by Jenna Rhodes
The night frightened her. Not the darkness of it, but the unseen things that inhabited it. There were some she had seen, and many she could hear and smell, and she did not understand what they feared, but it seemed that all who walked the night were hunters of one sort or another. Did she hunt too? Maybe.
Rivergrace chafed her hands against her arms. Sometimes when she woke, she had no words. It was as if all of them fled her when she slept, running away, leaving her with no way to say or think anything. On such nights all she could do was to lie awake until they crept back slowly, one by one, with feelings and the ideas behind them. She didn’t know why they left or where they went or what she could do to make them come back quicker, but she hated the trapped feeling of being unable to speak or even put words together in her head, to be remembered for shouting aloud later. It was as if it took all she could do to just be.
She stared into the river, watching the moonlight ripple across its current. Alert for the smell and sound of stinkers riding into the valley, she could stay a while but not too long, in case one of her family missed her.
Rivergrace stretched out her hand and leaned close to the water, and touched it. Icy cold thrilled through her fingertips. Something wiggled against it and swam off with a splash of a finned tail, into the dappled shadows of the reeds and deeper pools.
Can you help me, she thought after the fish. I’ve lost something here, but I . . . I don’t know what it is. How impossible. How could she find the words to tell the fish what she’d lost if she’d never known them herself? But something. She knew she’d lost something on the river. Whenever she tried to ask Nutmeg about it, more and more haltingly as it escaped her grasp, Nutmeg would only hug her close and soothe her, on the edge of tears herself. She did not want to make Nutmeg cry anymore, so she stopped asking.
Whatever it was she’d lost, she was losing even the thought of it, the barest notion of it. The feeling of being on the raft, swirling downriver, was something she could only touch in dreams, and even those were becoming wispy and shredding away, like clouds on a windy Harvest day. Before that, beyond that lay something she could not describe. It was as though she had been cupped in great hands, the river flowing about her but not touching, time without meaning, herself breathing and living and growing as quietly as a stone on the ground ages, her thoughts as vast as the sky itself, and as slow as the mountains. She did not know what that meant, any more than she understood why she could barely sense her loss. In her nightmares, she remembered cold, and crashing dark, and screams and pain and then . . . nothing. Something had caught her up and saved her, and cocooned her from the river, then set her upon it once again, something to which a day meant nothing more than a breath, and to which years were only a sigh. So she would wander to the river and stand, knowing only an ache inside of her and with no idea why, her memories so thin she would lose them, too. She hugged her hands to her throat, feeling the sorrow well up in her unbearably.
Rivergrace sighed.
The cold of her feet turned to stinging burn and she stood, stamping them, biting her lips against the pain. She could not stay out any longer. She drifted back the way she’d come, pausing in the house long enough to get warm by the banked fire in the hearth, so that her chilliness would not make Nutmeg complain and toss in bed when she climbed back in.
She put her hand to her cheek. A frozen tear came away in her fingers. Why should she cry?
Quiet and wondering, Rivergrace crept back to her bed and snuggled under the warm quilts. Nutmeg stirred and threw a chubby arm over her.
“Aderro,” whispered Rivergrace. The word caught in her throat. It was not one she’d been taught here, in this home. But she knew it anyway, with no idea of what it meant. She slipped into sleep as the warmth lulled her thoughts and words away.
Chapter Twelve
KELDAN PELTED INTO the house, his hair flying wildly, his face apple-red and sweating as he pounded into the kitchen. “Peddler on the road!” he managed to gasp out, seizing the water ladle and dashing his head with it.
“Saw her, did you?” Lily smiled.
“All the way from the new saplings, Mom. It’ll be a short while afore she gets here.”
“Good. Catch your breath and go fetch your father, then.” Keldan flashed a grin. “Oh, my heels passed him by already.”
Nutmeg reached over and grabbed Grace’s hand, her eyes on Lily. “Can we stay?”
