Spring Showers Box-set

by Avell Kro

  two ripe boils. We wanted to practice knife work in the cavalry, a pair of shaved sticks worked a

  treat. Good balance. Safe. As I've told ye often enough.” He dangled one of the edged blades between

  his thumb and his trigger finger like a soiled rag.

  I said nothing and shrugged. Then I reached to swipe the knife, but he jerked it away.

  “By the five gods lass, why would ye do such an awful thing?” Eby asked quietly. “Chef's already

  turned out one scullery maid accused of theft. After he flogged her.”

  My cheeks flamed. “I didn't know, Eby. All that talk about how juggling was only fit for minstrels

  and beggars . . .”

  “And thieves,” Eby muttered darkly. “I raised ye better.”

  I smacked the wall. “It had to feel real, Eby. Nobody takes you seriously when you toss a few acorns

  in the air. But knives, swords, fire sticks . . . these get respect.”

  “Ye won't get respect stealing yer Ma's butter knives, lass.” He held up one hand to strangle the

  harrumph building in my throat. “But give me a few days to scrounge through my packs. I will find

  ye some good, balanced knives.”

  I looked up. “Yes!”

  “Throwing knives,” he snorted. “Proper cavalry blades, not this scullery trash.”

  I quivered. “Yes! Yes!”

  He held up his other hand and shook his head. “After ye apologize to your Ma' and the Chef and the poor scullery maid. We shall make up a story so ridiculous, so embarassin' nobody will ever think

  of ye juggling.”

  My shoulders tensed. Punishments from Eby tended to be epic. “Oh?” I asked quietly.

  “Huntsman ever take ye into the woods?”

  “Mother would carve him up with his own knives first,” I snorted.

  “But ye been curious, badgered the man?” Eby pressed.

  “I . . . suppose so,” I said, trying to work where he was going and failing. Eby was even twistier than

  me.

  “Well, let's say ye got so burning curious you decided to skin and butcher one of his boars . . . with

  ye Ma's good butter knives.” Eby shook his head mournfully. “Battered, bloodied, and broke a

  handful of the lovely things before ye found a proper skinning knife. Guess ye will have to

  apologize to Huntsman as well, eh?”

  I bit my lip. “Mother will tan my hide.”

  “Aye and it's no more than ye deserve. Consider it penance for that poor maid. Ye didn't think

  words would suffice, lass?” He sighed and shrugged. “Besides, the maid is long gone. Come to the

  scullery tonight.” He doffed his coat and rol ed up my contraband. “Bring the butter knives. I shall

  bring the pig.”

  “Yes, Eby.”

  “A great, hairy pig with large tusks and mousy, little eyes. Oh, and lass?” He gave me an evil little

  smile. “Wear one of ye fancy green dresses and put some ribbons in your hair. Nothing like an

  emerald green evening gown to slaughter black boars, eh?”

  Mother did not punish me for ruining my good green dress. I'm not an idiot. I wore an old, brown

  cotton smock to slaughter the pig, which was sprawled across the length of the counter. Eby

  directed me to hack the beast's testicles off first with a blunt butter knife. They looked like two

  gigantic, white onions and sizzled when Eby lobbed them in the hearth. The little brown dress

  allowed me to flex my knees and elbows, which is a great help when skinning, gutting, and cutting

  up a wild boar. A green evening gown and ribbons. Where did old Eby get such crazy notions?

  The night of the great boar slaughter came and went. The huntsman even thanked me for my

  'assistance.' The cook did not. My parents bade Eby to cut a stout switch and wield it with a firm

  hand. Mother was more angry at her daughter's lack of grace and couth than a few broken silver

  knives. Father missed the knives: their lack would curtail the guest list for his next party. They

  expressed their displeasure through Eby's swift, precise strokes in the hopes that I never do

  something so reckless again.

  My sister did not gloat and ministered to my sore backside after, but some part of me resented

  her. I pushed her away though every inch of skin from my shoulders to the back of my knees

  burned.

