LOTHERING: 9:20 DRAGON

Lothering was a new experience for all the Hawke children. When Malcolm Hawke explained they would be staying there, living there, and there would be no more running, Maker willing, they weren't entirely sure how to react. Surprise quickly gave way to unbridled joy, particularly when this realization brought with it the knowledge that they would be living in a house — their own house on their own farm with their own rooms.

Mostly their own rooms, anyway. Carver, being the only boy, crowed about getting a room to himself while the girls had to share, but Amelle, barely eight, did not mind sharing with Kiara. She didn't like the dark, and it seemed as if the monsters under her bed had gotten louder lately, whispering more insistently that she come play with them. Amelle trusted Kiara would keep her safe from the monsters under her bed. Even Carver thought twice before doing something that might get him in trouble with Kiara, and Carver was already almost as tall as their older sister.

The concept of staying anywhere was a minor miracle to the Hawke children. They'd never even stayed in one place long enough to so much as have a pet — though now Kiara was asking, as she frequently did, if they could have a dog. Papa's answers, which before had always been some patient variation on "no," had now turned a corner into "maybe" and "we'll see." Mama pleaded their case by pointing out how useful it would be to have a dog that could protect them all as well as the farm. A good, solid dog, like a mabari, she'd suggested. But Papa only smiled and shook his head, never giving an answer more definitive than, "We'll see."

That day, Mama was taking Carver and Kiara into town; Kiara needed a new bowstring, and Carver simply wanted to tag along for the adventure of it.

"Amelle and I will be fine on our own," Papa said. "I think maybe we'll work a bit in the garden." Carver made a face, obviously glad to have dodged that particular chore, but Amelle saw nothing wrong with spending the day tending the vegetable garden with Papa.

"It's quite a grand thing you're putting together out there," Mama replied, smiling at him.

"Grand?" he grinned. "Well, it's hardly the gardens at Amell Hall," Papa said, putting an arm about Mama's shoulders. "But it is our own."

"And that makes it grand, Malcolm."

Amelle listened, wondering — as she often did — where that hall was, if it was indeed hers. Their house had only a couple of hallways in it, and none of them had their own garden; if one of them was her own, she needed to find out which it was. And if she could ban Carver from that space, all the better. Amelle was distracted with wonderful fantasies of lording over her brother, ordering him to fetch her and Kiri tea and cakes and then maybe, maybe she'd let him visit her hall. Carver may have had his own room, but Amelle had her own hall. Somewhere. Papa said so.

"Come along, rabbit," Papa said, interrupting her thoughts by placing his massive hand atop her head and mussing her hair; her long, dark curls were forever finding their way out of whatever method Mama had used to tie them back. Today was no exception.

"'M not a rabbit, Papa," she said, reminding him again.

"No?" he asked, smiling down at her as he turned and headed outside, Amelle trailing alongside him. "What are you then?"

"A girl," she answered, stumbling over a loose tree root. She stopped to glare at it.

"Ah, I see. Well, that is handy, as it is a girl and not a rabbit I require just now."

"To do what?" Kiara was intrigued by the rabbits and pheasants in the wood and just how much practice it would take to actually hit one of them with her new bow and arrow, and Carver was mainly interested in exploring the woods and Lothering itself, particularly in search of other young boys his age, so he might not be constantly stuck with having to play the games his sisters preferred. But Amelle was fascinated by the things growing in the family's vegetable garden. She and Papa had put the seeds in the ground, and they'd waited and waited and waited, until finally things started coming up. Sprouts, hopeful and green, began poking up out of the soil, unfurling their waxy leaves and reaching up to the sunlight. Amelle crouched down, peering at some of those determined little seedlings.

"Papa!" she cried, pointing at the cluster of slender young vines, starting to sprout long, green casings. "Look! Peas!"

He joined her, smiling down at her enthusiasm. "Peas indeed, rabbit." Then he pointed at another bit of green poking up through the soil. "But that, my little one — that's not a crop at all, is it?"