Lily considered the two girls sitting at the table, working on darning and patches. Rivergrace uttered not a word, letting Nutmeg talk for her as she had these many weeks, although she grasped their language faster than Tolby and Lily had thought possible. Just another way the Vaelinars seem superior. She squelched that musing, and put her embroidery on the table. “I don’t see why not. Mistress Greathouse doesn’t come by all that often. Would be a shame to miss her, and with winter so close, it will be months before the road will even be open to her again.”
She stood, smoothed down her apron, and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “I’ve things to gather for her, so you two make sure we’ve apple cider and cookies or biscuits for her, while I work.”
Nutmeg pulled Grace to her feet, heading to the larder and pantry, her voice drifting back, “Aye, Mom!” She towed the two of them to the stores, quickly checking the bakery shelves to see what the brothers had left. All seemed in order, so she took a freshly washed tablecloth and knotted it about the cookies and sweet biscuits. “This tells the boys they canna eat them, that they’re for eating later, just in case.”
Grace nodded. The Farbranch boys could clear a full table in minutes. She supposed such eating was normal for boys, although it still scared her a bit. Suppose she got grabbed up and eaten by mistake? She let go of Nutmeg’s hand and checked the cider jugs herself, where they were snuggled away in what Tolby called the cold drawer. Almost in the cellar but still reachable from where she kneeled, the jugs got the chilling air from down below. It wouldn’t keep meat, but it kept juice and cider very nicely. She nodded to Nutmeg as she painstakingly counted the large jugs. “Four,” she said.
“Are you sure? Remember the hand fingers.”
Numbers came slowly to her, much slower than words. Grace ran her hands over the jugs again, then blushed. “Seven,” she corrected herself, and sighed.
“Good, that will be enough for company and dinner later. We won’t have to haul any more up till tomorrow morning.” She helped Rivergrace to her feet, and the two girls dusted each other off.
Grace asked quietly, “What is a . . . peddeler?”
“Peddler.” Nutmeg bounced. “That’s right, you don’t know! She drives a wagon full of all sorts of things, plain and fancy, things you have never seen before, and things Mom needs in her kitchen and Da needs in the press and things that seem like magic.”
Rivergrace looked at her doubtfully. “Really?”
“Really.” Nutmeg made the solemn mark of an oath across her chin. She turned to dart back to the kitchen and stopped when Grace did not move. Her sister stood with one hand ringing her wrist and looking down at the floor.
“I do not think,” she said slowly, “I should greet the peddler.”
“Ma said it would be fine, and don’t you think she knows best?” Nutmeg stood on one foot, watching. Grace had these moments, and she knew they were difficult times for her new sister, but her parents had told her that Grace must work things out for herself. They had grown fewer and fewer, but she stood impatiently. She shouldn’t leave her alone if she were too scared to go see the wonders of Mistress Greathouse, but to miss the peddler? Nutmeg shifted to stand on the other foot, her gaze fixed on Rivergrace’s face, waiting and trying not to fidget too much or force anything. Just when she thought she couldn’t wait another moment, a smile dawned across Grace’s face.
“I’ll just be quiet,” she offered.
“That’ll do just fine!” Nutmeg grabbed her hand again and they raced to the front door, flung it open, and waited, eyes fixed on the road
that wound by the river and through the orchards. It seemed forever and by the time the clop-clopping of the wagon ponies’ hooves and the merry jingle of the bells on their harness reached the Farbranch house, both girls had sat down, their arms flung round their knees and their thoughts gone far away. Nutmeg jumped to her feet with a shout which drew soft laughter from Tolby and Lily seated behind them. Grace swiveled about, her eyes feasting on the sight behind her, where Lily had several bolts of her weavings set out on the big table for the peddler to examine. She couldn’t imagine anything more wondrous in the wagon than what she beheld right there done by Lily’s hands.
Nutmeg pulled her braid. “Come on!” She ran into the yard, beating her brother Keldan handily, while Hosmer and Garner leaned against the fence, trying to look grown up and unexcited at the visitor, although their eyes flashed in spite of themselves. Garner had a small pipe in imitation of his father and the puffs of smoke came faster and faster until he began choking and had to tap the bowl clean and stamp out the smoldering toback and put his pipe away. By then, Mistress Greathouse had driven her wagon smartly into the yard, snapping the buggy whip in her hand in greeting, her shaggy ponies bobbing their heads and coming to a halt, with a last jingle-jangle of bells and they stomped proudly, throwing their heads about and whickering.