  May held her finger poised mid air, a dollop of ointment dripping off the end. “What's wrong? I'm

  being as gentle as I can.”

  I struggled pulling the nightgown over my shoulders. She rushed to assist and I waved her away

  again. I couldn't accept her help after I had failed her.

  May sighed and sat on the bed, tossing the tin of ointment from one hand to the other. And there it was. My eyes watched the single tin sail back and forth, my mind adding more tins, little tricks, and

  patterns I could never, ever teach her. The juggling lessons she bothered to attend were not going

  wel . May refused to admit she just didn't have a knack for it, that there was something I could do,

  which she could not.

  Your failure is my failure, I thought.

  She looked down at the tin and laughed. “Oh, you're not a failure. I'm just a poor student. Juggling is

  hard. We'll get it some day. Please, come to bed.”

  But determination did not make her a better student nor me a better teacher. I began to hate her

  for it.

  Eby apparently noticed this growing rift and after the pork and butter knife debacle had died a

  quiet dead in my parent's memories, he suggested a proper chaperoned sisterly camping trip was

  just the thing to rekindle our spirits. Our parents agreed. They said a few days of sleeping on the

  hard ground and cold tinned breakfasts were just the thing to settle two rambunctious little girls

  and off we went.

  Once out of site of the mansion, Eby gifted each of us with her own sheathed cavalry blade. “When

  we get deeper into the woods, lasses,” he said, “I will teach ye to sink those blades into a tree trunk

  at fifteen paces. Good defense against bandits, boars, and bears.”

  He winked as we and admired the blades in the dappled light. The woods around our father's estate

  were more akin to a park than the gnarled, wild forests from Eby's stories. Thieves lurking in the

  bushes were a thing of fairy tales. The understory was kept clear. Dead, listing, or rotten trees were

  harvested for firewood lest they fall on some unsuspecting traveler. The huntsman routinely kil ed

  any beast larger than a fox. I don't know where he had found my boar, but it wasn't in these woods.

  I rubbed the scars on my back and put the knife away.

  My sister threw the knife into the tree trunk at a full twenty-five paces and Eby cheered. Of course,

  she has such small, dainty feet, I groused, counting out my own paces.

  May turned to me and smiled as she wrenched her knife out of the tree. She slipped one foot out of

  her soft leather shoe and wriggled her toes at me. Your feet are my feet, too, Minny.

  I blushed. Subtlety was not my sister's way. I stopped counting paces and walked to the line my

  sister had marked in the dirt with her heel. My scars ached when I bent down to retrieve my own

  blade. Eby had made us practice our vertical throws before we graduated to the horizontal. Rather

  than plunge straight down, my blade had hit the ground at an awkward angle.

  May skipped back towards us and I wanted to smack the knife from her hand. Was I jealous for her

  sudden skill with the knives or was it her flaunting that disturbed me? We had started at five paces

  and worked
our way backwards. Most of my throws have a lovely spin—too much spin, Eby said—

  and the knives bounced off the trees rather than sink into their targets. May's skill was . . .

  uncanny, suspicious. Whatever she cast from her hand hit the target. I glared at her. What have you

  been doing while I was away practicing with butter knives?

  My sister dimpled and said nothing. Practice continued. When we hit thirty paces, she missed for

  the first time. I crowed and stole both knives, plucking a few acorns off the ground and making a

  pinwheel fly between my fingers. But can you do this? I taunted in our mind.

  May reddened. She blew out her cheeks and pushed me to the ground. Knives and acorns flew in all directions. I jumped up and slapped her. The fight escalated and as Mother would say, we ceased to

  act like proper little ladies.

  Eby roared, pulling us apart and one, maybe both, of us screamed at him, “We're nothing but dol s,

  Eby, little matching dolls performing little, matching tricks. And now she knows a trick I don't

  know!”

