It shifted cautiously. ~ I would never presume— ~
“You’re right.” Surely how very much she loved her family and friends was a kind of magic too. Jenn sat up straight and gave a firm nod. “I must help myself.”
She reached into the sack and pulled out the boxes, arranging them in a row. The letters carved in their lids weren’t the tinkers’ initials as she’d thought, nor proper letters at all. She tried to make them out, but what magic let her understand what she heard didn’t work for writing.
The house toad and a small brown bird watching, she brushed an ant from the top and carefully removed the first lid.
It contained a lump of something purple and shiny. To her astonishment, the lump slid quickly to one side as if to avoid the sunlight.
“Definitely not you,” Jenn told it, replacing the lid.
The second box contained yellow feathers, or something like enough; the third, a disappointingly ordinary white sand—ordinary until it opened a bloodshot eye to leer at her. That box went back in the sack.
The fourth held pebbles, but they were brown and dull. The toad wasn’t impressed either. The fifth, something dark green that stank like rotting turnip leaves.
The sixth box hissed and rattled when she touched the lid. Unopened, it joined box three in the sack.
“Last one,” Jenn told the toad.
The white pebble could be inside. Her mouth watered as she slowly lifted the lid.
Fantastic gems sparkled and gleamed within, each facet holding her disappointed reflection. She closed that box and regretfully put it away with the rest. The turn-born expected her to choose from these?
Well, she couldn’t.
They weren’t right.
Nothing tempted her except the white pebble, which, as she considered how it sank through the ground, must be magical enough to be from the Verge, though why it had been in the meadow she couldn’t guess. Or had it been left for her to find?
Disturbing as the thought was, it was worse to imagine the pebble, like the sand in the box, might have waited of its own accord.
She’d touched it with her bare hands. If it came from the Verge, according to Mistress Sand, that was that. Touch then taste then . . .
“Oh, no.” She stared at the toad.
The toad stared back.
“It’s my fault. That’s what Wainn meant.” Like Wisp and Bannan. Had she waited a day, she wouldn’t feel drawn to both. Had she not climbed the Spine, any of these little boxes might have satisfied her. Well, not the eye or the moving purple goo or what hissed, but one of the others surely. The gems, preferably. She mightn’t mind so much if she could sparkle inside. At least then she could show Peggs.
Jenn refused to think it defeat. Though it wasn’t at all gracious to ask for a new and different gift, Mistress Sand had said she’d help. What better help than for the turn-born to cross back to the Verge and find her pebble? She’d ask, most politely, and hope.
She lifted her eyes to the Spine, its mounds brilliant white against the clear blue sky, like clouds.
If the turn-born couldn’t find it by the Great Turn, she’d cross herself to look.
There was honor for you, she thought, with a nod to the stalwart toad.
To die trying.
Any other evening, especially after a day’s hard work, Bannan would have been among the first to wrap his fist around a tankard of beer and fill his plate with steaming fragrant meat.
Not this night.
He’d stayed with the rest to see the animals cared for; not that the kruar required more than being free of their harness, but the livestock in the orchard needed to be coaxed into the now-cleared field. The Ropps’ little bull, unwilling to concede space to the Ansnans’ giant oxen, found himself to the fore and refused to budge; big Davi and two more men had laughingly pushed him through the hedge gate. The riding horses eagerly followed, kicking up their heels as they galloped across the wide open space. The rest of the cattle, the oxen, cows, and calves, came next, spreading out with heads down and mouths busy in full approval of their new forage.
Last, but not least, the fat old pony wandered after, with a nicker and fuss when he realized the draft horses and Aunt Sybb’s team were to spend the night in their barn, a worry swiftly forgotten once the children tossed apple cores into the field for him.
Clean and dressed for the evening, Lila’s letter safely put with his belongings, Bannan began his search for Jenn Nalynn.