“Derro, good Farbranches!” called out the small woman, a Dweller herself, wisps of dark brunette hair tangled about her face having escaped from the madly crimson scarf she wore. She stood and wrapped the reins about the brake as she set it, the canopy of the wagon behind her a colorful background, dyed blue as the midnight sky, and stenciled with glittering stars and moons and shooting comets. Grace held her breath a moment to look at it.
“Derro,” shouted Nutmeg as she flung herself toward the woman, her brothers echoing the greeting.
Mistress Greathouse laughed as she took up Nutmeg and hugged her close, giving her a kiss on the forehead. “Missed me, then?”
“We thought perhaps we’d gotten too far out on the roads for a visit,” Garner teased the peddler. He patted his vest pocket as he slipped his pipe into it and Hosmer stepped up, handing both the peddler and his sister out of the wagon with one great swoop.
Laughing, Greathouse reached up to pinch Hosmer’s cheek. “You first, lad.” The peddler searched the many pocketed overdress she wore, dusty from the road, yet colored like the rainbow, each pocket a scene of its own. She fetched out a small square package, wrapped in brown paper and tied in twine. She waved it through the air before passing it to Hosmer. “Gotten with much difficulty, and ’tis worn and such, but I doubt you’ll mind that.”
“What is it?” Keldan climbed up to the wagon’s seat and tried to see from his higher perch, but Hosmer only put the package away quickly, saying nothing.
“Aw, c’mon. What’d you get?”
“Later,” his brother murmured and turned away with a rub to a wheel pony’s nose and went to fetch them a bucket of water.
Grace hung back as Nutmeg pulled and coaxed Mistress Greathouse inside. She ran her gaze over the wagon. Immense, it seemed, and as she peered inside, she could see crates and barrels and wagon posts hanging with all manner of goods and hardware. Not all the jingling and jangling came from the belled ponies, it seemed. She caught her breath at wonders she had no name for, as they peeked back at her from the dark interior. Had she come to gift all of the Farbranches? Where had all those unnameable objects come from? And why? She went into the house last, as quietly as she had promised, and stayed in the shadows slanting across the wooden floor as the Farbranches gathered close about the guest, laughing and jostling one another.
The mistress and Lily hugged one another, and Greathouse said, “I heard, Lily, and I’m so sorry,” and the merriment left the weathered and lined face for a moment.
“Thank you, Robin, but I’ve been blessed many times over as it is.” Lily hugged the woman back.
“Truer words were never said.” Robin Greathouse released her gently. “Although I will say, the Meadowes are what delayed my trip. They had a gift to send to you, and wanted me to wait to deliver, and then word reached us.”
“How sweet of them,” beamed Lily. “You tell them their kind thoughts are like honey!”
“I will, indeed.” Robin stripped off her driving gloves briskly. “Now, what have we here?” she added, getting right down to business. Tolby and Garner opened a satchel filled with finely carved pipes, and the peddler took stock, offering a price for the lot even as she examined each one, bickering back and forth with them. Rather than exchanging money, however, Tolby shot back a list of items he needed for harnesses and the press, Greathouse taking notes and tallying up the trade as she took a chair.
When they finished, Hosmer stepped up with a box of hats he had made, wide-brimmed all-weather hats of leather. Robin made a noise of interest, turning one over and over in her freckled, rein-calloused hands. “Excellent work. Looks to be waterproofed skillfully as well, Hos. Your workmanship is improving every time I come by.”
He nodded, shoved his hands in his pockets, and waited.
“I owe you a half crown,” she said, finally. “Fair enough?”
“Aye, Mistress, very,” he said, his eyes lighting up.
“Good, we’ll settle up when everything else is done.” She packed the hat she was holding back into the box with a nod.
