by Burke, H. L.
Zeb followed Leilani’s eyes. A stack of clothes, neatly folded, sat at the foot of the cot.
“Oh,” Zeb said. “It is rather late.” She stood, walked to a wardrobe, and took out a nightgown. She opened a door hidden in the shadow of the wardrobe, revealing a small room with a washstand and a chamber pot. Steam rose off the water in the china basin. “You can clean up and change. I can’t promise these clothes fit, but most of the students are around our age, so they should be functional.”
Leilani shut the door to the water closet behind her and awkwardly shed her gray frock, bumping her elbows against the walls. She splashed the warm water all over her face and torso. Then she picked up the cloth hanging from the wall and rubbed her skin briskly until she felt sufficiently dry. She wriggled into the loose tunic and pantaloons provided for her and then emerged. Zebedy slipped into the washroom with her nightgown. Leilani listened to her sloshing and humming for a moment then lay down on the cot and fell immediately into a dreamless sleep.
Chapter Three
The next morning Leilani woke to the sound of Zeb bustling around the room. The young Highmost shuffled, rustled, and bumped. The women in Leilani’s family, and even her father to an extent, moved with a cat-like grace, as silent as their shadows. Zeb’s stirrings resounded louder than bumbling little Kip.
“Oh, you’re up!” Zeb exclaimed as Leilani swung her legs off the side of the cot and stretched her arms over her head. “Good. We can have breakfast together before I attend classes and they escort you home. I’m sure your family has been worried.”
Leilani hesitated. In the excitement of the day before, she hadn’t stopped to consider how her parents might feel when she didn’t return. She had never done anything like this before. All her previous mischief could be classified as word-of-reproof or slap-on-the-wrist-worthy. What would her parents do in response to her disappearing overnight without a word? They might never allow her out of the house again!
“Hopefully they’ll understand.” She shrugged, imitating her mother's serene face. Did Highmost folk even punish their children? Zeb seemed to do pretty much whatever she wanted without consequences. Leilani envied her freedom.
Zeb wore a crisp tunic and bloomers, identical to the ones that had been provided for Leilani, except better fitting. She slipped her purple robe off a hook by the door. It couldn’t have been the same one she wore the day before–that had been hopelessly torn and dirtied–but a similar garment with yellow thread embroidered about the cuffs and collar.
Zeb whispered, “Come on, do me up.”
The Strains sang as the bronze buttons along the front of her garment slid into place, closing it almost to her chin. Zeb smiled. Leilani raised her eyebrows. Her mother had always taught her to use the Strains sparingly, never for simple tasks one could do with one's own hands, lest they tire of such drudgery and refuse to work when Leilani needed them to. Zeb showed no such reservations. Leilani supposed such was the natural result of being able to hear the jokes the Strains told her.
“I’ve been thinking about when we can visit,” Zeb said. “I won’t be able to get to Gelia City for several weeks, and students aren’t supposed to have visitors. It distracts from our studies. The good news is, you will have more than enough time to finish that book.”
The novel Zeb had thrust upon Leilani the night before lay under the cot. She had fully intended to “forget” it. Now, however, Zeb fetched it and handed it to Leilani.
Leilani’s clothes sat in a heap at the foot of the cot. She picked up her frock. Other than a few patches of lingering road dust, the garments were wearable. She brushed them off and donned them before following Zeb down to the dining hall.
The curtains along the wall were drawn back, revealing a row of tall windows. In the daylight the furnishings held less of a mystique though they kept their grandiosity. In fact, now that the sun revealed the vines carved into the backs of the chairs and reflected on the waxy shine of the table top, Leilani felt even more impressed and out of place. Her mother washed their sturdy, oaken furniture daily and sanded it twice a year, but even with all the scouring, it never shone.
About half the seats held children, ranging from twelve to maybe sixteen. All wore robes identical to Zeb’s. Their plates had different portions of pancakes and bacon remaining. Some children scraped the syrup off their empty plates with their utensils while others still picked at their first few bites.
