Anna had a song for every occasion. She had songs for working, songs for cooking, songs for walking, songs for laughing, songs for tears. Jarred had memorized them all.
"Why are you not singing?" Jarred asked in jest, trying his best to ignore the pain in his arm.
"What?" she snapped. "Stop moving."
"Sorry," Jarred said sheepishly, and moved his arm closer to her on the table.
Anna huffed, and a lock of dark hair fluttered away from her face. "You must be more careful, Jarred."
"I know."
He had not meant to be so foolish. Crian had gone to the market, and Anna to a friend's house, and so Jarred had spent the morning contently working in the forge alone. Privacy in their home was such a rare treat: they all savoured it when it could be found, and so he did not mind. But then Anna had returned, and he had watched as she had entered the gate. Her cheeks were flushed from the wind, and the lazy afternoon sun had shot her dark hair with threads of gold. The bellows slipped from his hands and the forge's flames had risen to eagerly lick at his prone wrists. He had cried out, and Anna had too, as she rushed to his side.
And now they sat at the kitchen table; Anna's face very cross as she mashed a poultice in her mortar and pestle.
"You are lucky you got yourself out quickly," she said sullenly. She pulled his arm closer and scooped her fingers into the mortar. She smeared a pale green paste on his wrist— it smelled of sour milk— and Jarred could not help but gasp. The poultice seemed to light the fire once again. He gritted his teeth and doubled over in his chair.
"Hush," she soothed gently, forgetting her anger for a moment. Her fingers were gentle on his skin, and lit a different sort of fire on his flesh.
Slowly, the poultice ebbed the pain away, like water being rung from a cloth. Jarred threw his head back in relief.
"You are brilliant," he said, his head still tilted and his eyes closed as the pain leached slowly away. "Oh, I will marry you one day."
Anna dropped his hand and laughed. His heart leapt, for it had been he who made her happy— it was only unfortunate that she thought he was joking.
"I do not mean to be cross," she promised, still breathless with laughter. "I only worried."
She pulled her hand away and reached for a roll of bandages she had taken from the cupboard. She tore a piece out with her teeth and began to wrap it around his wrist. It was slow work, as if she feared abrading his flesh. She hummed to herself as she worked, a folksong that had become familiar to Jarred. He knew all the words, because he had heard her sing them dozens of times. He began to hum it with her, hardly noticing until he saw her smiling up at him.
"You know that song," she said.
"Of course I do," he told her. She tied a knot on his bandage, and he drew his fist close against his heart. "It is your favourite."
—
Later, so much later, Doom stood in the little kitchen in the forge's cottage. The room smelled of the fish stew that had been eaten for supper, and fragrant tea, and maybe a little dust. When he was younger he had imagined himself standing in that room, gently rocking his children to sleep in his arms. But the forge was his no longer. He held an infant in his arms, but she was not his. And yet it seemed that everything was as it should be.
Anna shifted in arms. She was so small, not even two weeks old. Her parents were so very reluctant to let her go— it had been difficult for even Doom to convince them to let him hold her so that they could find a little rest.
His granddaughter slept so sweetly. Doom cradled her fragile head in his rough hand. "You will be brilliant, sweet one," he said roughly, passing his calloused thumb across her brow, "just like your grandmother."