in the Emms’ hayloft. Jenn eyed the out-of-reach counter wistfully; the plate grew heavier by the moment.

  “Don’t fuss, child. It’s unbecoming. There’s nothing wrong with a discreet word in the right ear. That’s the problem with this place. You’ve grown up too close together. No wonder it takes someone from outside to stir the pot, get people to notice who and what they should.”

  If not the cider, definitely something.

  “Please, I’m sure you have the best intentions, Aunt Sybb, but this isn’t—he isn’t someone like that. Let it be, please. I’m—for Poppa’s sake, I’m willing to marry anyone who’ll help him in the mill. You know that. I’m sure Jenn feels the same way.”

  She most certainly did not. Jenn closed her mouth just in time.

  “Wherever did you get that idea?” Aunt Sybb sounded horrified. “Your father doesn’t want an apprentice. He—We want you happy, that’s all.”

  “Happy?”

  The word hurt, the way her sister said it.

  “Yes, happy. It’s not impossible, Peggs.” Her aunt spoke so softly, Jenn had to strain to hear. “Trust me. It only seems that way because you’re young.”

  “It’s that way because I’m young! Don’t you understand?”

  Jenn shrank from the anguish in Peggs’ voice. She didn’t want to be here anymore. She didn’t want to listen. But her feet wouldn’t move.

  “Ah.” With calm certainty. “The talented beekeeper has your heart.”

  “How—? Don’t say anything, Aunt Sybb. To anyone. I beg you.”

  Kydd Uhthoff? The plate almost slipped through Jenn’s fingers. What was Peggs thinking? Yes, the younger brother was handsome, in a distant, scholarly way, and kind, she supposed, having noticed Peggs’ talent and given her all those private drawing lessons, but he was—how old was he?

  Old enough to be her father, Jenn thought, that’s how old.

  “No, dear, no. Trust me. This is a delicate matter. Not impossible, whatever you think. You’re mature for your years. He’s a man who missed much of his youth. I applaud your taste. I do. Dry your eyes and mind your posture. You’re a Nalynn. We fight for what matters to us—”

  “Is the pie ready, Jenn?”

  Jenn jumped and everything flew into the air. Wedges of pie hit the floor, the plate smashed on the oven bricks, and the forks followed the plate, their tinkle and fall like rain after thunder.

  She lunged for the sketchpad and managed to grab it, then looked up.

  Wainn blinked down at her.

  Aunt Sybb stood beside her sister and shook her head.

  While Peggs had never looked so furious in her life.

  “More tea, young Uhthoff?”

  Their aunt was the gracious hostess. Peggs gave Jenn another “I’ll get you” look before she passed Wainn his second piece of pie. The last piece. With a thick curl of cheese.

  How was this her fault? Jenn supposed Peggs in a temper was better than Peggs unhappy, since her tempers lasted about as long as it took bread to toast on a stick. Though she conceded this might be an uncommonly fierce one. Her sister hadn’t spoken to her, not yet; she’d watched, grim-faced and arms crossed, while Jenn cleaned the floor and her muddy feet.

  “Now,” her aunt said, having arranged everyone and everything to her satisfaction, “tell us about you and Jenn, young Wainn.”

  Jenn gulped a hot swallow of tea and tried not to choke. A promising dimple appeared in one of Peggs’ cheeks.

  Wainn methodically chewed his mouthful before answering, a period during which Jenn frantically tried to think of something to say to deflect Aunt Sybb’s interest. Tried and failed. The man finished and smiled happily. “I’m not to visit Wen alone. Jenn has a good heart. She let me visit Wen with her today.”

  Not what her aunt or Peggs had expected. “Why would you visit Wen Treff?” her sister demanded.

  “Why shouldn’t I?” Jenn countered, recovering her voice. “She’s a neighbor.”

  “She doesn’t talk to neighbors. She talks to toads.”

  “Toads?” Aunt Sybb quickly raised her napkin to her lips. Her eyes sparkled. “Oh my.”

  “Wen talks to me too,” Wainn said solemnly. “And Jenn.”