The villagers were assembling for the welcome feast, so he headed there first. Platters and bowls of food covered the trestle tables laid along the path leading from the main road to the Treffs’ and Emms’. The stretch between the former’s home and the latter’s barn offered a pleasing unobstructed view of the river and valley, so an abundance of benches and blankets and chairs had been set out wherever there wasn’t garden. The tinkers had brought several of their barrels, tapping those to cheers and hearty applause. The barrels might not be the wood they appeared to others, but the beer looked and smelled as it should.
Lamps hung from poles and porches and even the branches of nearby apple trees. Candles ringed the fountain in the center of the village. None were lit. Not yet.
For the sun still hung over the Bone Hills, its low rays gilding the valley where it wasn’t striped by long shadows. The crude log buildings took on a russet glow and the river sparkled like diamonds.
For the first time, Bannan found himself immune to Marrowdell’s remarkable beauty. The turn was coming. He slipped through the gathering, avoiding pleasantries, fending off platters and jugs, looking everywhere for Jenn Nalynn. So intent was he, he staggered when Davi clapped him soundly on the back. “Fine work today, Bannan. We’ll make a farmer of you yet.”
“Good to hear,” he said when he had his breath. Nodding toward the beer barrels, the truthseer made his escape.
Twice, he thought he’d spotted Jenn, only to be wrong. Once, he almost collided with the Ansnan dema and took a quick step out of the way. The dema and Eld, hosted by a smiling Dusom, mingled cheerfully with the villagers and tinkers. Their servants stayed close by the beer, eyes wary and tankards clutched to their chests as if chances to indulge were few and far between.
Horst stood apart, as usual, tucking into a plate of misguided ox. He was too adept a watcher to make his attention obvious, but Bannan was sure nothing the astronomers said or did went unnoticed. Especially now that Horst knew they might be here for more than the eclipse.
The truthseer hadn’t told him of the turn-born or that Jenn Nalynn was one of their kind. There’d been no time or need. Simply passing along Wyll’s warning, that the newcomers might try to use Jenn Nalynn as part of Ansnan magic, had been enough to put fire in the old soldier’s eyes.
Tir should hear it all, but that had to wait. His friend would be busy in the mill with Radd until after sunset; Bannan had to find Jenn first.
Was that . . . ? The tantalizing glimpse of fair hair and round cheek was lost behind a forest of tall black feathers. As he attempted to peer around the hat without offending Lorra Treff, who mistook his attention and immediately smiled, someone took hold of his hand and tugged.
He glanced down to find the Ropps’ youngest daughter, Alyssa, who wasn’t smiling at all. “Bannan, you must come,” she urged, tugging harder. “Your horse is starting a fight!”
Scourge. He’d wondered how long it would take, but now? Ancestors Witness, the beast had impeccable timing. The sun was touching the Bone Hills; in moments it would set.
Jenn . . .
As Bannan hesitated, an enraged squeal from the commons shocked the festive crowd to silence. A second brought worried murmuring, especially from the astronomers. “Your pardon,” Master Riverstone said loudly. “Our horses play. We’ll see to them.”
Nods and relieved looks. The villagers went back to their party, Dusom busy explaining to the dema. That should be a conversation worth overhearing.
Knowing exactly how kruar could be, at play or othe
rwise, the truthseer nodded to Alyssa and headed for the commons.
Riverstone and Chalk were ahead, bound for their tent. As Bannan caught up to them, the latter turned and stopped in his way. “It’s best to leave them alone. Our horses aren’t the tame sort.”
“My horse’s there,” Bannan snapped.
An eyebrow lifted in polite disbelief. “Why would—” A deep, bloodcurdling roar echoed through the valley and the other eyebrow rose in shock. “It can’t be . . .”
So Scourge was adept at hiding from turn-born as well. Until, Bannan winced inwardly, now. “I have to go,” he said as calmly as he could, stepping around Chalk. “Can’t have a fight, can we?”
“What is it you see, man of truth?”
This was it, then. How they’d found out didn’t matter; what did was what happened next.
Who did he fool? Whatever they decided, that’s what would happen.
Though his heart thudded in his chest, Bannan kept his face pleasant. “Do we do this now, turn-born?” he asked grimly, with a meaningful nod to the gathering behind them. “Here? I’m not the one with secrets.”