Two chairs stood empty before two waiting plates. Zeb grabbed Leilani’s arm and held her back. The young Highmost wrinkled her nose.
“They put us across from Vickers. He’s so obtuse.”
Leilani glanced at the boy who seemed to be a few years older than her. He had dark eyes, brown hair, and skin more tan than the typical Gelian. Most tended to be fair and freckled like Zeb, but Vickers looked as if he spent a lot of time out in the sun without burning. At their approach, he grinned. Zeb stuck up her nose and glided into her seat, pulling Leilani along.
He swallowed. “I hear you got lost, Whistles.”
“Whistles?” Leilani furrowed her brows.
“That’s the sound the wind makes blowing through her empty head.”
Zeb sniffed. “My empty head has trounced your rock-filled one on multiple occasions.”
“Only because you never stop talking. If you say enough, eventually you’ll say something right, if only by accident. My mom always said, ‘you let loose enough chickens in the garden, and they’ll eat all the bugs, just gobble down your vegetables while they're at it.’”
“That makes no sense.”
“You make no sense.”
“Ha ha, clever. You must be an expert on all things poultry. No wonder you’re so fowl.”
Vickers rolled his eyes and took another oversized bite.
Leilani sensed that their bickering was more habitual than angry, so she concentrated on her breakfast.
Zeb turned back to Leilani. “Hopefully, I can convince my parents to let me have a few hours for our visits. They get possessive of me on holidays,” she said, nibbling on a piece of bacon.
Vickers snickered. “They probably want to make sure you don’t wander off. Maybe they should buy you a leash.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t understand clucking,” Zeb retorted.
Leilani laughed, and Vickers shot her a glare. Not one to be intimidated, even by an older boy, Leilani narrowed her eyes at him.
He tilted his head. “Be careful about tagging along with Whistles here. She's planning to enter Research Manor. She might want to experiment on you.”
Zeb's face reddened. “Don't be ridiculous.”
Vickers kept his eyes on Leilani. “It's true, though. Research does all sorts of twisted experiments, sometimes even on people. They like to find . . . unconventional ways to use the Strains, and sometimes that can go very, very badly.” He glanced at Zeb and smirked when she glared at him.
Leilani snorted. “The Strains wouldn't hurt anyone. They aren't weapons.”
“The Strains won't kill anyone. There's a lot you can do to a person without killing them. My father is with Healing Manor. He's told me horror stories of what people can do with concentrated Strains: cuts, bruises, broken bones . . . even blindness.”
A shudder ran down Leilani's spine. He had to be lying. The Strains wouldn't hurt people. They couldn't.
“You're just being nasty. Research doesn't experiment on people.” Zeb stabbed her fork at him.
Vickers shrugged, holding up his butter knife to block her. “Maybe not any more, but you know the history as well as I do. It's happened.”
“Decades ago, and all that is illegal now. You're just trying to scare her. Don't listen to him, Leilani.”
“I thought I should warn her. Whether she's smart enough to listen isn't my problem.” Vickers took a large bite of pancake.
“Sweet of you to worry about me, but I'll take my chances.” Leilani rolled her eyes. She knew boys like him. Her older cousins used to try to frighten her
with scary stories about monsters in the cellars. She wasn't going to let Vickers get a rise out of her that way.
A bell rang and students pushed back chairs and brushed crumbs from their robes. Vickers laid his flatware in an X across his plate and smiled. “We’ll have to continue this scintillating discussion later. So long, Whistles. I’ll beat you at the debate tonight. Oh, sorry. I meant see you.” He stood.
“Good-bye, Vicky,” Leilani said, forcing her mouth to remain in a straight line, though she wanted to smirk at him. He winced but strode away without another word.
Zeb chuckled. “Vicky! I’ll have to remember that.”
Miss Jonna approached the girls, and Zebedy sighed.
“You have the book?” she asked.
Leilani held it up and nodded. “Thank you. I can’t wait to read it.”
“I really want to see you again. My parents always take me to the Botanical Gardens on holidays. Perhaps we can meet there? It's open to the public, and I’m sure your parents wouldn’t mind.”
