Chapter 21

Sarralyn

I told you before that I don't like counting. That's not strictly true; I like counting when there are interesting things to add up. I like the way it distracts me from my own thoughts. When I'm left alone with my thoughts, they wander and take me with them. Lolla frowns and tells me to stop daydreaming, but I can't help it. I might simply be staring out of a window, and suddenly- whoosh! – I start imagining that they're talking about me. Or worse, that they're not. Perhaps now they're together again they can forget about me. Perhaps now that they can talk to each other, they'll realise that I was the one keeping them apart, not the spell...

...there, I did it again. I cannot think, so I must count. I have nothing else to do. I don't even have to practice meditating, any more.

Lolla's rooms are nothing like I imagined. She usually lives in the 'Dove, but she keeps her smart dresses and pretty glass jewels here. Here is what I counted:

Three rooms, simple but elegant. One is the main room, and then two bedrooms lead off from it. I sleep in the smaller room, surrounded by wooden stands full of Lolla's dresses. There are at least twenty of them, ranging from silk to fur-trimmed velvet. I tried one on; it was too tight in the waist, but gaped open at the top. Lolla laughed at me (too many times to count) and asked if I would like to borrow one of her corsets to dress up in. I shuddered at the idea of being squeezed and said no.

Eight men, in the six days I've been here. When they knock at the door I let them in and excuse myself for a few hours. Each one was greeted by Lolla in a different one of the dresses. The one with the bald head had the velvet, and the one with nervous eyes was greeted with a sheer yellow satin. Lolla asked me to leave before the one with long white hair arrived; I dread to think what she greeted him wearing.

Two books. I expected there to be more, but she says they're only here to make the place look more sophisticated. One is full of dress patterns, and the other is a dry book about lineages. I read them from cover to cover on the first night.

Five wooden boxes of fake jewellery, and one smaller box of real jewellery. Some men, apparently, can tell the difference. Like your father, for instance. She told me flippantly.

"I thought he only ever bought beer from you," I replied, my voice sullen. She gave me an odd look and put the garnet ring she'd been holding up to the light away in a silk bag.

"Is that what's been bothering you, grumpy girl?" She made her voice casual, but I could hear something odd behind it. It might have been a caring tone, but it could have easily been laughter. I didn't answer, and she closed the box with a snap. What she said next made me blush fiercely, because she said it so casually!

"Look, Sarralyn, I don't know how much you know about men and women, but you've probably worked out by now that if your father had been interested in me, he wouldn't have had to pay a single copper." She laughed, fingers fanning out as if she could make the memories drift away on the breeze, "You know, when I first met him I tried all the tricks I knew to get him to notice me. It was a few years after your mama vanished, but he still stomped around the city as if the paving stones deserved to be punished. No-one could talk to him without getting snapped at. I met him because of our jobs, and I told myself that he was a challenge." She grinned. "I like challenges. So, I dressed in my best dresses and spoke in a higher pitched voice. I laughed like a bird and even stopped smoking for a while, although that put me in as much of a bad mood as the way he looked right through me, as if I wasn't there. Finally I gave up. I stormed into the palace one day in my town clothes, with my hair all in a mess and not a breath of perfume on my body. I met him in the hall, and for the first time he actually spoke to me- as a person, not just as someone to get information from."

"What did he say?" I asked, fascinated despite myself. Lolla smiled and rooted in her bag for her pipe. The talk of stopping smoking seemed to have gotten to her. She lit the pipe slowly and blew a circle of smoke at the ceiling.

"He said, 'You must be Lolla. It's nice to meet you.'" She raised an eyebrow at my giggle and then looked back at the ceiling ruefully. "Well, you may laugh, but at the time I was so angry that I walked right out again! I didn't even get the messages I'd come to the palace for. The next time I saw him I yelled at him, told him he was blind and an idiot and rude and all the other things people say when they're not thinking straight. He listened in that quiet way he has, and then asked why on earth he should make friends with some make-believe character I'd made up when he'd never had the chance to meet me."

"That's..." I started, and then tried to work out what it was. "That's... sweet." I finished lamely. Lolla shrugged and blew on the embers of her pipe to make them glow.

"He knows a fair few things about pretending, your father. You've got that from him. But he was right. I wasn't some noble lady, any more than he was some mysterious, pitiable figure for me to latch on to. As soon as we had that notion out of the way, we became friends. And in the years since, as you said, he's only ever bought beer from me, and I've never tried to sell him anything else. Happy?"

"Do you think he'll still be friends with you now?" I blurted out, almost shocked at my own question. The woman's eyes narrowed and she deadened the ash with a dampened fingertip. When she answered me, her words were sharp.

"I don't know your mother, but you obviously think she's going to be so jealous that she won't even want you around. I probably don't have a chance."