“Peace. We’ve no quarrel, Bannan Larmensu, unless you make one.” Chalk smiled then laughed outright. “Sly old kruar. He brought you! His disguise na?”
The truth. All of it. For whatever reason—and he thought at once of Jenn Nalynn—the turn-born accepted his presence. He let out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d held. “Scourge just wants to go home—” A pained squeal from the commons drew Bannan’s head around. “Heart’s Blood!”
He heard the turn-born shout, “Leave them!” as he broke into a run. He didn’t look back.
The “sly old kruar” may have planned how to get here, the truthseer thought furiously, but had he expected to meet six of his kind in Marrowdell? Well-armored, and for all Bannan knew, younger and stronger?
He’d bet on Scourge, no question.
Still. Just in case, he grabbed a pitchfork on his way.
Through the open window, Jenn watched the golden tinge on the crags consumed by darkness that moved steadily, stealthily upward. There was no stopping it.
All she could do was hide.
She’d returned to the tent with the boxes and her request, only to find Mistress Sand had left. She should have remembered. The tinker helped the Treffs each year with the welcome feast. Urgent as the pebble was, Jenn couldn’t bring herself to risk Lorra and Frann’s curiosity.
So she’d made her way home, to help Peggs. Her sister’d accepted her return without question or fuss, quietly keeping her busy.
Keeping her in sight, too, as the afternoon drew to an end. There was no fooling Peggs Nalynn.
Jenn hadn’t tried. She’d stayed close to her sister, helping to set out platters and baskets, letting others do the fetch and carry. She’d waited for the tinkers and looked hopefully for Wyll, but there was no sign of either. Her dragon had promised to come tonight; she supposed he was busy too.
Then the wagons returned, those who’d worked the fields sitting atop the day’s last loads, waving their pitchforks in tired triumph. The grain wagon went on to the mill while those not heaving stalks busied themselves with moving the livestock to their new pasture. Though every face wore a mask of dust and sweat, there was no mistaking Bannan Larmensu for anyone else.
Her eyes had followed him, her heart beating like a drum. Whenever he looked in her direction, Jenn would pretend to drop something under a table and crouch down. It was all quite exhausting.
It didn’t help that Peggs tried not to smile.
Between trying to avoid Bannan and find a private moment with Mistress Sand, Jenn had felt sunset crawling closer and closer. Now, she understood the tinkers’ daily observance; like the house toads hiding under Aunt Sybb’s coach, they avoided exposure inside their tents. She couldn’t face the turn in the open either, especially not in front of almost everyone she knew. But how to evade her determined sister?
Scourge. Just when it seemed Bannan had spotted her at last, the great beast had let out a roar, answered by the tinkers’ horses. Everyone else had looked to the commons, including Bannan, and she’d nipped around the Emms’ barn and home, quick as could be.
She owed Scourge a very large plate of hard-boiled eggs. In their shells.
So now, waiting for sunset, Jenn sat on the window seat and let the breeze from the river cool her flushed cheeks. Their father would stay at the mill as long as there was light, while Aunt Sybb happily held court on a chair Tir had placed for her in the center of the festivities.
She was safe, here, and alone.
Voices and laughter rose from the feast. After sunset, the lamps would be lit and the music begin. Quietly at first, to allow full stomachs to settle and dishes to be cleared. A foot might tap the beat. Heads nod slowly. There’d be satisfied smiles and peace.
The Beholding for the harvest would be said, pulling everyone together, then the tempo would rise along with the laughter. The eager would jump up; others tarry for another beer or take their turn on the drum. The hardest part was that the dancing need end, but all must be at work by dawn. Master Riverstone would hold firm; though he could be coaxed into an extra song or two.
Her extraordinary new dress hung on its hook. Jenn wore her former best, having lost her courage at the last moment. The pale green with white stripes was still pretty, though the bodice no longer allowed a deep breath and she’d caught Peggs giving her an amused look.
The last touch of gold left the crags.
Jenn braced herself, but the first cramp struck like a blow, driving the air from her lungs. Gasping, she stumbled toward the bed.
