Chapter 1: A Lonely Day
"I love my cookies, they taste so nice. My Momma makes 'em with ginger spice! An' then I eat 'em while they're still hot, before she puts 'em in the cookie pot!"
Riza Hawkeye sat at the kitchen table, swinging her plump little legs and watching her mother was the mixing bowl. The kitchen was full of the fragrance of the treats that were baking in the wood stove.
Momma laughed. "Cookie jar, pet, not pot."
" 'Jar' doesn't rhyme with 'hot', Riza protested. "A song's got to rhyme: Papa told me."
Momma shook her head, but she was still smiling, so Riza knew that everything was okay. Your Papa tells you entirely too much, my little lady," she said fondly. "Sometimes I think he forgets that you're still only a little girl."
"I'm not little," Riza contradicted. "I'm three." She held up a trio of corroborating fingers.
"So you are," Momma mused. "I'd nearly forgotten."
Riza smiled contentedly. She was a big girl now! She could count all the way to a hundred and thirty, and she suspected that she could count even higher if she wanted to—except that it got really boring. She could make her little bed—not as nicely as Momma but much better than Papa—and she could button all the buttons on her blue dress (the only front-fastening garment she owned). She even knew the Aybeesee Song by heart. She knew about rhymes and cooking, and where baby birds came from, and she knew lots of other things that the other little girls didn't. She knew about soldiers and generals and Fûhrers and majors. She knew about matters and atoms and ellie-ments. And she knew about coffins and that they didn't really cough, and about funerals and gravestones and A Better Place. She was a very big girl now!
Momma opened up the oven, and Riza clapped her hands.
"Cookies! Cookies!" she cheered gleefully.
"Yes, indeed," Momma said, lifting the first one from the pan. "Would you like a little gingerbread boy, or a little gingerbread lady?"
"A boy!" Riza said decisively. "I want a boy 'cause I'm already a lady."
"A boy it is, my love," Momma said. She set the cookie carefully in front of the child. "Don't bite him right away: he's very hot."
Rizas nodded and studied the cookie intently. A little boy with a round tummy and a round head and short, stubby legs. Abstraction was a new concept for Riza, but something about the little figure reminded her of another boy—a real one.
She picked up the wee spoon lying next to the salt-cellar and used it to carve a face onto the cookie: two tiny eyes and a wide mouth. Proud of her work, she giggled.
"Look, Momma, it's Davell!" she cheered. "I made a Davell cookie! Now I'm going to eat him!"
She realized almost at once that she had said something wrong. Momma dropped the spatula and set down the cookie sheet with a clatter. Her face went very white, and her usually generous—though seldom smiling—lips vanished into a thin, disapproving line.
"No!" Momma hissed. "No, you shall not!" Then she reached down and snatched the cookie away.
Riza was frozen for a moment. Then her large, carmine eyes began to well with tears. "Why?" she asked in a tiny, plaintive voice.
"I told you never to play games about your brother!" Momma choked out. "Never! It isn't a game, don't you understand that?"
Riza didn't understand. She was only three and she couldn't understand. All she knew was that she had made Momma angry—again. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm sorry, Momma. I love you?"
Something about the words, at once an attempt at consolation and a plea for forgiveness drove the demon from the woman's eyes—which were as crimson as those of the child. She thrust another cookie into her daughter's small hand. "Here," she said, her voice oddly haunted and hollow. "Here, take your cookie and go and play."
Riza didn't wait for a second command. She fled the kitchen, and entered the corridor. It was long and dark and lonesome. Riza moved to sit on the top step of the staircase that led to the bedrooms. She looked at the cookie. It was a gingerbread lady. Though it was warm and smelled delicious, she really didn't want it anymore.
She leaned forward over her knees to peer down towards the front door. Its small frosted window cast a square of light on the pretty rag rug. A sliver of candlelight marked the bottom of the door to Papa's study. The parlor door was a dark, gaping hole into a seldom-used room.
Riza got to her feet and slipped the gingerbread lady carefully into the pocket of her pinafore. She knew that Papa didn't like to be disturbed when he was at work on his alchemy, but today she was lonesome. It took both of her chubby little hands to turn the heavy knob, and all of her strength to push the door far enough for her to slip into the room.
Papa was sitting at his desk, which was piled high with books and papers. More of the same littered the floor, and the bookshelves that lined the walls were in disarray. Papa was bent low over a broad piece of brown paper, scribbling intently. He did not notice his visitor, so Riza spoke.
"Papa?" she said softly.
He looked up. There was a smudge of ink on his nose, and his hair was tousled. "Chibi-chan?" he said absently. "What can I do for you?"
Riza didn't want to tell him that she had upset Momma. "Will you play with me?" she asked instead.
"I'd love to, darling," Papa said with a sigh. "But I have so much work to do. Why don't you go and play outside for a while?"
"Okay," Riza said, trying to hide her disappointment. "I love you."
"I love you too, chibi-chan," Papa said. "After supper I'll read you a story, I promise."
" 'Kay," Riza said. " 'Bye."