  Eby snorted, grabbed each of our heads in his hands to brace us apart and drove us down until we

  were all sitting on the ground. We crossed our arms and looked away. “Ye are not two little dol s,

  lasses. But ye are sisters. Act like it.” He twisted his wrist until May and I were facing each other.

  “Who can ye depend upon in this world if not ye own flesh and blood? Cherish that connection,

  lasses. Maven, apologize. Minerva, apologize.”

  “Sorry, May,” I said, smiling. You dumb dragon barf.

  “Sorry, Minny,” she replied. You stupid minstrel punk.

  “There, all better,” Eby laughed, clapping us both on the shoulder. The lilt of his brow suggested he

  didn't quite believe us. “Now, let's put the knives away and make camp. We'll dig the latrine first,

  then get started on dinner. I don't like the look of those clouds.”

  The gathering dark clouds had largely dispersed by nightfall. Packs of clouds drifted across the sky,

  blocking the bright moon and shrouding us in passing darkness. “How's that fire coming, lass?”

  Eby called to May, who was kneeling over a pile of sticks with flint and striker in hand. Then he

  turned to me. “Minerva, get some more kindling for your sister. Make some fluff from those twigs

  like I showed ye.”

  I dutiful y shaved a pair of sticks. “Yes, Eby.” The moon vanished again. I threw one of the sticks

  and stomped on it. “What was that, a bear?”

  May shrieked.

  “There are no bears in these woods,” Eby growled as the moon reappeared.

  I laughed and threw the broken twigs and fluff at May's feet. “Maybe you can burn those twigs by

  screaming at them.”

  “Shut your gob, Minny,” May said as the moon vanished once more. She screamed in frustration,

  and a bright orange light flashed in the darkness. I blinked and when the moon came back, found

  my sister fallen backward, staring at a small fire, dumbstruck.

  “Don't just sit there on yer bum, lass,” Eby called. “Feed the flames.”

  My sister ignored him. She hunched over, staring into the flickering fire light.

  “See?” I said, dropping sticks into the flames. “Even you can light a fire.”

  “Yes,” she replied, staring at her hands.

  “Still can't juggle for crap.” I pulled her away as she reached for the flames. “Sit up before you toast

  your fingers and singe your hair.”

  We cooked some strange maroon-colored bricks that smelled like lard and berries, which Eby

  called red rations. Told us the ingredients were an imperial state secret we were better off not

  knowing. Cooking the things merely changed the bricks from cold to warm and water from our

  canteens helped to soften them up. We'd eaten worse when the chef was having a bad day in the

  scullery.

  Bel ies full, we crawled into our little pup tents arranged facing the fire. I fell asleep to the sound of crickets and the crackling flames.

  That night, I dreamed I was awoken by soft, eerie laughter. I crawled from my tent to see my sister.

  She was in the fire, but not on fire. She was spinning and dancing naked in the flames. They

  crawled up her body, clothing her in a fiery, translucent dress, but she was unharmed. I gasped and

  she startled. The fire extinguished and my sister vanished.

  It had to be a dream. I should have grabbed her, reached toward the flames, done something. But in

  the morning, my sister was unharmed. She let me examine her feet, he fingers, and her hair. Not

  even singed. There was a bit of ashes on the soles of her foot. May giggled when I brushed it off,

  spinning a tale of a midnight visit to the latrine and stepping in the ashes of the long dead fire.

  She laughed nervously when I described my dream. Me dancing with no clothes? What would

  Mother say?

  Say? I tittered. The woman would die of shock.

  May hugged me. Strange things happen in the night, sis.

  I tensed, then wrapped my arms around her. Why were you sitting so close to the fire last night?

  I like the flames, she said. They . . . comfort me. And you were being a butt.

  An imperial butt, I agreed. This new fascination of hers was strange, but gave me an opening to

  mend things between us. What if I worked some fire sticks into my juggling? I would need a partner

  who's good with fire. Would you want to help me with that, Mistress of the Flames?

