Reed and Rush remained a stubborn reservoir of resistance. Dag was not sure why, as neither would talk to him despite several friendly lures. Separately, he thought he might have gotten somewhere, but together they stayed locked in a knot of disapproval. Fawn, when he asked her for guidance into their objections, just went tight-lipped. But their more hotheaded remarks at least served to drive their papa further and faster toward conciliation than he would have gone on his own, if only from sheer embarrassment. Some opposition was its own worst enemy.
Still… I should have liked to have made some real tent-brothers. Now, there was an unreasonable hope to flush from hiding. Dag frowned at himself. The gift of comradeship he’d once found with Kauneo’s brothers in Luthlia, so fine in the having, was all the more painful in the loss. Maybe it was better this way.
After the postsupper chores the family usually gathered in the parlor, cooler than the kitchen, to share the lamplight. Dag had walked out with Fawn to feed scraps to the chickens; as they came through the kitchen door and into the central hall, he heard raised voices from the parlor. By this time Dag cringed at opening his groundsense in this raucous company, not a one of them capable of a decent veiling; but he did prick his ears to hear Reed’s voice, rumbling, hostile, and indistinct, and then Tril’s, raised in sharp fear: “Reed! Put that down! Fawn brought me that all the way from Glassforge!”
Beside him, Fawn drew in her breath and hurried forward. Dag strode after, bracing himself.
In the parlor, Reed and Rush had more or less cornered their parents. Tril was sitting beside the table that held the bright oil lamp, some sewing in her lap; Nattie sat across the room in the shadows with the drop spindle that was rarely out of her hands, now stilled. Whit crouched by Nattie, a spectator on the fringe, for once not heckling. Sorrel stood facing Reed, with Rush pacing nervously around them.
Reed was holding up the glass bowl and declaiming, overdramatically in Dag’s view, “—sell your daughter to some bloody-handed corpse-eater for the sake of a piece of glass?”
“Reed!” Fawn cried furiously, dashing forward. “You give that back! It’s not yours!”
Dag thought it was sheer force of habit; when confronted with that familiar sisterly rise, Reed quite unthinkingly raised the bowl high out of Fawn’s hopping reach. At her enraged squeal, he tossed it to Rush, who just as unthinkingly caught it.
Tears of fury sprang in Fawn’s eyes. “You two are just a pair of yard dogs—”
“If you hadn’t dragged Useless here home with you—” Rush began defensively.
Ah, yet another new nickname for himself, Dag realized. He was collecting quite a set of them here. But his own fraying temper was not nearly such a grating goad to him as Fawn’s humiliated helplessness.
Sorrel glanced at his distraught wife, whose hands had flown to her mouth, and barked angrily, “Boys, that’s enough!” He strode forward and started to pull the bowl out of Rush’s grasp. Sorrel, unwilling to snatch, let go just as Rush, afraid to resist, did likewise.
It was no one’s fault, exactly, or at least no one’s intention. Dag saw it coming as did Fawn, and a desolate little wail broke from her lips even before the bowl hit the wooden floor edge on and burst, falling into three large pieces and a sparkling spray of splinters.
Everyone froze in equal horror. Whit opened his lips, looked around, and then closed them flat.
Sorrel recovered his voice first, hoarse and low. “Whit, don’t move. You got no shoes on.”
Tril cried, “Reed! Rush! How could you!” And began sobbing into her sewing.
Their mother’s anger might have rolled right off the pair, Dag thought, but the genuine heartbreak in her voice seemed to cut them off at the knees. They both began incoherent apologies.
“Sorry does no mending!” she cried, tossing the scrap of cloth aside. It was flecked with blood where she had inadvertently driven her needle into her palm in the shock of the crash. “I’ve had it with the whole pack of you—!”
The Bluefield uproar was so painful in Dag’s ground, which he tried to close but could not for the strength of his link to Fawn, that he found himself dropping to his knees. He stared at the pieces of glass on the floor in front of him as the angry and anguished voices continued overhead. He could not shut them out, but he could redirect his attention; it was an old, old method of dealing with the unbearable.
He slipped his splinted right arm from its sling, and with it and his hook he clumsily pushed the large pieces of the bowl as close together as he could.
Those splinters, now—most of those glass splinters were no bigger than mosquitoes. If he could bounce a mosquito, he could move one splinter, and if he could move one, he could move two and four and more… He remembered the sweet song of this bowl’s ground as it had rested in the sunset light of their refuge in Glassforge, gifting rainbows, and he began a low humming, searching up and down for the right note, just… there.
The glass splinters began to wink, then shift, then rise and flow over the boards of the parlor floor. He shifted them not with his hand, but with the ground of his hand. The ground of his left hand, the hand that was not there, and the very thought was so terrifying he shied from it.
But even that terror did not break his concentration. The splinters flew up, circling and swirling like fireflies around the bowl to find their places once more. The bowl glowed golden along all the spider-lines of its fractures, like kiln fire, like star fire, like nothing earthly Dag had ever seen. It scintillated, reflecting off his draining, chilling skin. He held the pure note faintly through his rounded lips. The lines of light seemed to melt into rivulets, streams, rivers of pale gold running all through the glass, then spread out like a still lake under a winter sunrise.
The light faded. And was gone.
Dag came back to himself bent over on his knees, his hair hanging around his face like a curtaining fringe, mouth slack, staring down at the intact glass bowl. His skin felt as cold and clammy as lard on a winter morning, and he was shivering, shuddering so hard his stomach hurt. He pressed his teeth together so that they would not chatter.
The only sounds in the room were of eight people breathing: some heavily, some rapidly, some choked with tears, some wheezing with shock. He thought he could pick out each one’s pattern with his ears alone. He could not force himself to look up.
Someone—Fawn—thumped down on her knees before him. “Dag… ?” she said uncertainly. Her small hand reached out to touch his chin, to tilt his face upward to meet her wide, wide eyes.
He pushed the bowl forward with his left arm. It was hot to the touch but not dangerously so. It did not melt or disappear or explode or fall apart again into a thousand pieces. It just sang slightly as it scraped across the floor, the ordinary song of ordinary glass that had never been slain or resurrected. He found his voice, or at least a close imitation of his voice; it sounded utterly unfamiliar in his own ears, as though it was coming from underwater or underground. “Give that back to your mama.”
He pressed his wrist cuff to her shoulder and levered himself upright. The room wavered around him, and he was suddenly afraid he was going to vomit, making a mess right there on the middle of the parlor floor in front of everyone. Fawn clutched the bowl to her breast and rose after him, her eyes never leaving his face.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
He gave her a short headshake, wet his cold lips, and stumbled for the parlor door to the central hall. He hoped he could make it out onto the front porch before his stomach heaved. Tril, on her feet, was hovering nearby, and she stepped back as he passed. Fawn followed, pausing only long enough to thrust the bowl into her mother’s hands.