the butcher's yard."
Kira wrinkled her nose, remembering. "What a smell," she said. "But, Thomas —"
He waited for her question. Tonight for dinner they had been brought meat in a thick sauce. Beside it on the plate were some small roasted potatoes.
Kira pointed at the meat on her own plate. "
This
is what the hunters brought. It's hare, I think."
He nodded, agreeing.
"Everything the hunters brought in was like this. Wild rabbit. Some birds. There wasn't anything, well, anything very large."
"There were deer. I saw two at the butcher's."
"But deer are gentle, frightened things. The hunters bring nothing with claws or fangs. They never catch anything that could be called a beast."
Thomas shuddered. "Lucky. A beast could kill."
Kira thought of her father. Taken by beasts.
"Annabella says there be none," she confided.
"Be none?" Thomas looked puzzled.
"That's the way she said it. 'There be no beasts.'"
"She speaks like Matt?" Thomas had not met the old dyer.
Kira nodded. "A bit. Perhaps she grew up in the Fen."
They ate in silence for a moment. Finally Kira asked again. "So you've never seen a real beast?"
"No," Thomas acknowledged.
"But probably you know someone who has."
He thought for a moment and then shook his head. "Do you?" he asked.
Kira looked at the table. It had always been hard to talk of it, even to her mother. "My father was taken by beasts," she told him.
"You saw it?" His voice was shocked.
"No. I was not yet born."
"Your mother saw?"
She tried to remember her mother's telling. "No. She didn't. He went on the hunt. Everyone says that he was a fine hunter. But he didn't return. They came to my mother with the news, that he'd been attacked and taken by beasts on the hunt."
She looked at him, puzzled. "Yet Annabella says there be none."
"How could she know?" Thomas asked skeptically.
"She's four syllables, Thomas. Those who live to four syllables know all there is."
Thomas nodded in agreement, then yawned. He had been working hard all day. His tools still lay on the worktable: small chisels with which he had been meticulously recarving, reshaping the worn, smooth places on the elaborate staff that the Singer used. It was painstaking work that allowed for no error. Thomas had told her that often his head ached and he had to stop again and again to rest his eyes.
"I'll go so you can rest," Kira told him. "I must put away my own work before bed."
She returned to her room at the other end of the corridor and folded the robe that still lay on her table. She had worked on the stitchery throughout the afternoon, after her return from the forest. She had shown it to Jamison as she did each day, and he had nodded in approval. Now Kira was tired too. The long walks to the dyer's cott each day were exhausting, but at the same time the fresh air made her feel cleansed and invigorated. Thomas should get outside more, she thought, and then laughed to herself; she sounded like a scolding mother.
After a bath — how she enjoyed the warm water now! —Kira put on the simple nightgown that was provided clean for her each day. Then she went to the carved box and took the scrap of fabric with her to her bed. The fear of the thing in the bushes by the path lingered with her still, and she thought of it as she waited for sleep.
Is it true, that there be no beasts?
Her thoughts framed the question, and her mind responded in a whisper to herself as the fabric lay curled warm in the palm of her hand.
There be none.
What of my father, then, him taken by beasts?
Kira drifted into sleep, the words gliding slippery from her thoughts. She dreamed the question, her breath soft and even against the pillow.
The fabric gave a kind of answer but it was no more than a flutter, like a breeze across her that she would not remember when she woke at dawn. The scrap told her something of her father — something important, something that mattered — but the knowledge entered her sleep, trembling through like a dream, and
Kira wrinkled her nose, remembering. "What a smell," she said. "But, Thomas —"
He waited for her question. Tonight for dinner they had been brought meat in a thick sauce. Beside it on the plate were some small roasted potatoes.
Kira pointed at the meat on her own plate. "
This
is what the hunters brought. It's hare, I think."
He nodded, agreeing.
"Everything the hunters brought in was like this. Wild rabbit. Some birds. There wasn't anything, well, anything very large."
"There were deer. I saw two at the butcher's."
"But deer are gentle, frightened things. The hunters bring nothing with claws or fangs. They never catch anything that could be called a beast."
Thomas shuddered. "Lucky. A beast could kill."
Kira thought of her father. Taken by beasts.
"Annabella says there be none," she confided.
"Be none?" Thomas looked puzzled.
"That's the way she said it. 'There be no beasts.'"
"She speaks like Matt?" Thomas had not met the old dyer.
Kira nodded. "A bit. Perhaps she grew up in the Fen."
They ate in silence for a moment. Finally Kira asked again. "So you've never seen a real beast?"
"No," Thomas acknowledged.
"But probably you know someone who has."
He thought for a moment and then shook his head. "Do you?" he asked.
Kira looked at the table. It had always been hard to talk of it, even to her mother. "My father was taken by beasts," she told him.
"You saw it?" His voice was shocked.
"No. I was not yet born."
"Your mother saw?"
She tried to remember her mother's telling. "No. She didn't. He went on the hunt. Everyone says that he was a fine hunter. But he didn't return. They came to my mother with the news, that he'd been attacked and taken by beasts on the hunt."
She looked at him, puzzled. "Yet Annabella says there be none."
"How could she know?" Thomas asked skeptically.
"She's four syllables, Thomas. Those who live to four syllables know all there is."
Thomas nodded in agreement, then yawned. He had been working hard all day. His tools still lay on the worktable: small chisels with which he had been meticulously recarving, reshaping the worn, smooth places on the elaborate staff that the Singer used. It was painstaking work that allowed for no error. Thomas had told her that often his head ached and he had to stop again and again to rest his eyes.
"I'll go so you can rest," Kira told him. "I must put away my own work before bed."
She returned to her room at the other end of the corridor and folded the robe that still lay on her table. She had worked on the stitchery throughout the afternoon, after her return from the forest. She had shown it to Jamison as she did each day, and he had nodded in approval. Now Kira was tired too. The long walks to the dyer's cott each day were exhausting, but at the same time the fresh air made her feel cleansed and invigorated. Thomas should get outside more, she thought, and then laughed to herself; she sounded like a scolding mother.
After a bath — how she enjoyed the warm water now! —Kira put on the simple nightgown that was provided clean for her each day. Then she went to the carved box and took the scrap of fabric with her to her bed. The fear of the thing in the bushes by the path lingered with her still, and she thought of it as she waited for sleep.
Is it true, that there be no beasts?
Her thoughts framed the question, and her mind responded in a whisper to herself as the fabric lay curled warm in the palm of her hand.
There be none.
What of my father, then, him taken by beasts?
Kira drifted into sleep, the words gliding slippery from her thoughts. She dreamed the question, her breath soft and even against the pillow.
The fabric gave a kind of answer but it was no more than a flutter, like a breeze across her that she would not remember when she woke at dawn. The scrap told her something of her father — something important, something that mattered — but the knowledge entered her sleep, trembling through like a dream, and
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