Shadow Herald — Chapter Four
The next morning, Crislie rose rather reluctantly from bed. Soft cotton sheets yielded to chilly air, and a feeble light shone over drifting dust specks and the wrinkles of her cast-off clothes. For a moment, she hunched over them, feeling as if she had forgotten something. Shivering, she dressed herself. Her mind slipped back into the dreams of last night. Black feathers drifting over apologetic eyes brushed against her thoughts.
There, Crislie stopped, one leg dangling over the side of her bed. The Herald girl was not a dream. That was memory. She smiled.
Only a night had passed since she and Ev had patched Navaeli up and left her to her own devices at the old house. Would Navaeli still be there by the time they checked in on her?
Crislie hoped so, but the waif had been eager to be on her way.
After stepping into her clothes, she snagged her brush through her hair and made for the door, lingering by her dresser. On it rested a dozen wooden figurines of fantastic and mundane creatures. Dust gathered in their crevices; she felt a little bad about how easily she forgot to clean them.
“Morning, Da,” she murmured their way as she hurried out the door. The smell of porridge and warm bread called her.
The table was set, the floor was swept, and breakfast was already well on its way when Crislie entered the kitchen. A basket of clothes sat by the hearth, soon to be moved into Ma’s workroom. Pinned to it were notes detailing her alteration commissions. New embroidery for Priestess Illia’s robes, a spice of lace on an old gown, knee holes in need of patching, the works.
Crislie admired her mother’s talent, though she hadn’t inherited it. Any attempt at sewing usually ended with her sulking, sucking ruefully on pricked fingertips. She rubbed her palms together, feeling the calluses and scars she had from climbing trees and throwing fists.
Ma said she’d grow out of it, like all girls do.
Ma herself, with her curly ash-blond hair cinched into a bun and a plain apron stifling the ruffles of her blouse, sat by the hearth, ladling her own bowl of oatmeal. Crislie tiptoed around her.
Evain had taken his place at the table already, waiting over his half-empty bowl. He greeted her with a tired smile.
Crislie returned the gesture and swooped into her seat. Her stomach growled in discontent. Without meeting her mother’s eyes, she grabbed the bowl of oatmeal left for her on the table. Her gaze wandered over to the fourth chair across from her. Humming, she carefully mushed her berries into her porridge.
And then Ma took her seat, pinpricked with impatience. “Would you please stop playing with your food and get to eating it? I don’t make it for it to go to waste.”
It took effort not to groan. “I am eating it,” Crislie said. “It’s not going to waste.”
Once her porridge was smeared with red, Crislie took satisfaction in her work and began to eat. The room fell quiet. It was the uneasy silence of things left unsaid. Her mother rested her chin on her hands, mouth agape as if she were busy honing some sharp thought against the edge of her tongue.
Eventually, Evain yawned and broke the silence. “Good breakfast, Ma. Thanks.”
“And you’re welcome,” Ma replied. “Though, if my cooking is so good, then I must wonder why neither of you showed up for dinner yesterday. Where were you?”
Her next bite halfway to her mouth, Crislie stopped to ponder her answer. What could she say? Adventure came naturally to her, and since she was perpetually in trouble for one thing or another anyway, the fall might as well rest on her. “At the river. It’s going to be too cold for wading soon, so I decided to make the most of it,” she said. “Ev was getting off of work, so I badgered him into coming with. Didn’t mean for it to get so late.”
Evain glanced up from his breakfast as if ready to deny his apparent blamelessness. Instead, he ducked when Ma spoke up first.
“Why am I not surprised?” Ma began, brows furrowed. “Crislie, it’s concerning that you lose track of time so often. I only ask for you to be back before nightfall, and you can’t focus long enough to do that? Or were you dragging your feet again?”
“Sorry, I guess, but what does it matter? We still got home,” Crislie scoffed, waving her spoon dismissively.
“Hours after you should have had dinner. After curfew.”
“Mistakes happen. None of the knights saw us, so there’s not all that much to fault me for this time.”
Ma pressed a palm to her temple as if to ward off a headache. The furrow became a glower. “Oh, but there is. You are never where you should be. That is a pattern, and not a mistake.”
“I do my chores when I am here, don’t I? Isn’t that something?”
Evain ate faster, as if trying to get the meal over with.
“Your chores, and then the Cycle knows what else,” Ma said. “Tell me what you do. Bother travelers with questions? Pick fights? Flitter about in the forest, climbing trees and hitting things with sticks? Why do you feel the need to waste your time there? It’s so dangerous by the woods, and — honestly! You’re too old to wander off like that. When are you going to prepare for your future?”
Oh no. Crislie’s oatmeal turned to sawdust in her mouth. The conversation was about to take that turn.
She narrowed her stare. “What future?”
“You haven’t even been thinking about it, have you? Just find something already. Look at the mill for an apprenticeship. Scour the marketplace. Absent gods know you spend enough time squirreling around there, chatting with strangers from out of town. Or you could try studying under me again. Please?”
Crislie shook her head firmly. “Let’s not waste any more thread on me. Look, the mill won’t take me. Anything about counting money ‘requires a focus’ that I’ve been repeatedly told I don’t got. And we all know you wouldn’t be comfortable with me joining the Irongardhe, don’t we?” she said, ticking the list off her fingers. “You know what I’m actually good at? Wood carving. And I can swing an ax. Can’t I just work with wood, like Da did? I could move into the old house, get set up, start up where he left off—”
“Find something else. Anything.”
“There isn’t anything else for me.”
“We’ll come up with something. You don’t need to go anywhere near those woods,” Ma said, hissing the last syllable in frustration.
“I can go wherever I want.”
Both of them glared as if they could out-will each other with nothing more than the sheer intensity of their silence. Eventually, Ma broke their gaze, stirring her oatmeal coldly. “If you refuse to listen to me, then perhaps you should find a spouse to keep you from wandering gleefully into danger instead.”
“Ma!”
“I’m serious.”
Crislie knew that all too well. This conversation had gone down enough times that she knew what came next. If you won’t manage yourself, someone has to. Your flighty nature is going to get you into trouble. Or worse — an early urn.
It made her want to toss her bowl across the room.
Evain passed her a sympathetic look and spooned more oatmeal into his mouth. Not a word escaped him. Her brother supported her, but only up to a point once Ma got involved. It wasn’t necessarily that he agreed with Ma, so much as it was that he didn’t like taking sides on these things. Or at least that was what Crislie hoped.
Before the lecture could go any further, Crislie stood up, her chair screeching across the floor.
“Maybe I’ll find something today, alright? I’ll be back later.”
Ma dipped her chin in resignation, putting on that piteous frown she wore so well. “If you insist. At least come home on time tonight, will you?”
When Crislie left, the door closed harder than she’d intended.