“It's time for your friend to go, Miss Zebedy. The wagon is waiting for her,” Jonna said gently.
Zeb’s shoulders slumped. She then pulled Leilani forward into a bear hug. Leilani raised her eyebrows and patted the other girl’s back.
“I'll send word to you when I’m back in Gelia City,” Zeb said. “Good-bye, Leilani.”
“Good-bye, Zeb.” Leilani followed Jonna out of the room into the courtyard where a wagon waited. She was sad to leave Zeb, the Country House, and her first real adventure behind.
§
Leilani shuddered as the wagon turned onto Loom Lane, the street in the Trade District that held her father’s shop. The ride from the Country House had seemed to stretch on forever, though from the level of her hunger she surmised it to be only mid-morning.
Her heart sank to her toes even as the Strains chimed in time with the horse's hooves on the cobblestones.
The doors of every shop beckoned in foot traffic. Colorful banners fluttered above each entry way, naming their specialty, be it the weaving of fine silks or rough canvas. All except one. The door to her father’s store stood barred shut, and his flag had not been unfurled. Her father never closed the shop. Well, except on Holy Days and for festivals, but all shops closed for such occasions.
“Stop here!” she squeaked at the man who drove the wagon.
The middle aged servant raised an eyebrow but pulled rein.
Leilani swallowed but couldn’t moisten her arid throat. She gripped Zebedy’s book against her chest and exhaled slowly through her nose, the way her mother did when trying not to scream at young Kip.
“Is this your home, Miss?” the driver asked.
She nodded.
“Do you want me to come in with you?”
She shook her head. Whatever the consequences, she would own up to it. She wouldn’t cry. She would be calm and collected like her mother, dignified, as suited the daughter of a skilled Rynaran craftsman.
She slid from the wagon seat and thanked the driver. He smiled and waited until she had turned away to shake the reins and urge the horses onward.
The city, even on a quiet street such as Loom Lane, was never silent. People roamed down the length of the cobbled road, which was swept clean daily by the apprentices of the nearby shops. She could hear murmured conversations slipping through open doors. She listened to the Strains. They hummed somberly, a mix between cooing doves and the low twang of her mother’s Ryanaran fiddle.
“We are Gelian now,” her mother often said. “We belong to this city, and we prosper as she prospers. However, we must never forget the dignity of our forefathers and what they left behind in Rynar where the Strains never sing.”
Leilani reminded herself, Gelians are expressive and bold. Rynarans are calm and pragmatic. I am both. I will be bold but calm. I did what I had to do and my parents will understand. I will make them understand, as Zebedy did with Mistress Clavia when she pleaded last night.
A boisterous Strain rose above the rest, trilling like a bird, and she wished with all her heart she could hear the lyrics to its song.
The Strains joked with Zebedy. Perhaps they would reassure Leilani now.
She whispered to them, a wordless hiss of melody. True beggar magic rarely employed words. The Strains shaped around her song, harmonizing with it. Coaxed by the music, they grew in strength and followed her to her father’s door.
She pushed at the door and found it was not bolted. The bell rang at her entry, and she stared at the counter stacked with samples of cloth and the great, upright loom beyond, one of many her father owned and worked at. Footsteps clattered down the stairs and her big sister swept into the room.
“Leilani! Where have you been? Mother and Father have been out searching for you since daybreak. I think they even contacted the guard. All of Gelia City must be looking for you.” Keris threw her arms into the air. As calm as she pretended to be, Keris loved the dramatic, so Leilani could hope she exaggerated. Still, she had been gone a long while.
Eight year old Kip wandered in from the other room.
“Stay here with Kip. I will try and find someone who knows where they are. Oh, you are in so much trouble, little sister.” Keris clicked her tongue with obvious relish but ruffled Leilani’s dark hair affectionately as she brushed past her and out the door.
Leilani sighed.
“Hi,” Kip said. “I thought you might’ve died. Keris said if you weren’t dead you would be when Dad got his hands on you.”