"That's a weed," replied Amelle, scowling at the intruder.

"Indeed it is. And there are more of them," he added with a gesture. Amelle looked and saw them creeping in from all sides, threatening their little garden. "Those weeds run the risk of killing all we've planted, Amelle. It's important we keep our garden as free from them as possible."

Amelle gave him her most authoritative nod. "I can do it, Papa."

"I know you can, sweetest."

Together they knelt in the fragrant dirt and set to work pulling weed after weed after weed. Amelle was the only of her siblings who didn't mind this chore; she loved the feel of cool dirt on her hands, even as grit worked its way underneath her short fingernails. She loved the cool soil, the warm sun shining away above, and she loved working by Papa's side.

The midmorning sun was high in the sky when a ruckus came from the barn: a displeased wail that sounded a great deal to Amelle like an angry cat.

Amelle looked up in the direction of the barn, alarmed, suddenly wondering if it was a cat. She rather liked cats — there was a grey one that always napped on the front steps of the chantry, stretched out in the sunlight, almost blending in with the grey stone steps. Amelle, on a trip into town with Mama, had once asked if she could go pet the cat, but Mama had said it was better if she didn't, and then Amelle remembered that there were templars in the chantry, and they had to stay far, far away from the templars. But that day, one of the templars standing watch had overheard her and then scooped the cat up, carrying it over to them soberly, insisting the chantry mouser hadn't caught a mouse in days and clearly he required the special attentions only a little girl just her age could provide.

She'd been delighted, and took the lump of sun-warmed fur into her arms and petted it, scratching so carefully, so gently behind its ears, until the cat made a low, rumbling sound, deep in its throat. She'd looked up at the templar with wide, curious eyes.

"He's purring," he'd explained. "That means he likes you."

Amelle suddenly hoped it was a cat in the barn. But Papa only sighed. "It's those blasted goats again."

Not a cat, then. Amelle let out a despondent little sigh and went back to pulling weeds.

Papa stood, brushing dirt and bits of green from his trousers. "I'll be right back, Amelle. Keep at those weeds while I see what those fool goats are complaining about this time."

"Yes, Papa."

With that, he left Amelle to her task and he made his way up to the small barn where the goats were kept. There weren't a lot of animals in there — some goats, a small flock of sheep, and a cow — there were chickens, but they lived in a coop closer to the house so Papa could protect them better if a fox or wolf came around. Amelle felt a swell of pride at that: Papa would protect anyone. Even the chickens.

She stayed in the garden, obediently pulling weeds. Sounds from the barn floated down to her — the goats weren't making that awful cry anymore, just their usual noisy bleating, which wasn't much better. Amelle grabbed a large weed as close to the root as she could and pulled, but it was stubbornly entrenched in the dirt and she pulled again. The sun blazed down from above and made her curls stick to her forehead and along the back of her neck and it was so hot that she could barely stand it. Wiping the sweat from her face, Amelle reached for another weed and pulled again, harder and harder, as the warmth from the sun soaked into her skin and made her warm. She felt the contrast of the cool soil below and the sun above and tilted her face up, closing her eyes and basking in that heat, and for a moment she felt like one of the very plants she was tending.

Reaching down for another weed, Amelle took a deep breath and pulled. What happened next came too quickly for her to fully understand: a breath of flame licked out from the hand closed around the weed. In her grasp, it turned suddenly brown and dry before catching aflame itself. With a surprised squeak, Amelle dropped the weed and stared in horror as the small flame moved slowly along, jumping erratically until reaching the pile of weeds she'd already pulled, the small bit of fire treating it like kindling. The pile began to smoke and smolder, and from underneath Amelle could see the flames begin to grow and crackle hungrily.