She left the study, dragging the door closed behind her. She sighed unhappily. Nobody wanted to play. She wished Davell was still here. She missed him. Nine months was a long time for a child of Riza's age, and her memories of her elder brother were indistinct, colored heavily by the tinted photograph in the parlor. Still, she remembered that he, unlike Momma and Papa, had always liked to play with her.
Papa had told her to go and play outside, so that was what she would do. Riza went back up the corridor and tiptoed into the kitchen. Momma was standing at the sink with her back to the door. She was scrubbing the cookie sheet, and her head was bowed so that her dark hair fell over her shoulders. Riza stood very still, hoping that Momma would notice her and give her a hug, but Momma was intently focussed on the dish she was washing. She didn't even know that Riza was there.
Disappointed yet again, the little girl moved across to the lean-to door. Her hobby horse was standing at the ready, and she grabbed it with both hands. Opening the back door required a bit of maneuvring, but at last she was out in the cool spring sunlight.
It occurred to Riza that if she set off galloping across the yard, she would crush the gingerbread lady riding in her pocket. She set her horse down on the new grass, and drew out the cookie. She set it on the tree stump table that she used for tea parties and other important social functions. Then she mounted her steed, and Major Hawkeye was off!
She was a special soldier, flying across the plains of the eastern frontier. She was bound for Central, bearing important messages for the Fuhrer himself. The only thing that stood between the nation and certain doom was brave Major Hawkeye and her faithful horse, Ruby
Riza laughed gleefully as she fell into the rhythm of a trot and began to pick up speed. She charged towards the house, turning sharply towards the southern fence. Her sand pile was a tall, snowy mountain that she and her mount had to climb. Then they sped through the marshes, the freshly-turned soil of the vegetable garden. The well-trodden path between the house and the midden was a mighty river. At this obstacle, a lesser woman would have balked, but she was Riza Hawkeye, Special Soldier! She urged Ruby on, and they swan through the torrential currents together.
Then she had to ride through the woods, which meant circling Davell's tree three times. It was Davell's tree because his tree house was still perched high in the branches. After he had gone to A Better Place, Papa had removed the three lowest boards that had turned the tree trunk into a ladder, but the upper four still remained, and so did the house—remote and inaccessible.
On her third trip around the tree, Riza's eagle-sharp eyes spied another horse and rider. She let out a whoop of delight.
"Doctor Bella!" she cried, galloping past the lean-to and Momma's washbasin to the place where the fence met the house. She waved energetically at the other equestrian.
Doctor Isabella Greyson patted her mare's neck, adn the gentle beast halted. "Why hello, Riza!" the kind-hearted physician said. "How are you today?"
"I'm lonesome," Riza admitted. She liked Doctor Bella, who was always friendly and who, unlike Momma and Papa, never minded if Riza talked about Davell. "I made Momma mad, 'n Papa's working, so I got nobody to play with. Will you play with me? You can be the Fuhrer."
The doctor chuckled a little. "I'm sorry, Riza. I'd love to play, but there's a baby coming, and I have to go and meet it."
Riza's eyes grew wide. "A baby? Is it coming here?"
"No, I'm afraid not," said Doctor Bella. "It's coming to a farm."
"Oh," Riza sighed. "Babies never come here. I bet a baby would play with me."
The physician regarded her with a look of mournful sympathy taht Riza was too young to comprehend. "I'll stop by on my way home, if it isn't too late. All right?"
" 'Kay," Riza agreed. "G'bye."
"Good bye," Doctor Bella said. She clicked her tongue against her teeth, and the mare broke into a gentle canter.
"Nobody wants to play with me," Riza whispered sadly. She patted her hobby-horse on one beautifully carved cheek, but it wasn't the same as petting a real horse. Suddenly bored of her favourite game, she trudged back to her little table.
She sat down on one of the logs that served as chairs, and wiped her hands fastidiously on her pinafore. Then she frowned in puzzlement and annoyance.
The gingerbread lady was gone.
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Riza was digging in the sand an hour later when Papa opened the kitchen window to call her in for supper. Having misplaced her cookie, she was ferociously hungry, and she eagerly hurried inside.
"Wash your hands, chibi-chan," Papa said, pushing the stepping stool up to the sink. Riza complied, then climbed onto her chair. She knit her eyebrows together. Only one place was set: a bowl of bread and milk, a sliced apple, and a gingerbread boy.
"Where's supper?" she asked suspiciously.
"That is supper," Papa said, his voice quiet and sad. He was pouring himself a mug of tea.
"No, that's breakfast," Riza contradicted.
"Ah." Papa looked perplexed for a moment, until he thought of an answer. "I thought it would be nice to eat breakfast at night for a change."
"Ooh..." Riza said, considering this and finding the explanation acceptable. "Where is Momma's breakfast? What about yours?"
"Momma went to bed," said Papa, pouring tea into a mug and sitting down next to Riza; "and I'm not hungry."
Riza took a spoonful of bread and milk, and chewed it pensively. "I saw Doctor Bella," she said. "She's gonna come over after she meets the baby, if it's not too late."
"That's nice," Papa said, but in a way that told Riza he wasn't really listening.