  Oh yes! She squeezed and I felt like my ribs might crack.

  When I started to juggle fire sticks, Mother suddenly approved of my hobby. I could sense my sister

  working behind the scenes, prodding, arranging a demonstration at one of father's soirees. This

  wasn't some misguided career aspiration, my sister deftly slotted the thing with hints and

  whispers into Mother's mind, it was just another party trick like reading blindfolded. I handled the

  sticks while May handled the fire and it became a sisterly activity. I felt like we were growing closer

  again.

  The word 'assistant' was never used, but my parents didn't dress us in matching green garments

  anymore. I wore somber clothes with tassels, as befitted a performer, and May wore a flashy dress,

  as befitted the performer's partner. As the crowds grew, Mother was a changed woman. No more

  talk of beggars and minstrels.

  After one such performance, Mother came behind me and squeezed my shoulder. I startled. “I

  never realized,” she said softly. “It's not a gaudy minstrel show at all. When you danced between

  those whirling orbs dripping with fire, weaving light and darkness and movement, it was . . . art.

  Like a living painting. Who knew my daughter had such talents buried within her?” She hugged me.

  I went limp in the woman's rough embrace, stunned. Mother never hugged.

  May gave a bitter, little bow, the bells on her costume jingling. “Thank you, Mother. We both do our

  best.” Coating my simple, wooden juggling balls with naphtha and transforming them into fiery

  orbs while wearing thick, fire-resistant gloves to impress the crowd had been my sister's idea.

  “Yes,” Mother said, patting my sister's shoulders. “I have two wonderful daughters with very

  different talents. I am certain you will find your talent one day, Maven. Perhaps your sister can

  teach you how to juggle?” She gave a little shrug and turned to rejoin the festivities.

  “Perhaps,” May said, grinding her teeth as she glared behind Mother's back. I sensed a roiling mix of envy, hatred, and
loathing behind my sister's eyes. She tried to shield it, but her emotions were

  too raw. We had shared everything for too long to start hiding.

  My fame ascended while my sister continued to fume quietly. Nobody else suspected a thing. She

  gave no outward sign in word or deed, but her mind was an open book to me.

  I once offered to trade places and be her groveling assistant. She laughed and demurred.

  “What would I do?” she asked. “Juggle my way to fame? Our roles are set. You are the wonderful

  performer and I your doting lackey. Are you going to be a minstrel?”

  “Stop it. You're starting to sound like Mother. You can do something,” I said. “What have you been

  sneaking away to practice? Show me. We can put it in the act.”

  “I'm not ready for that.” She held up her hands. “I need to practice alone. In private. Like you with

  the knives.”

  I shrugged. “When you're ready, show me. I want to see it. I would love to see it.”

  May gave me a wan smile and disappeared into her own little world again. She stopped performing

  in my act, citing illness to our parents, but I knew the truth. The breach between us had not healed

  that day in the woods, but widened.

  Then one day, she was ready to show me her secret little talent. “Come into the woods with me. It

  will be a private performance. Just the two of us. Like we used to do. Please?”

  “Yes,” I replied. “Love to see it.”

  My sister led me out to our field. I wanted her to wear the suit with tassels, but she said her plain

  shawl would do. She tossed me a few acorns.

  “You start, sister. It will help me get into the spirit of things.”

  I made a few lazy pinwheels. My heart wasn't in it. The dew on the grass was beginning to soak

  through my shoes. Despite what I told my sister, I wasn't in the mood for another pathetic juggling

  demonstration. I just wanted to go home.

  May sighed and clenched her fists. “More. More . . . pizazz.” She tossed me more acorns and

  laughed, shaking. “I can still barely juggle at all, you know. So pathetic.”

  I winced and dropped an acorn. I had sixteen . . . fifteen in the air now, weaving interlocking

  pinwheels. I was showing off again. “Will this do?” I asked.

  “Yes, thank you,” May ground between her teeth. “That looks . . . perfect. I'm not like you. This is