Roses by G. R. Mannering

up the hill to greet their returned friend. Beauty noticed that the women of the village were all wearing tall, lace headdress and the men donned crushed leather hats and jerkins.
    “Papa! I can’t believe yur home!”
    Isole wrapped her arms around Owaine’s neck, and he carefully patted her shoulder.
    “We’ve a house ready, all like yur asked,” she went on, reluctant to release her father. “It ain’t the best of houses, but it was what we could do at short notice.”
    “Thank yur, my child,” said Owaine. “I’ll be happy to see it, but first I should like yur to meet a sister. This is Beauty.”
    Heads turned her way and Beauty pushed her hood back from her face. She was roughened and scrawny from living on the road for so long, but she was silvery nonetheless. There were gasps and mutterings and cries of surprise.
    “A sister?” whispered Isole, her hands falling by her sides.
    “Yes, she were entrusted to me, and she’s now my child.”
    There was an awed silence and the villagers pressed their thumbs and index fingers together in turn.
    “What is it?” whispered Isole, and Beauty understood that things would not be any different here than back in Sago.

C HAPTER T HIRTEEN
    The Sister
    O waine would not explain where Beauty had come from, which did not help matters. He had known that his hill folk would be suspicious, but he had ambitiously thought that they would accept her. Besides, to him, Beauty was as sweet as she was silvery, and he thought her shimmering looks pretty. How could anyone see malice in her clear, violet eyes?
    As the villagers welcomed him home that first evening in Imwane, they asked questions about the strange girl.
    “Where did you find it?”
    “Is it sent from the gods?”
    “Will it hurt us?”
    But he would only answer that her name was Beauty and that she was his child. The more questions they asked, the angrier Owaine grew, and it was Isole who had to settle things.
    “My papa is hungry,” she said. “We mustn’t hassle him.”
    There were murmurs of agreement before the travelers were told that there was a feast planned in their honor and they were then led to a barn at the bottom of the valley.
    “Yur must tell us yur tales someday, Owaine,” said the man who had first met them, who was named Hally. “But first, let us put a belly on yur!”
    The barn doors were pulled back to reveal a long trestle table waiting to be filled, and women disappeared in a buzzing cloud of chatter to fetch the food.
    “We been keeping it ready for when yur came,” added Hally.
    Villagers began to carry out plates of meat, bread, and cheese, all the while keeping a wide berth of Beauty. The travelers’ bags were taken from them, and Comrade and Sable were untacked and allowed to wander about the hillside like the other animals.
    “Are yur all right?” Owaine whispered to Beauty, but Isole ran over and pulled him away.
    “Papa, I made this pie for yur.”
    They were ushered to their seats and Beauty found herself alone at one end of the table, open space on either side of her. A young boy sat opposite and stared with half terrified, half fascinated eyes.
    “Thanks be to the gods,” called out Hally, pressing his thumb and index finger together and raising his hand to the ceiling. “Thanks be to the gods for returning our Owaine to us.”
    “Thanks be to the gods,” the other villagers muttered, doing the same.
    Beauty caught Owaine’s eye and she copied their gestures.
    “Thanks be to the gods,” she whispered, and those around her flinched for it was the first thing that they had heard her say.
    The meal began with much chattering and shouting. It was nothing like the dinners at Rose Herm, which were stately, regimented affairs. Instead, hands grabbed at chicken legs and slices of bread. Broth was sloshed into bowls and ale and cider were passedaround the table. There were no omelets to be seen and everyone spoke at once. Beauty had thought Owaine’s accent strong,