At her second step, she sank to her knees through the braided rug and wood of the floor, feet and ankles gone.
She tried to scream and couldn’t, bent to push herself free but had no hands! No hands or wrists . . . She flailed her elbows uselessly, knowing she must be free before the turn ended or be stuck in the floor, which wasn’t like dirt or carrots.
She’d die and be found like this. Peggs would have nightmares forever.
No. It wasn’t going to happen. Rolling on her back, Jenn fought past her skirt to pull her knees close with what remained of her arms, trusting her feet and ankles followed.
All the while, the hunger. She shouldn’t be here—she should be there, where she could find what she needed.
Another cramp shuddered through her and she whimpered. So much of her gone, the rest so empty. She couldn’t bear it. She couldn’t—
Something landed, where she’d once had a hand. A rose petal. As Jenn stared, another settled in the air below her knee, where she’d had a leg. Then more petals drifted through the window and more, until they coated her in red velvet skin, until it looked as though she had wrists and hands, ankles and feet again. Whole, again.
It wasn’t true, but it was. Somehow, the illusion of shape helped her endure until, with a final agonizing pain, it was over. The sun had set. The turn passed.
As one, the petals slipped from her skin to the wooden floor, surrounding her with scent and softness as she curled into a ball and wept with relief.
Melusine’s roses. She’d been right to come home.
And sensible, Jenn assured herself as her sobs became hiccups, not to have followed her first inclination, to lock herself in the privy.
That did not bear thinking about at all.
She’d survived, which did. Now to get back before the Beholding, or she’d surely be missed. Jenn wiped her face and went to stand.
She couldn’t.
Her limbs. She could see them, touch them. They trembled and shuddered, but wouldn’t obey.
The sky through the window was dark blue, lighter only on its lower edge. In a short while, the first star would show. The turn was over. Why wasn’t she right again?
Jenn pinched the skin of her forearm as hard as she could, relieved by the pain. Her arm was there, but it wasn’t, not all of it. She would empty, Sand had said, to make room.
>
Not yet. Not now. It wasn’t fair! Jenn struggled but it was like trying to force her way through heavy snow. In the midst of all that was magic and strange, her once-best dress fought her too, its bodice a cage.
Then, of all things, a moth fluttered in through the window, landing lightly on the floor near her face.
“Help me,” Jenn gasped. “Please.”
~ Help yourself. ~
It was a much larger voice than was reasonable from so tiny a creature. Larger and older and, yes, familiar. Perplexed, Jenn blinked away tears. Had the moth been in her dream? “I mean to. I will,” she said urgently. “But I have to move and I can’t.”
The moth regarded her with its round dark eyes as it absently used a leg to pull down and stroke one of the feathery plumes on its head, so like Peggs fooling with her hair while pondering what to do, Jenn felt a rush of hope. Would it help her? Could it?
The leg, dainty and white, released the plume and reached out to tap a rose petal.
“I don’t understand.”
Another tap, this impatient. ~ Taste. ~ A single wing flip took it a distance away.
There were petals against her face. Left with no other choice, Jenn touched her tongue to the nearest.
Fire!
She swallowed greedily, feeling the burn down her throat. Like the tinkers’ beer but stronger, as if the rose held even more of the Verge. Best of all, her fingers twitched.
Jenn didn’t question. With each touch of tongue to petal, more of her body answered until she could lift her head and use her fingers and wrists. With every swallow, she felt more herself, and more of herself.
Enough, she felt. Jenn Nalynn climbed to her feet, her limbs once again her own. The empty feeling was gone, replaced by that warm inner comfort. She crouched before the moth, bare feet crunching on now-dead and shriveled petals. “Thank you.”
~ We promised. ~ In that too-large voice.
It looked like a moth, but wasn’t. Of course it wasn’t. It could talk, for one thing, which moths couldn’t do, and had brought Wyll’s letters. “‘Promised,’” she echoed, then her eyes widened. “You promised my mother—Melusine—that I’d live if I stayed here. Why? Who are you?”
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