Read Online Son of the Shadows by Juliet Marillier - Free Book Online
Authors: Juliet Marillier
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not him. I doubt if she's given him a moment's thought since he went away. He's probably been in my thoughts more than he has hers.
We finished our picking, and we brewed the spring wine with honey and jasmine to counter the bitterness of the endive, and we put it away to work in darkness; and still there was no sign of Niamh. Aisling and I
went upstairs and washed our hands and faces, and combed and braided each other's hair, and took off our coarse working aprons. It was nearly time for supper, and outside a cool dusk was brushing across the sky, turning it to violet and faded gray. Then at last I saw her from my narrow window, running across the field from the margin of the forest, with a quick look to the right and to the left to see whose curious eyes might be watching her. She disappeared from view. Not long after, there she was at the door, gasping for breath, skirts still held up in one hand, her cheeks flushed scarlet. I looked at her, and
Aisling looked at her, and neither of us said a word.
"Good, I'm not late." She went straight across to the oaken chest, lifted the lid, and rummaged for a clean gown. Finding what she wanted, she proceeded to unfasten the one she wore and Page 24
strip it off, followed by her shift, with never a by-your-leave. Aisling moved tactfully to gaze out the window; I brought my sister the bowl of water and a hairbrush as she wriggled into fresh smallclothes and dragged the gown over her head. She turned her back, and I began to fasten the many small hooks for her. She was still breathing hard, which made my task no easier.
"She's decent again, Aisling," I said wryly. "Perhaps you could take a hand with the hairbrush. It must be nearly supper time." Aisling was clever with her fingers and had a better chance of doing something acceptable with my sister's wildly disheveled locks in the little time we had left.
She began to wield the brush with calm, even strokes.
"Where on earth have you been, Niamh?" she asked in amazement. "There's straw in your hair, and leaves, and what are these little blue flowers?" She brushed away, her face as sweetly innocent as ever.
"We missed you this afternoon," I said levelly, still working on the gown. "We made the spring wine without you."
"Is there some criticism intended in that?" asked Niamh, twisting this way and that to settle her skirts and
wincing as the brush hit a tangle.
"It was only a statement, not a question," I said. "I doubt if your absence was noted by anyone but
Aisling and me—this time. And we did fine without you, so you need not feel guilty on that score."
She gave me a very straight look, but she wasn't saying anything, not with Aisling there. Aisling saw only the good in people and had no concept of secrecy or subterfuge. She was as guileless as a sheep, though perhaps the comparison was a little unfair. Simple as she was, the girl was not stupid.
I felt that uneasiness again that night, as we sat at supper, the whole family together. Our meal was a plain one. In part because my mother never touched meat, we ate quite simply, relying mainly on the grain and vegetables of our home farms. Janis had a wide repertoire of tasty soups and good honest breads, and we did well enough. The men would partake of a roasted fowl or two, or a sheep would be slaughtered from time to time, for they worked hard, whether it be in the field of arms or the labor of farm and stable, and they were not always satisfied with a meal of turnips and beans and rye bread. That night I was pleased to see that Mother was managing a little soup, a scrap or two of bannock. She had grown so thin, the north wind might snatch her away if it took a mind to; and it had never been easy to persuade her to eat. As I watched her, I felt Iubdan's eyes on me, and I glanced at him and quickly away again, for I could not bear his expression. That look said, this is a long good-bye, yet not time enough. I have no aptitude for this. I cannot learn this. I would hold
We finished our picking, and we brewed the spring wine with honey and jasmine to counter the bitterness of the endive, and we put it away to work in darkness; and still there was no sign of Niamh. Aisling and I
went upstairs and washed our hands and faces, and combed and braided each other's hair, and took off our coarse working aprons. It was nearly time for supper, and outside a cool dusk was brushing across the sky, turning it to violet and faded gray. Then at last I saw her from my narrow window, running across the field from the margin of the forest, with a quick look to the right and to the left to see whose curious eyes might be watching her. She disappeared from view. Not long after, there she was at the door, gasping for breath, skirts still held up in one hand, her cheeks flushed scarlet. I looked at her, and
Aisling looked at her, and neither of us said a word.
"Good, I'm not late." She went straight across to the oaken chest, lifted the lid, and rummaged for a clean gown. Finding what she wanted, she proceeded to unfasten the one she wore and Page 24
strip it off, followed by her shift, with never a by-your-leave. Aisling moved tactfully to gaze out the window; I brought my sister the bowl of water and a hairbrush as she wriggled into fresh smallclothes and dragged the gown over her head. She turned her back, and I began to fasten the many small hooks for her. She was still breathing hard, which made my task no easier.
"She's decent again, Aisling," I said wryly. "Perhaps you could take a hand with the hairbrush. It must be nearly supper time." Aisling was clever with her fingers and had a better chance of doing something acceptable with my sister's wildly disheveled locks in the little time we had left.
She began to wield the brush with calm, even strokes.
"Where on earth have you been, Niamh?" she asked in amazement. "There's straw in your hair, and leaves, and what are these little blue flowers?" She brushed away, her face as sweetly innocent as ever.
"We missed you this afternoon," I said levelly, still working on the gown. "We made the spring wine without you."
"Is there some criticism intended in that?" asked Niamh, twisting this way and that to settle her skirts and
wincing as the brush hit a tangle.
"It was only a statement, not a question," I said. "I doubt if your absence was noted by anyone but
Aisling and me—this time. And we did fine without you, so you need not feel guilty on that score."
She gave me a very straight look, but she wasn't saying anything, not with Aisling there. Aisling saw only the good in people and had no concept of secrecy or subterfuge. She was as guileless as a sheep, though perhaps the comparison was a little unfair. Simple as she was, the girl was not stupid.
I felt that uneasiness again that night, as we sat at supper, the whole family together. Our meal was a plain one. In part because my mother never touched meat, we ate quite simply, relying mainly on the grain and vegetables of our home farms. Janis had a wide repertoire of tasty soups and good honest breads, and we did well enough. The men would partake of a roasted fowl or two, or a sheep would be slaughtered from time to time, for they worked hard, whether it be in the field of arms or the labor of farm and stable, and they were not always satisfied with a meal of turnips and beans and rye bread. That night I was pleased to see that Mother was managing a little soup, a scrap or two of bannock. She had grown so thin, the north wind might snatch her away if it took a mind to; and it had never been easy to persuade her to eat. As I watched her, I felt Iubdan's eyes on me, and I glanced at him and quickly away again, for I could not bear his expression. That look said, this is a long good-bye, yet not time enough. I have no aptitude for this. I cannot learn this. I would hold
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