  “She does? She did?” Peggs’ surprised smile lit the room. “That’s marvelous news. The Treffs must be so happy—”

  Wainn shook his head. “Wen doesn’t talk to them. They don’t listen.”

  “‘Toads,’” their aunt repeated, napkin lowered but at the ready. “Dear Heart, surely you didn’t believe me, about changing a toad into a prince. It was a story.”

  “I don’t want a prince,” Jenn began. “I—” Her sister and aunt were looking at her with identical expressions of amused skepticism.

  “Jenn wants to make a husband who will do what she wants,” Wainn finished for her, all too helpful. “I can tell her how.”

  She buried her face in her hands.

  “You can?” Peggs asked.

  “I have the words from my uncle’s book.”

  “K-Kydd’s involved?!”

  Jenn raised her head at this. “No. Yes, but he doesn’t know he is.” Another “get you later” look was forming. “Kydd has a book with something about the—the topic. Wainn remembers reading it.”

  “I can’t read,” he said calmly. “I know all the words. Would you like to see?” He rose from the table, bowed politely, and went into the kitchen.

  Aunt Sybb looked decidedly unhappy. “So much for being rid of them,” she murmured. “That poor boy.” At her nieces’ stares, she shook her head. “An old, sorry business, Dearest Hearts, and not my place to say more.”

  Wainn returned with Peggs’ sketchbook before either Jenn or Peggs could say a word, smiling from ear to ear. “Would you like to see?”

  The three women exchanged glances. Aunt Sybb lifted her shawl-wrapped shoulders and let them drop.

  Wordlessly, Jenn passed Wainn the charcoal from her pocket.

  He sat, placed the pad in front of him and put the charcoal carefully on top. One hand lifted and pantomimed taking an invisible book from an invisible shelf and putting it down on the table. With great care, he turned invisible pages.

  Jenn, Peggs, and their aunt watched, mesmerized.

  Wainn stopped. “Too far,” he apologized, and flipped back a few “pages” before making a satisfied sound. “Here it is.”

  He bent over the drawing—a cluster of summerberry flowers—and printed several lines of dark lettering overtop. When finished, he held up the result, as if uncertain who should get it first. Peggs reached. Jenn was faster.

  The letters were neatly done, but the words weren’t Rhothan. “I can’t read it,” she complained, passing the sketchpad to her sister.

  Peggs looked up, eyes wide with wonder. “I think this is Naalish, the language of Mellynne.”

  Wainn nodded happily. “Yes, it is.”

  “Let me see, please.” Peggs passed the sketchpad to Aunt Sybb. The older woman tilted it to the sunlight coming through the kitchen, then frowned and beckoned.

&nb
sp; Understanding, Jenn rose and brought the reading lamp. Lighting its candle, she aimed its mirror to shine on the pad. “Can you read it, Aunt Sybb?”

  “I was more spiritual once,” their aunt muttered. “Before the world turned on us regardless.” Louder, “Naalish is used in the temples of our Ancestors. What are children taught these days?”

  Jenn ignored the question. “What does it say?” As the older woman hesitated, she pleaded, “We have to know, Aunt Sybb.” She had to know, was the truth.

  “And will I have no peace till you do, child?” Jenn held her breath until the corner of Aunt Sybb’s lips curved up. “Still, I see no harm in it. I’m curious too. Please bring me my writing case. I’ll need to transcribe this word by word. It’s been many years . . .”

  Jenn launched herself at the hutch their aunt used for her things while visiting. It was the only furnishing their parents had brought from Avyo, gleaming with inlays of red and yellow wood, its cupboard doors latched with such cleverness that a simple touch opened any one, or locked it. Aunt Sybb’s case was in the middle cupboard to the right side, the one that also held a pullout shelf to use as a desk. Jenn gently picked up the flat leather case by its handle and rushed back to the table.

  “I wish you were this eager for sewing lessons,” her aunt commented. “Let’s see what Wainn has remembered for us. With more tea, please,” she added.

  “You make the best pie,” Wainn said wistfully as Peggs stood.