I reddened at the gibe and looked at the jewellery box, wishing I hadn't said anything. "They forgot about me. As soon as they were back together, they just left me."

"I sent your father a note telling him not to worry." Lolla's eyes were guarded as she watched my reaction. "Honey, your mama was really sick. You told me that. And... and there's other kinds of healing than just blood and bone. Emotions, and that. Don't be angry at them for wanting to get away from the real world for a while."

"I'm not the real world." I retorted, knowing I was being petty but unable to help it. Lolla rolled her eyes- a gesture that she'd started making automatically when I acted childishly- and stood up to put the jewellery box away. Kitten made a disappointed sound- she'd been examining the carved knots on the box, and looked at me as if it was my fault Lolla wasn't playing any more. It had surprised me when the little dragon had decided not to see mama straight away. I had expected her to claw at the door like a dog, but instead she waited patiently and just whistled to herself more when she thought no one could hear her. After a few days I realised that the immortal was as happy for mama as she was for herself.

So why couldn't I be happy for my parents, too? What was really making me so miserable? I could tell you it was the idea of being abandoned, or taking second place in both my parents' lives. I could tell you I was nervous about meeting my parents as themselves, which was true- in my mind, they would be different people. But really, there was a simple answer to the question.

It was the shadow.

Sure, it was trapped. It beat against the walls of father's magic constantly, keening and screaming until one of the other mages in the palace had gotten annoyed and cast a warding spell on the walls to block the sound. But that didn't stop it from talking to me. Now that I knew its mind, and now that it knew I could listen, it spoke to me constantly. But not words- no, never words.

Instead of stories or entreaties or threats it spoke to me in pure emotions. Sometimes they would be pathetic, feelings of sadness or hopelessness. Sometimes they were more specific; I woke up a few times each night panting in terror as waves of claustrophobia washed over me. Sometimes they were threats, and those were the worst, because instead of just the words I could feel the hatred behind them. Those would wake me up screaming, or crying. Of course, I didn't tell Lolla any of that. I'd rather she thought that I was being a selfish child than that I was still cursed.

But it was difficult. I could hardly tell if my emotions were really mine any more. When I thought about my parents I felt happy for them at the same time that I hated them. When I thought about the years the curse kept them apart, I felt my sorrow and the creature's dark glee simultaneously. I started to rely on my thoughts rather than my feelings, but that was a mistake; my thoughts were far too confused to compensate for the headache I was getting.

The next morning, early, Kitten and I went to the room where the shadow was trapped. I had a vague idea of trying to talk back to it- or at least, yelling at the damned thing to shut up and leave me alone. I also had heard from Greg that father had been renewing the spell each morning, so somewhere in the back of my mind I wondered if I'd be able to talk to him more easily about the spell without mama there. When the door opened, though, the thought fled from my mind. The demon's hatred for my father flared up in my mind, but my happiness at seeing him again nearly eclipsed the emotion. I didn't realise that I was homesick until that moment, you see. I scrambled up from the floor and ran to hug him.

He smiled a greeting a ruffled my hair affectionately. "You're up early, sweetheart."

"I want to come home," I said, my words coming out in a rush. I half expected him to refuse, to tell me he wanted more time with mama, but he looked delighted.

"Excellent! Let me just cast this spell, and then we'll go back via the kitchens. I smelled bacon on the way here."

Bacon? Why am I telling you about bacon? See, this is what I saying, about being confused. I'm telling you all the silly things that happened, instead of the things you probably want to hear about. Perhaps I should describe the way father strengthened the spell, making waves of black fire roll up the walls of it as silkily as one of Lolla's satin skirts. Or perhaps I should tell you about the way that Kitten ran into the room ahead of us when we got home, and disappeared into the room where mama was sleeping with a barely restrained chirp of joy.

"I hope she doesn't wake her up," Numair said, his voice quiet as he frowned slightly. Seeing my worried expression, he smiled and told me, "Don't worry too much, Daine is... your mother is much better. She just didn't eat for so long that she wore herself out, the little idiot." He muttered the last part under his breath, and then looked sidelong at me. "And I'd be happy if you didn't repeat that last part in her hearing, thank you kindly."

I smiled my agreement, happy in my role as a co-conspirator. Kitten didn't wake mama up, but when we checked she had simply curled up next to her in contented bliss. Father and I spent an hour drinking apple juice and talking in quiet voices, until we heard the sleepy exclamation from Kitten when mama woke up and hugged the little dragon in delight. When mama came and sat with us, she had to be careful not to trip; when she rushed over to hug me Kitten was still dancing around her feet. Do you want to hear about that? Kitten chattered to mama in a series of whistles and croaks, so fast that I couldn't follow it, but mama spoke back to her as if she understood every word. Eventually, father sternly told the dragon to hush for a while and let mama eat, and so (after a very rude sounding croak) Kitten jumped into mama's lap and curled up peacefully, whistling her thanks every time mother handed her a piece of bacon.