Riza picked up a slice of apple, taking out her frustration on the crunchy fruit. Even when she was with Papa she was lonely! It was a no-good, lonely day!
discidium
Mordred Hawkeye hurried towards the front door, his slippers whispering his passage on the well-worn rag rug. He peered through the window. Ah, he thought. So Doctor Bella had come after all. Too late to see Riza, but he was still glad to see her.
"Come in," he invited, opening the door and standing back to admit her.
The physician was a plump, pretty woman with a cloud of unruly dark hair that she tried to tame by dragging it into a severe knot at the base of her neck. She was wearing her short skirt and riding boots, with the white coat that was the hallmark of her trade over all. Her horse was standing at the edge of the lawn, its reigns resting on the dirt road that ran past the Hawkeye house and out towards the farms that surrounded Hamner.
"Hello, Hawkeye-sensei," Doctor Greyson said. "I assume Riza is asleep?"
Mordred nodded. "I had to drug her again."
He wasn't talking about his daughter, and the doctor knew it. It was she who had given him the oil of valerian with which to dose Lian, to help her sleep through the difficult times.
"How many times this week?" Greyson asked, following Mordred as he ushered her into the kitchen.
"Three," he said sadly. "I don't know what set her off this time. Something Riza said, I think. I don't know, Isabella. She's such a smart little thing. Why can't she understand that she shouldn't talk about her brother?"
"Because she should," the doctor said. "She needs to. You can't expect her to live in mourning for him. She's three years old. She deserves to be happy, Mordred. Doesn't she?"
"This is not a house of happiness," the alchemist said, staring out the window into the moonlight night. "Not anymore."
"There's no reason that that has to be true. Riza has healed. You and Lian can, too."
"You don't understand," Mordred said bleakly. He opened one of the burners on the stove and drew a flint out of his pocket. One hand flexed while the other struck a spark. The stove was suddenly alight with roiling flames. Mordred replaced the burner and put the kettle on to boil. "You can't understand. You have no children."
That was a cruel barb, especially coming from him, and the moment those words were out of his mouth the alchemist knew it. He drew an unsteady hand across his brow, refusing to look at his old friend. "That boy was Lian's life. She loved him more than anything. More than Riza, more than me, more than that desert god of hers. When Davell went, he took her soul with him. I'd do anything, anything at all, to get that back."
"He didn't take her soul," Lian said. "He took her happiness. And that's something that she can find again, but I think you have to find yours, first. Riza can help you."
"No," the alchemist said hollowly. "Poor little baby, she doesn't understand."
"She's lonely," Greyson said, steering the conversation in the direction that Hawkeye obviously wanted, but still focusing on her own agenda. "I think she needs a sibling. Perhaps if you had another child—"
"God, no, Isabella, we couldn't bear that! Even if I thought we could, Lian and I..." he shook his head. "It's not possible."
"Well, something will have to change," the physician said. "The constant melancholy isn't healthy for Riza. If you keep this up, you're going to lose your daughter as well as your son."
Mordred turned, horrified. "You aren't saying that—"
Isabella shook her head. "Not physically. Riza will live, but the happy little girl that she is right now... she can't survive much more of your constant brooding. Lian isn't well, she can't help it at the moment. But you can."
The kettle started to whistle, and the physician got to her feet. "No, I'd rather not have any tea," she said. "I've got to be getting home. Just think about what I said, Mordred. Something has to change."
She was gone before the alchemist could say another word. He took the kettle off of the burner and hurled it into the sink, where it landed with a loud crash and a flood of steam. He gripped the edge of the table with such force that his knuckles grew white. All very well for Bella Greyson to preach. She didn't understand. Nothing was ever going to change.
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Unbeknownst to Mordred Hawkeye, an agent of change was huddled in the hydrangeas at that very moment. The boy shivered, watching the windows carefully. His stomach did not feel as pinched and empty as usual. There had been a girl in the yard that afternoon, and when she had moved around the building and safely out of sight, he had stolen her cookie from the little table. Unlike most food after long fasting, it hadn't hurt his belly at all, and he had devoured the whole thing. It had a strange, peppery flavour that still lingered in his mouth, and it made him very thirsty. He knew better, though, than to try to steal water in broad daylight. Now he waited anxiously for the candlelight to move from one window to another, appearing next on the upper floor, and then vanishing altogether. Even then, he waited for a long time before venturing out of his hiding place.
There was a pump on the other side of the lean-to, hanging over a wooden tub. The boy seized the pump handle and threw the full weight of his emaciated body upon it. To his delight, the handle was well oiled, and a splash of water shot out. He hauled on the handle again, and then again. Then he climbed into the tub, knelt on its wooden bottom, and lapped up water from the puddle he had made.
His needs thus satiated, he returned to the soothing shelter of the hedge. Though the night was cool, he was protected from the wind. He leaned back and stared up at the underside of the hedge. Through tiny holes in the green canopy, he could see distant stars winking at him. As he watched them, something that was almost a smile tugged at his starved mouth. Somehow, he never felt alone when he looked at the stars. He hugged his ribs and basked in their company.
For him, too, it had been another lonely day.