  She tousled his hair fondly. “I’ll see if there’re some shortbreads left.”

  Leaving Wainn to watch Aunt Sybb open her case and set out her ink pot, fountain pen, and a small sheet of the creamy linen paper she insisted was for invitations and not childish doodles, Jenn collected the empty cups and plates and followed her sister into the kitchen.

  Peggs took hold of the handle of the big kettle on the stovetop, with a folded rag to protect her hands, and nodded to Jenn to add fresh tea to the pot.

  “I shouldn’t have listened to you and Aunt Sybb,” Jenn said earnestly as Peggs poured the hot water. “I’m sorry.”

  Her sister’s eyes met hers through the steam. “Don’t be. I’m not. I shouldn’t have kept it secret from you.” She managed a smile. “You told me about your friend in the meadow. I should have trusted you with this long ago.”

  “How long—” Jenn stopped there.

  “How long have I known?” Peggs refilled the kettle and returned it to heat. Their father would take a hot cup on the porch when he came home from the mill. “Since the art class in the orchard, last spring. Remember? The blossoms were like snow in the trees. Master Uhthoff asked Kydd to show us how to mix watercolors. I had trouble getting the pink I wanted and he—he knelt beside me to help. His eyes as he—” She turned pink herself. “That’s—that’s when I knew.”

  “I remember Cheffy Ropp poked his paintbrush into a hive.” Jenn grinned. “Hettie tried to help and she was the one stung.” The eldest Ropp daughter was calm and gentle, strong enough to be her father’s best assistant in the dairy, her round face always wreathed in smiles. She’d come from Avyo with her family, like Peggs; they’d been best friends ever since. “What’s Hettie think of this?”

  “I can’t tell her.” Her sister clutched the tin of cookies. “I—I think she likes him too.”

  Jenn promised herself another look at Kydd Uhthoff, a long one. “So the extra drawing lessons . . . ?”

  Peggs sighed. “Were just lessons,” she admitted. “I love drawing,” this hastily, in case Jenn might suspect an ulterior motive, “but I—he was—he was always so courteous and helpful and kind, I—I drew!” This last with such woeful emphasis, Jenn pictured her tongue-tied sister pretending day after day to be enraptured by paper and charcoal rather than by her teacher, a teacher unlikely to be immune to the charms of his pupil, for wasn’t Peggs the loveliest and most accomplished woman in Marrowdell? Kydd Uhthoff’s generous offer of lessons took on an entirely new light.

  If so, Kydd Uhthoff had a great deal to learn about proper courting. Where was the romance in blackened fingertips and scribbling? She’d assumed the lessons had ended with the approach of fall and the harvest; maybe it had been mutual frustration. They needed help. Though tempted to tease, Jenn said as seriously as she could, “Maybe Aunt Sybb’s right about having family—”

  “No.” Peggs put cookies on a plate, her fine fingers trembling. “Leave it be, Jenn. He doesn’t know I exist, other than as an art student, or Radd Nalynn’s eldest—the one who bakes.”

  “You do make the best pies.” Which garnered the exasperated eye roll she’d hoped.

  “Back to the parlor with you,” Peggs ordered affectionately. “Before Wainn comes after his cookies.”

  The two carried their trays to the table. Aunt Sybb sat, rolling her pen between her palms so it clicked, just, against her rings. It was the sort of habit she thoroughly discouraged in her nieces. She looked up at Jenn with the oddest expression on her face, part wonder, part dread.

  “You’ve finished.” Jenn sat, the tray in front of her, tea forgotten. “What did it say?”

  “It rhymes.” Wainn was clearly pleased.

  Peggs took charge of distributing the tea and cookies. “In Naalish, you mean.”

  “In Rhothan.” Their aunt returned her pen to the case and closed the lid with a little pat. She lifted the piece of paper. “It rhymes because it was written in this language first. The book Kydd Uhthoff brought with him is of Rhothan wishings, most likely collected by one of the Mellynne scholars who settled in Avyo. What Wainn remembers is a translation; I simply put it back as it was.”

  The sisters looked at one another; it was Jenn who asked. “What are ‘wishings’?”