At some point one of us looked up and thought about the scene we were making. All four of us- our whole family- sitting and eating breakfast together. A normal scene for most rooms in the palace. Completely bizarre for us! And I don't know who started laughing first, but soon we were all smiling at each other in pure delight.

And at the back of my mind, I could hear the demon thinking how hateful the whole thing was.

888

So... I suppose... you're thinking that this is the happy ever after bit of the story. Well, you'd be wrong. I don't think real life actually has happy endings. I mean, how do you know when you've got your happy ending? As soon as you start worrying about that, you're no more blissfully happy than you were before... and how does it end? With the right person? In the right place? The usurped prince returns to his kingdom, I suppose, and the throne is overturned and righted in the same breath, until the people watching it grow quite dizzy. Nothing ends, everything just spins around.

Take my family, for example. Oh, I've given you a few hints there... my whirling mind settled on the demon to tell my story, and to tell you what was wrong with it. And yes, the demon was still there: hating us. I'll tell you what happened to the demon later. It will take its own time. Before the demon, there was Jak, and before Jak there was... oh, but I can't tell you I can describe world as it truly was. And how can I do that? It's so difficult!

My father told Jak that he wasn't a story, but I see now that in my haste to speak honestly to you, I've fallen into the same trap! I am not a story either, you see. I've tried to describe myself honestly to you- describing things that made me blush, or ashamed of myself. Trying to see myself from the outside... that was a challenge. And when I lived through those few weeks with my family, I didn't think to do it. The only way I can think to describe it is... is like swatting away a fly. You don't think about it- the fly bites you, or buzzes around you, and you wave it away, and then if it still buzzes around you swat it. You don't think about doing it. But sometimes, for no real reason, you look at the little crushed insect and suddenly realise that the tiny action, which meant nothing to you, was the most horrifying moment of that little creature's life. You look back at your action, and start thinking, should I have done something differently?

People are like that. We live each moment in a dreamy slowness, not really noticing the world around us, and then suddenly we look back at it and realise that the things we barely even saw passing us by were important, and... we missed them! Those few days were like that for me. We were so caught up in being a family, in being together, that we didn't notice how far we'd grown apart. But now, looking back... now, I can see the lines that were drawn between us.

Here are three people, seen from the outside:

There is a woman who has come home. She overflows with happiness when she is awake, and then sleeps like the dead. In the few quiet moments when she wakes up in the dark, though, her thoughts are troubled. Sometimes, when she looks at her husband and her daughter, she wonders what they think of her. She secretly believes that, in some ways, they must resent her. She spent the last fifteen years keeping the truth from both of them, and she was very, very good at it! She did it for a good reason, but sometimes the reason disappears, and so she worries. She knows her daughter well, and knows she is hiding something, just as she can see the lie in her husband's eyes. If she worried less she might confront them, but she hesitates.

There is a daughter, who has never had a home. She tries to feel comfortable staying in one place, but it still feels strange to her. She is perhaps a little jealous of both her parents, although neither of them neglects her. In fact, they spoil her. They introduce her to their friends and tell her stories late into the night. They buy her beautiful clothes and a rainbow of silk ribbons. The daughter knows that her parents think she has found her true home- and that this is the place where she belongs. The daughter does not think this is true. She thinks it's a silly idea. Her home had always been wherever her mother was, but now some of that childish dependence is gone. She feels like she is floating... how can she possibly put down roots?

There is a father. He is hiding something from both his wife and his daughter, although he knows that his wife suspects the truth. He has had enough of secrets. He is planning to tell his wife the truth. When he does, he fears his wife will turn his daughter against him. Like his wife, the husband wakes up and stares into the darkness. He is not tormented; his weariness is like a yawning hunger, and it keeps him awake. He will tell his wife the truth in the morning.

Let the world spin.

888

Mama stared at the circle on the floor. I half expected her to walk up to it, or to ask questions, but she studied the symbols that were scratched onto the tiles in silence. When she eventually spoke it was a question, but voiced so softly, so seriously, that I could barely hear it. She looked up at father, and instead of curiosity or relief, her tone held an accusation.

"How much of your Gift are you pouring into this?"

Father blinked, and then made a dismissive gesture. I knew the movement well; if I saw it, I knew to stop asking questions, or he would get annoyed and stalk away. Mama obviously recognised the gesture too, and smiled crookedly. She reached up to lay her palm across his cheek, tracing the lines around his eyes with her thumb.

"How much?" She asked again, her eyes direct and caring. Father caught her hand and kissed it, then answered so quietly I couldn't hear his words. Mama did, though; she took a deep breath as if his answer confirmed some dark suspicion.