Saying, “Last, but certainly not least,” she scooted her chair closer to the table before reaching over carefully and opening Lily’s fabric to the sunlight. “Ahhhh.” She breathed in appreciation as she waved her rough hand over it, wanting, but not daring, to touch. “What a fine, fine, beautiful cloth!”
The sea of light blue opened up, with a faint shimmer of silver over it, and woven into it were flower buds like stars in the sky, scattered ever so rarely and exquisitely. Grace drew a step closer to look upon it, thinking she’d never seen a fabric so grand, and wondering that it had come from Lily’s looms. Although she’d seen her Dweller mother working, this cloth had been done before she arrived, or very late at night, for she’d never seen its like.
“You’ve outdone yourself,” Robin murmured. “This will make a stunning dress for some spring bride. I only wish you could cut and sew it, too, as you used to, years ago. It will be difficult to find a seamstress or tailor to do this justice.”
“Now, now,” said Lily, with a faint blush. “There are many more clever than I.”
“Not with a gown, Madame Farbranch!” The peddler winked at her. “But who am I to argue? What have you in mind for this bolt?”
As Tolby sat back and reached for Grace and drew her on his knee, his arm around her waist with comforting warmth, the two women haggled price over the cloth goods till finished, both beaming in satisfaction. Nutmeg danced about the table, popping in and out, listening intently, jostling Garner and Keldan as she made her presence known. She helped her mother lay out two more bolts of cloth, neither so fine as the wedding cloth, but still quality goods from the look of them, one in a soft rose color and the other a deep ivory like that of clotted cream. Robin Greathouse shook her head in admiration. “If only there were six of you,” she observed. “Or even two.” Her eyes glanced over Nutmeg.
“I’m learning! I help a lot,” Nutmeg shot back.
“I’m certain you do.” Robin searched her pockets again and came up with a beribboned hair clasp, shiny and gay, catching Nutmeg as she whirled past and pressing it into her hand. “Help your mother wrap the bolts up and stow them in the wagon, will you?”
“You’re not leaving,” Lily said firmly, “without a meal and news, surely?”
“That would be unthinkable.” Robin Greathouse flashed a smile, her face breaking into a dozen well-etched laugh lines. She waited until Hosmer, Garner, and Nutmeg were gone with their bundles, before leaning forward, the smile fading abruptly. She did not seem to notice Grace sitting quietly on Tolby’s lap.
“I want you to take care. There’s been a report of Ravers up north, headi
ng this way.”
Lily paled and sank back into her chair, holding onto the edge of the table tightly.
“Ravers?” Tolby repeated. “Ill news. You’re certain it’s not gossip?” Grace could feel his arm tighten about her.
“Would that it were. I don’t like to carry such warnings, but it’s as much a part of my job as knowing where the wells have dried up or Bolgers harry the roads. I’ll know more when I return to town, and I’ll send word back on the wing, but I doubt it will be any better news. They’re raiding, as in the past, though ’tis been a while since they’ve bothered us, and ’twill be a fight needing to meet them. The Grand Mayor Hawthorne has put a bounty on ’em, but they take their dead with em, so no one’s pocket is any fuller.” Robin closed her mouth firmly and ceased talking as the grown boys chased Nutmeg through the door and their noisy presence filled the room. It was then, and only then, that she seemed to notice Rivergrace. Her hazel gaze fell upon her and stayed. “Who is this, then?”
Lily directed Nutmeg and Keldan to set the table and held an arm out for Grace. She kissed Grace’s head, and slid over on her chair so that the two of them might share it. “This, Mistress Robin Greathouse, is our adopted daughter, Rivergrace.”
“She’s mine!” Nutmeg shouted over her shoulder from the pantry.
“Oh, really?” the peddler tossed back, smiling again. She waited till the food and dishes were set out, the cookies and fruit biscuits and great slices of cold ham, and the ever present apple cider before saying, “Let me have a look at you.”
Rivergrace alone had not reached for food, although a tiny rumbling could be heard from her stomach. She sat, looking downward, trying her best not to meet the other’s examination. Lily smoothed her dress out and said, “Go ahead. It’s all right.”