interrupted.
Jonn and Adam drew back as my sister passed between them to fetch the blankets. Adam went to the fire, and Jonn hobbled back for the bedroom. I stood in the middle of the room, my stomach twisting as I tried to think of a way to sooth my brother.
After she’d returned and we’d made a bed, Ivy peppered Adam with questions about village gossip while I went to help Jonn situate himself.
“What’s he doing here?” he demanded quietly. “Is it…is it their business?”
He meant the Thorns. I knew he did.
“I want to talk to him about what happened to Edmond Dyer,” I said. It was true enough.
He frowned, but we didn’t continue the conversation because his tremors were starting. I covered him in quilts and laid a damp cloth over his eyes, and he fell asleep almost immediately.
After a moment of watching his chest rise and fall in even, quiet breaths, I rose and went out to the main room. Ivy had vanished, and Adam sat alone by the hearth, his legs drawn up to his chest and his face half in shadow. The firelight flickered over the points of his hair and turned the edges of his lashes to gold. He smelled like wood smoke and forest pine, and the scent had mingled with the smoky smell of the room, tuning my senses to his presence in a subtle but insistent way. I stopped in the doorway, leaning against it. He turned to face me, and for a moment the silence stretched and thickened between us.
“She went to bed,” he said of Ivy, jerking his chin at the stairs.
I nodded but didn’t speak.
Adam’s eyes slid back to me, and he watched me with an intensity that made my stomach twist.
“I—I found them in the woods. They had a makeshift Thorns sign of twigs.” I hesitated. “They’re covered in cuts and bruises. The girl can’t be a day older than ten. The boy is half her age.”
Adam’s jaw twitched. “The Aeralian government has sunk to new depths if they’re arresting children.”
“They didn’t tell me anything,” I said. “They didn’t say anything, really.”
“They’re in shock.”
Our eyes met again, and I took a deep breath. “And you’ll take them to the gate yourself?”
“Tomorrow,” he said. “At first light.”
The air in the room seemed to grow thicker. I moved across the room and settled down by the hearth. My eyes dropped to the quilts Ivy had brought, and I ran my hand over the top one.
“My mother made this for me,” I said slowly, tracing the blue and white edges of the quilt with my forefinger. “It’s a map of the whole Frost, made from bits of our old clothing and sewn together with our quota leftovers. She used to say it was the only time the Frost would keep me warm.” My laugh stuck in my throat, and I grabbed some of the wool by Jonn’s chair and began twisting it between my fingers. When in doubt, always work on quota.
“Your mother was a remarkable woman,” Adam said quietly, still gazing at me steadily.
I nodded.
Silence fell between us, and it might have been companionable except for the undercurrent of unspoken things that set me on edge.
“Adam.”
“Yes?”
“Some young people stopped me in the village a few days ago.”
One of Adam’s eyebrows rose. He picked up some of the wool from Jonn’s basket and joined me in my work. His fingers were unusually long, and they deftly worked the material. I stopped, staring. “What are you doing?”
“Helping you.” He kept twisting.
“Nobody does that,” I said. “You don’t help other families with their quota. It just isn’t done.” He knew this. There were other Weaver families in our village, but they did not share our burden. We each carried our quota load alone.
He tipped his head to one side. “Maybe if more people helped each other, then we’d have fewer problems with shortages and hunger. Some are overworked, some are underworked.”
“Problems?” I asked, although I wasn’t surprised.
“Half the village is struggling to meet their quota. The Elder
Jonn and Adam drew back as my sister passed between them to fetch the blankets. Adam went to the fire, and Jonn hobbled back for the bedroom. I stood in the middle of the room, my stomach twisting as I tried to think of a way to sooth my brother.
After she’d returned and we’d made a bed, Ivy peppered Adam with questions about village gossip while I went to help Jonn situate himself.
“What’s he doing here?” he demanded quietly. “Is it…is it their business?”
He meant the Thorns. I knew he did.
“I want to talk to him about what happened to Edmond Dyer,” I said. It was true enough.
He frowned, but we didn’t continue the conversation because his tremors were starting. I covered him in quilts and laid a damp cloth over his eyes, and he fell asleep almost immediately.
After a moment of watching his chest rise and fall in even, quiet breaths, I rose and went out to the main room. Ivy had vanished, and Adam sat alone by the hearth, his legs drawn up to his chest and his face half in shadow. The firelight flickered over the points of his hair and turned the edges of his lashes to gold. He smelled like wood smoke and forest pine, and the scent had mingled with the smoky smell of the room, tuning my senses to his presence in a subtle but insistent way. I stopped in the doorway, leaning against it. He turned to face me, and for a moment the silence stretched and thickened between us.
“She went to bed,” he said of Ivy, jerking his chin at the stairs.
I nodded but didn’t speak.
Adam’s eyes slid back to me, and he watched me with an intensity that made my stomach twist.
“I—I found them in the woods. They had a makeshift Thorns sign of twigs.” I hesitated. “They’re covered in cuts and bruises. The girl can’t be a day older than ten. The boy is half her age.”
Adam’s jaw twitched. “The Aeralian government has sunk to new depths if they’re arresting children.”
“They didn’t tell me anything,” I said. “They didn’t say anything, really.”
“They’re in shock.”
Our eyes met again, and I took a deep breath. “And you’ll take them to the gate yourself?”
“Tomorrow,” he said. “At first light.”
The air in the room seemed to grow thicker. I moved across the room and settled down by the hearth. My eyes dropped to the quilts Ivy had brought, and I ran my hand over the top one.
“My mother made this for me,” I said slowly, tracing the blue and white edges of the quilt with my forefinger. “It’s a map of the whole Frost, made from bits of our old clothing and sewn together with our quota leftovers. She used to say it was the only time the Frost would keep me warm.” My laugh stuck in my throat, and I grabbed some of the wool by Jonn’s chair and began twisting it between my fingers. When in doubt, always work on quota.
“Your mother was a remarkable woman,” Adam said quietly, still gazing at me steadily.
I nodded.
Silence fell between us, and it might have been companionable except for the undercurrent of unspoken things that set me on edge.
“Adam.”
“Yes?”
“Some young people stopped me in the village a few days ago.”
One of Adam’s eyebrows rose. He picked up some of the wool from Jonn’s basket and joined me in my work. His fingers were unusually long, and they deftly worked the material. I stopped, staring. “What are you doing?”
“Helping you.” He kept twisting.
“Nobody does that,” I said. “You don’t help other families with their quota. It just isn’t done.” He knew this. There were other Weaver families in our village, but they did not share our burden. We each carried our quota load alone.
He tipped his head to one side. “Maybe if more people helped each other, then we’d have fewer problems with shortages and hunger. Some are overworked, some are underworked.”
“Problems?” I asked, although I wasn’t surprised.
“Half the village is struggling to meet their quota. The Elder
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