  “Ill-conceived pagan magic. I find it remarkably apt in this place.” Aunt Sybb tapped a finger on her teacup. “When Master Dusom omitted the entire matter from your lessons, I agreed under protest. I’ve never condoned keeping historical truths, however sordid, from the young. But he had his reasons.” By the fire in her eye, Jenn was surprised “his reasons” had been enough. “Now, however, it’s time you knew.”

  “About magic?” Peggs sounded as Jenn felt, half excited, half appalled. Magic was in stories. Wasn’t it?

  “About history,” their aunt corrected primly. “Rhoth and Mellynne have always shared a seemly and proper worship of our Ancestors, but before Mellynne exerted her civilizing influence, alas, many Rhothans held a belief they could entice a favor from the departed through the use of objects and the saying of special words.”

  “Like the Beholding,” suggested Jenn.

  “Not like that at all, child,” Aunt Sybb frowned. “Wishings were recipes, written as riddles. Anyone, the old Rhothans believed, could use them to obtain what they wanted. Back then, raids into Ansnor were as much to obtain rare ingredients as they were to steal livestock or metal. Which didn’t, let me tell you, endear the Rhothans to Ansnor’s people. Though to be fair, Ansnor raided Rhoth in turn. Still do, come to think of it. Avyo has progressed, but to the east, sad to say, the old ways linger. Vorkoun’s market is rumored to be rife with token merchants and those who claim to know their use.”

  Aunt Sybb tended to ramble at dusk, which it was, Jenn realized, not needing to look out the window. Her emptiness eased once the sun sank fully behind the Bone Hills, past the time Wisp wouldn’t bear her near him.

  So she wouldn’t see him.

  That could change, she thought fiercely. That would change. She didn’t need to see whatever he was, not when she could wish him to be as she was. “What does this one say? This wishing. How is it done?”

  “This wishing is a pretty bit of nonsense,” Aunt Sybb said firmly. “Don’t forget that, Jenn Nalynn.”

  She nodded.

  Their aunt gave her a doubtful look, but continued. “It is, as you wanted, a wishing to change an animal into a man. Not any man, however. A lover, to take to your heart. You’re far from the first young woman,” she said lightly, “unwilling to
trust fate.” She didn’t glance at the paper as she recited:

  “Something of you “Turn into ash

  “Something of love “By moonlight’s glow.

  “Something of dreams “Give to the chosen

  “In a silken glove.” “Love’s shape he’ll show.”

  “When you give him the ash,” Aunt Sybb told her rapt audience, “you would say: ‘Hearts of my Ancestors, grant my heart’s need.’”

  “I told you it rhymes,” Wainn said, shortbread paused before his mouth. “Except the last part.”

  “Why don’t I send the rest of those home with you?” offered Peggs, drawing the youngest Uhthoff to his feet.

  “To share with your brother.” Jenn winked and her sister blushed.

  Wainn followed Peggs to the kitchen peacefully, only to turn in the doorway, his face troubled. “You should ask. Before you change his shape. Ask him.”

  “Ask the toad?” Aunt Sybb smiled into her napkin.

  Jenn didn’t smile. She stared at Wainn, who remembered books he couldn’t read and loved a woman who wouldn’t speak. He had his own wisdom, a Marrowdell wisdom. She suddenly felt of all the advice she’d ever been given, this was the most important.

  “I’ll ask,” she told him. “I promise.”

  Bannan crossed his arms behind his head and gazed at the ribbon of sky above. Blue still. A star showed. The Mistress, most likely. Her companion at this early hour, before moonrise, was the Rose, soft pink, low and toward the east. Too low to see from the narrow Northward Road, that snuck through crag and hill like a thief.

  Night here, courtesy of the steep slopes to either side and their cloak of dark vegetation. He’d shared camp duties with Tir, along with an early supper. Once Scourge disappeared into the surrounding trees, the ox had lowered himself to the grass, contentedly chewing his cud. Tir had rolled himself in a blanket and now slept, a sure sign he planned to be awake later and on guard, no matter what Bannan said.