A Turn of Light (8 page)

Beneath the trees, behind the Uhthoffs’ home, were the hives. Whenever Uncle Horst found a wild colony, he’d tell Kydd, who’d would march off with his sack to invite the bees home. Jenn didn’t think there was conversation involved, other than gentle hands and a knowledge of their nature. Once in Marrowdell, the bees seemed content to stay. Like most villagers, they avoided the Bone Hills and meadows beyond, but there was plenty of nectar to be had between the village gardens and the wildflowers lining the gullies.

Despite the lengthening shadows, they droned back and forth, head height, knowing better than any where to go.

Seven hives. “Which one?”

Wainn peered into the nearest. Bees bumped into him, crawled over his shoulders, then flew off on their routes. “Wen could ask them for you.”

She could use Wisp, not Wen. Wisp enjoyed playing with bees. He’d whirl them dizzy then set them on a flower without a hair of their bodies left ruffled. Then again, bees didn’t appear to find this game as entertaining as she did. Best not have Wisp involved.

Not yet.

Which was as far as she let that tendril of thought go. The book first. Learn what was needful.

A bee landed on her nose. Jenn went cross-eyed trying to read its face. “Would you help us find a book, please?” she asked.

“You have to use its words, not ours,” Wainn told her. “Like Wen.”

The bee left. Feeling foolish, Jenn crouched to look inside one of the hives. Something lined the outer walls, but she couldn’t tell if she looked at honeycomb or leather binding. Bees walked softly over her hands and arms, wings never still, their hum its own kind of music.

Music that would change to a battle cry if she tried to take anything from their hive. Jenn had watched Kydd lift a panel of honeycomb, dripping and golden, using his free hand to guide the bees back inside. He cared for them, they trusted him.

Who’d think to look for books here? Even if they did, who could, without being stung? She wasn’t sticking her hand in there.

As for why these books were hidden instead of on a shelf—only Kydd Uhthoff could explain that.

“What if he wants to read one?” Jenn mused aloud. “Isn’t it too much trouble?”

“No trouble. He asks me. I know all the words.”

She straightened to stare at Wainn. “You do?” She hadn’t known he could read Rhothan, let alone any other language. He’d been with them during classes, yes, but she’d never seen him open a book.

He nodded. “I know all the words in all our books. Father calls me his library. He asks me for words too, if he doesn’t want to reach to the top shelf.”

“So you know what this book says about changing one thing into another.”

“Oh, yes.” A wide smile. “All the words.”

Jenn smiled back. “Would you like a piece of Peggs’ pie?”

The turn had come. It slid as night’s leading edge across the trapped ones, brushed blue over their ivory flanks, pooled darkness where their edges bled beneath the forest. It faded greens and etched black under flowers, intensifying their colors until the meadow drowned in waves of yellow, white, and mauve. The wide golden fields, rooted in the dark, reaching for the light, took fire as the edge passed over them and showed their true nature.

The turn had come and shapes revealed themselves, small and anxious, wings ablur. Efflet. They fell silent and left their fields. Approached and settled carefully beyond reach, row upon row, pale eyes unblinking, claws knuckled at their breasts. Wisp ignored them. Unreliable creatures, efflet, but they sought his presence despite his tempers.

Company, of a sort.

The light of this world faded; the light of his lingered. In their fleeting balance, what belonged elsewhere could no longer hide. Wisp gazed bemused at his own claw, used it to snap the head from an aster. Such particular magic, light. Beyond the grasp of the wise, outside the reach of fools, though neither hesitated to try. For during a turn, the edge between worlds softened. Here. Elsewhere. Crossing between was easier, for those burdened or less able.

Disturbing what slept. That was easier too, in a turn, but nothing sane would try.

Ease and threat were fleeting. The turn swept across Marrowdell, unstoppable, uncaring. It passed him by, and his claw disappeared. The pale eyes of efflet winked out, row after row, while along the branches of the towering neyet flared a multitude of tiny stars, as what seemed leaves became hordes of busy ylings, the stars the light caught in their hair. The tiny beings had been trapped on this side of the edge, like other small ones, disdained by the mighty, overlooked by those who should have taken care and offered rescue. Resilient and industrious, they’d made new homes along the neyet’s exposed roots. During each turn, their multitudes held hands and sang, or threw themselves with abandon into the air to dance, cloaks rustling.

Though some stood guard, barbed weapons at the ready. Nyphrit would eat them if they could.

The turn passed the neyet.

Leaves giggled in trees. Ylings weren’t the most serious of folk.

Wisp watched the night’s edge unfold shadows along the Tinkers Road. Soon it would douse the glistening water and cross, bringing the turn to the village. The few small ones who dwelt there were too wise to leave themselves exposed. The roses on the girl’s home became only more beautiful, though, like the oak at the river’s edge, they’d sent roots into his world and now held opinions.

When shadows met the road’s last bend, when night followed the plunge of the river and slipped down the final scarred cliff of Marrowdell, their worlds would part company and this day’s turn be done. The limit of the edge, of his duty, and the line the girl must never cross.

The villagers would light their fires and lamps, draw curtains, close doors. He’d asked the girl if inside their buildings they pretended night hadn’t come. She’d laughed her beautiful laugh and said, not at all. Night was a time of rest and peace. Of sleep and dreams.

For those who could rest. The girl blamed Marrowdell for the whispers that disturbed her aunt and sent other would-be settlers away, but Wisp was aware of no malice or intent. Their dreams crept to the edge of their world. Here, they met the edge of his. That was all. Some could tolerate that glimpse; most, it seemed, could not.

This turn ended. Dew, that nuisance of late summer evenings, began to sparkle on the plants around him. Despite his thorough distaste for damp, Wisp remained. He would wait for the lights in the Nalynn home, wait till those lights disappeared again.

“Don’t dream,” he would say then. “Stay here and content, Dearest Heart.”

For her sake, and theirs.

FOUR

L
EAVING WAINN TO
wait outside, cautioned to keep from any window, Jenn tiptoed into the empty kitchen. She was careful not to step through the late day sunbeams leaning through window and door, and kept behind the ladder and half-drawn curtain that separated the necessary clutter of the kitchen from the rest of the house. Her aunt and Peggs murmured peacefully in the parlor, something about tomorrow’s supper. Grateful to avoid explaining either Wainn or her mud-stained feet, Jenn chose a stick of charcoal from Peggs’ cup and put it in her pocket. The sketchpad securely under one arm, she went to the pie and quickly ran a knife through the pastry, separating a generous slice for Wainn and a slightly smaller one for herself so he wouldn’t eat alone. She’d no more put the pieces on a plate, adding forks, when she heard her name and froze.

“Jenn should be home by now.” Their aunt’s voice was concerned. “I hope she hasn’t gone off again.”

“Not this late,” Peggs reassured her. “I’m sure she’s with Poppa at the mill.”

She would be soon, Jenn told herself guiltily. She eased toward the back door, avoiding the plank that creaked . . .

“I’d be happier if she was slipping out to see a young man.”

“Aunt Sybb! Jenn would never—”

. . . she stopped and nodded vigorously.

“A pity. Many a good marriage began with playful indiscretion. You should try it sometime.”

Had Aunt Sybb been into the cider?

“Come now, Peggs,” their aunt continued. “We’re grown women. It’s natural to have a fancy for someone. Natural and healthy. Surely you do.”

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.

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—”