Leilani’s stomach clenched.
Kip glanced around the shop. “I’m hungry. Keris’s porridge is slimy. Will you make me some cake? Or can I at least have an apple?”
Glad for the distraction, Leilani accompanied her brother into the cool cellar beneath the shop where her parents kept their provisions. She wouldn’t risk further angering her parents by breaking into the precious sugar, but an apple or two would not be missed. She reached into the barrel and pulled out two red cheeked apples. Kip snatched one and crunched a large bite, reminding her of Vickers.
“What’s that?” He reached his sticky fingers towards the book.
Leilani drew back protectively. “Don’t talk with your mouth full.”
Leaving him in the cellar, she hurried up the ladder and then the stairs into the loft where her family slept. Each of the Weaver children owned a small chest for their treasures and holiday clothes. She tucked the book under her silken slippers and shut the lid.
Kip wandered upstairs after her and sat, spinning a painted top on the wooden floor. Leilani thanked the Maker he didn’t want to talk.
The door bell chimed again, and Leilani’s heart faltered.
“Please, Maker, let them understand. Make them listen,” she prayed.
“Leilani!” her mother’s anxious voice called out.
Her mother met her halfway up the stairs with a fierce hug, then withdrew, gripped her shoulders tight, and gave her a quick shake.
“Child! Where were you? What were you thinking? Why . . .” She trailed off and pulled Leilani back against her chest.
Leilani squeezed her eyes shut. She had been in no real danger, but knowing how she had frightened her mother shamed her.
“I’m so sorry,” she wept. “Oh, Mama, forgive me. I didn’t mean to.”
Mrs. Weaver released her daughter and wiped her own eyes with the back of her hand. “Well, you're all right. You must be hungry. I will make you lunch, and you will tell me where you were last night, and then we shall decide what to do about it. Keris went to fetch your father. He's searching along the Farmer’s Road. I want to know everything by the time they return.”
Leilani followed her mother through the workroom into the tiny kitchen. Her mother ruled over this space like a queen at court. She could make feasts from the scraps of the previous meal in moments and spent hours on Festival Days creating masterpieces that filled bellies and delighted tongues. Their house often hosted big meals for uncles, cousins, aunts, and any n
eighbors who might be less blessed in relations than the Weavers.
The brick fireplace, painted white and swept clean, took up an entire wall of the room. On the opposite wall, a small window nestled in the midst of shelves and cabinets filled with the tools of Mother’s art: mortar and pestle, sieves, pans, pots, china, apothecary jars containing precious spices, and mesh bags of dried vegetables. The space smelled of smoke and onions.
Her mother opened a cabinet and took out a loaf of crusty brown bread and a wheel of cheese: typical Gelian fare, hearty and simple. Leilani’s mother could cook both cuisines artfully, but Leilani admitted she preferred the bold, salty taste of Gelian cheeses to the more subtle Rynaran flavors where the main course tended to be well cooked rice and steamed vegetables.
Her mother took a long knife and cut into the loaf. Leilani’s mouth watered, but she dutifully told of her encounter with Zebedy and what had come of it. She even mentioned the book for fear that an omission would be as bad as a lie.
Mrs. Weaver nodded and set the slice of bread, now spread with soft white cheese, in front of her daughter. “You did well. You could not leave the girl alone and lost. The Maker would approve of your kindness and His laws are greater than mine. I'm not sure your father will see it the same, but I will speak with him.”
Leilani’s father held tighter to Rynaran tradition where unquestioning obedience to a parent or king was a high virtue. He spoke with pride of how, as a child, he had burned his hand rather than tell his mother that the pot she had asked him to carry was too hot. Still, even he laughed more than he scolded, and Leilani did not fear him.
Relief settled over her, and she picked up the bread and began to eat.
Her mother continued to bustle about between the table and the cabinets. She fed the fire and sorted bottles. Her brows furrowed as if these tasks took a good deal of concentration.
Leilani finished the meal and stood to take her plate to the washing bucket.