"Is it a lot?" I asked, wondering what could be wrong. Ma nodded, looking at me to answer my question, but her answer was clearly meant for da.

"It's too much." Her voice was flat, and her eyes narrowed when Numair took a breath to answer her. "Don't you argue with me! You know it as well as I do. Were you planning to jump in the sea to have the strength to renew these seals each morning?"

"Yes." The answer made her blink, and he made a frustrated, meaningless gesture with his hands. "If I have to, then yes."

"If you have to?" She echoed, her voice sarcastically blunt. I caught myself chewing on my fingernail- a nervous habit- and forced myself to stop. I didn't have a clue what they were arguing about, or even why mama was so angry... and her next words made me gasp out loud. She said them in the heated, clear voice of rash people worldwide, but there was no doubt she meant it.

"I'm leaving."

"No...!" We both cried out together, and then spoke over each other in our haste to be heard. Mama rounded on me- I guess she was more practiced at arguing with her daughter than her husband. I flinched back at the raw fury in her voice.

"Don't you dare argue with me, Sa. You have no idea hag-hounded stupid he's being. I'm fair sure he didn't tell you that he's near killing himself just to keep that thing trapped in there! And what then, Numair?" She demanded, glaring at him fiercely. "When you work out how to kill it, but you can't even find the strength to tell anyone how to do it? What then? Or when you die, what then? Do you think it won't escape?"

"And you can stop it, can you?" Father's retort matched mother's anger, silencing her for a moment, "The rules are already broken, remember? What makes you think you can un-break them just by leaving?"

They were both so intent on their argument that they didn't notice me slipping away. I ran outside and sank down against the cold stone wall, jamming my fingers in my ears. It was no good- I could still hear the demon laughing at us. Poor, pathetic, fickle little mortals. I almost envied the creature; it must be nice to only have one thought in your head, even if that thought was scarlet hate.

"Aren't you cold?"

I looked up. Gregory had somehow managed to find a thick coat while he was sneaking out of class. It was too small for him, and his wrists stuck out of it like the ends of branches. I shrugged, barely feeling the cold. "They're fighting again."

"If I sat out in the wind whenever my parents had a fight, I'd die of exposure." He gibed, holding out a hand. I took it, reluctantly letting him pull me to my feet. "I guess they have fifteen years of arguments to catch up on."

"No- just one." I said glumly, trudging after my friend. He found an alcove that was better sheltered from the wind, and we sat down together on the grass. "They're arguing about the curse. Mama says she's going to leave us."

Gregory laughed, and then smothered the sound when I looked at him, tears still shining in my eyes. "I'm sorry, Sa," he said, "I just can't imagine it. I mean, have you seen them together?"

"My parents? I live with them." I reminded him, baffled at... well, whatever strange thought he was nurturing. Greg linked his hands behind his head and leaned back, flinching when his fingertips brushed against the icy stone.

"No, I mean... not seeing them as your parents, but as people." He stumbled over the end of his sentence, trying to rephrase whatever he was thinking of, then shrugged mentally and tried again. "They're always holding hands, touching each other- you know, arms linked when they walk... they're never away from each other. It's like..."

"Like they hardly believe the other person's really there?" I finished the thought for him, and then wrinkled my nose. "That's not odd though, is it? I mean, if you vanished for a decade and then reappeared, I'd called the priests and say, Help! I've seen a ghost!"

"I guess." He sat upright and blew on his fingers to warm them. "But we're not tied at the heartstrings. Whereas the gossips are saying that you couldn't cut your parents apart with a broadsword."

"Try arguments, they seem to work quite well." I muttered darkly, and then tried to change the subject. "So, what else are the gossips saying?"

Greg pulled a face at me, but he let me move the conversation away from my family. We chatted about the plans for the harvest festival instead, waiting until the sky was completely black before we wished each other good night. I couldn't help mulling over what my friend had said, even though I tried to distract myself with ideas for straw statues to burn in the festival fires.

Mama was already asleep when I got home, but father was still awake, staring at the fire as if it held some miraculous answers. For a moment he didn't hear me, and I watched him. I tried to see him as Greg did- as a person. He looked... tired. The odd brightness in his eyes may have simply been the reflected flames, but was I so used to his eyes looking dull? Mama had seen it straight away, even after fifteen years. The thought made me feel sick, guilty, stupid. Without thinking, I went and hugged him, wishing that all this weariness and worry could be coaxed away. He smiled a greeting and pushed a strand of my cold-frazzled hair away from my eyes.

"Your mother's staying." He said eventually. "Don't worry, sweetheart. We'll work this out, I promise."

For the first time, I was able to hear the doubt in my father's voice. Before it could make me shiver I went to build up the fire. The smoke stung tears from my eyes before the fear could drag them from me.