Read Online The City in the Lake by Rachel Neumeier - Free Book Online
Authors: Rachel Neumeier
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sisters scattering to heat soup and find towels. “You’re soaked through, Timou, love—I’m so sorry. Jonas, dear, I’m so sorry. Taene was already here when I got back, and there you were, out in all that weather. Wouldn’t you know it?”
“It wasn’t more than an ordinary storm, now, was it?” asked the apothecary, passing his wife a bottle of elderberry syrup for the tea, which she added generously. “Just a storm, ah? They come up fast in the autumn.”
Jonas turned his head toward Timou. Their eyes met. He said after a moment, “Of course. Just a storm.”
Timou did not contradict him. She accepted a cup of sweetened tea from Taene’s mother and a warm towel from one of the little girls, and a place by the stove, and felt her shivering ease. She said, “I am . . . I will leave for the City tomorrow. Or the day after,” she added more reasonably. “To find my . . . father.”
The apothecary nodded soberly. “I was discussing this with Enith.” Enith was the midwife. “After Sime, and no sign of Kapoen returning, I think you must, my dear.”
“And I wasn’t there for poor Sime,” Taene said penitently, bringing Timou a steaming mug of soup. “I’m even sorrier for that than for sending you out in the rain. Poor Timou. Are you warmer now? Is Jonas going with you to the City?”
Timou turned her head sharply, and for the second time her eyes and Jonas’s met.
The apothecary looked from one of them to the other, looked finally at his wife, took in her knowing expression, raised his brows, and sighed.
Jonas looked only at Timou. “Yes,” he said.
“No,” said Timou.
“We’ll discuss it,” said Jonas.
“As long as you discuss it in the morning,” Taene’s mother said firmly, “in dry things, and after a good breakfast. You had better stay the night here, Timou—just listen to that rain!—you can have the girls’ room, and the girls can go in with Taene. All right, dear?”
Timou looked at her silently, and wanted to weep. She did not even know why, except she thought that whatever she found in the City, it would not be a kind, comfortable woman who made tea and worried over one’s getting soaked in a cold rain.
When setting forth on a journey, there are always some things one should take and other things that one should leave behind. Timou moved methodically through the next day, and the next, sorting clothing and supplies, and thoughts and wishes and hopes, into one category or the other.
“I should come with you,” Jonas said. He had brought her his own leather knapsack, saved from the days in which he had journeyed. Timou had never asked him where he had journeyed from, nor had he ever volunteered the tale. Now such a question somehow did not seem appropriate, though she would have liked to ask it.
Jonas added, “Anybody can get into difficulty on the road.”
Timou did not answer. It had occurred to her with surprising force that in fact she would like Jonas to come with her: that she wanted his solidity at her side and his dark quiet presence across her evening fire every night. She was immediately annoyed with herself: was she a child, to need company in the dark? What would her father think if he were here to see her, shaking with nerves just because she was leaving the village? He would wonder if this was really his daughter after all.
“I know you said no,” Jonas said. He was frowning. His eyes met hers with concern, and something more: shared knowledge. “But it’s a long way to the City, and the forest to cross before you get there. I know you’re your father’s daughter. But, well . . .”
Timou said, “I don’t think so,” and did not say what she was thinking, which was that nerves or no, it might indeed be hard enough to guard herself on the way, never mind what she might find at the end of her journey, and she would be foolish to put herself in the position of having to watch after Jonas, too. Even if she was silly enough to want to put
“It wasn’t more than an ordinary storm, now, was it?” asked the apothecary, passing his wife a bottle of elderberry syrup for the tea, which she added generously. “Just a storm, ah? They come up fast in the autumn.”
Jonas turned his head toward Timou. Their eyes met. He said after a moment, “Of course. Just a storm.”
Timou did not contradict him. She accepted a cup of sweetened tea from Taene’s mother and a warm towel from one of the little girls, and a place by the stove, and felt her shivering ease. She said, “I am . . . I will leave for the City tomorrow. Or the day after,” she added more reasonably. “To find my . . . father.”
The apothecary nodded soberly. “I was discussing this with Enith.” Enith was the midwife. “After Sime, and no sign of Kapoen returning, I think you must, my dear.”
“And I wasn’t there for poor Sime,” Taene said penitently, bringing Timou a steaming mug of soup. “I’m even sorrier for that than for sending you out in the rain. Poor Timou. Are you warmer now? Is Jonas going with you to the City?”
Timou turned her head sharply, and for the second time her eyes and Jonas’s met.
The apothecary looked from one of them to the other, looked finally at his wife, took in her knowing expression, raised his brows, and sighed.
Jonas looked only at Timou. “Yes,” he said.
“No,” said Timou.
“We’ll discuss it,” said Jonas.
“As long as you discuss it in the morning,” Taene’s mother said firmly, “in dry things, and after a good breakfast. You had better stay the night here, Timou—just listen to that rain!—you can have the girls’ room, and the girls can go in with Taene. All right, dear?”
Timou looked at her silently, and wanted to weep. She did not even know why, except she thought that whatever she found in the City, it would not be a kind, comfortable woman who made tea and worried over one’s getting soaked in a cold rain.
When setting forth on a journey, there are always some things one should take and other things that one should leave behind. Timou moved methodically through the next day, and the next, sorting clothing and supplies, and thoughts and wishes and hopes, into one category or the other.
“I should come with you,” Jonas said. He had brought her his own leather knapsack, saved from the days in which he had journeyed. Timou had never asked him where he had journeyed from, nor had he ever volunteered the tale. Now such a question somehow did not seem appropriate, though she would have liked to ask it.
Jonas added, “Anybody can get into difficulty on the road.”
Timou did not answer. It had occurred to her with surprising force that in fact she would like Jonas to come with her: that she wanted his solidity at her side and his dark quiet presence across her evening fire every night. She was immediately annoyed with herself: was she a child, to need company in the dark? What would her father think if he were here to see her, shaking with nerves just because she was leaving the village? He would wonder if this was really his daughter after all.
“I know you said no,” Jonas said. He was frowning. His eyes met hers with concern, and something more: shared knowledge. “But it’s a long way to the City, and the forest to cross before you get there. I know you’re your father’s daughter. But, well . . .”
Timou said, “I don’t think so,” and did not say what she was thinking, which was that nerves or no, it might indeed be hard enough to guard herself on the way, never mind what she might find at the end of her journey, and she would be foolish to put herself in the position of having to watch after Jonas, too. Even if she was silly enough to want to put
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