"Papa?" Amelle managed, but in her surprise and terror, she was able to muster little more than a frightened whisper. She took in another breath, deeper this time, but before she could call for her father, more flame issued forth from her hands — both of them, this time — catching the top of pile of weeds and the vegetables nearest her — the very cluster of vines she'd been admiring went alight. Flames caught her sleeves and she felt the sudden heat, and this time she did yell, closing her eyes as she breathed in deeply and screamed.

"Papa!"

There were running footsteps followed by a sudden rush of cold. The fire died with a hiss and the heat traveling up her arms was doused with that icy blast. When she dared open her eyes, Amelle found herself surrounded by the charred and frost-covered remains of pulled weeds and the ruined fledgling vine that would have eventually produced peas, all of it steaming lightly in the air. She stared at the burnt, iced-over remains, unable to believe her eyes, even when a pair of strong arms hefted her up, clutching her tightly. Amelle turned and flung her arms around her father, burying her face in the side of his neck, sobbing and trembling with fear.

"I d-didn't mean to, P-papa," she cried, "I'm sorry — I didn't — it just — I-I made it— I'm sorry about the peas, Papa."

She felt rasp of his beard as he pressed a kiss against her forehead, rubbing slow circles at her back. "Shhh. It's all right, Amelle. You're all right. It's over, rabbit. You're safe," he murmured softly in her ear, carrying her inside. "You're all right."

Her sobs slowed as they entered the cool dimness of the house and Papa sat down, situating her on his lap, his arms still securely around her. Everything smelled funny, and Amelle knew somehow without looking that her hair had been burnt. Gently her father took her hands into his own and examined them. The skin was angry and red, and felt sore and tender when she tried to flex her fingers.

"You've burned yourself," he explained gently, wrapping his larger hands around hers and sending a rush of healing energy to the injured skin. Soon the skin was once again pale and unmarred, but for the dirt streaking her hands and lodged under her fingernails.

Amelle sniffled. "I… didn't mean to."

"I know, little one." He cleared his throat and gave her a strange little smile that seemed almost sad. "It's going to take practice, but quite a few… young mages burn themselves the first time they come into their powers. I was just about your age when…"

As Amelle listened, her eyes grew wider. "…Papa?"

"It doesn't always start with fire," he went on, running his fingers through her hair, smiling sadly as he fingered one ruined curl, burnt and singed beyond recognition. "But it was fire… for me, too."

She swallowed hard, listening to the words her father was saying, looking down at her hands. She'd been too surprised at the time, too frightened, but yes, it had been very like when Papa used his fire sometimes. But he used it for things like starting the fire in the hearth, and keeping tea warm — Mama scolded him sometimes for that, but she always smiled when she scolded Papa — and sometimes, when they'd all been very good, Papa entertained them with sparks that jumped from one hand to another, dancing through the air like tiny, winking fairies.

She looked again at her hands. "I'm… like you?"

Letting out a soft laugh, Papa pressed a kiss against her forehead. "According to your mother, you were all too much like me even before you showed a propensity for making things catch fire."

Amelle wasn't sure she truly understood what he meant by that, but somehow it didn't seem important. Papa was still holding her on his lap, still rocking her slowly. "I'm sorry about the peas, Papa."

"And I'm sorry I wasn't by your side when this happened. I'm sorry you were alone and afraid, sweetling."

Amelle looked up into her father's eyes, perfectly earnest. "Was it the fool goats again?"

Something about the question made him laugh, arms tightening around her. "Yes. Those silly beasts are more trouble than they're worth, I sometimes think."

Just then the door flung open and Mama came in, followed swiftly by Kiara and Carver, back from their trip into town. "Malcolm, what in the Maker's name—I saw the garden, dearest, what…" The words died in her throat when she saw Amelle, filthy and tear-streaked, smelling strongly of smoke, curled in her father's lap. A strange look passed between Mama and Papa then, and Mama just nodded.

"Is… is she all right, then?"

"A little frightened, but none the worse for wear. She may need a bath."

"And a bit of a haircut, I fear," Mama said with a strange little smile as she came closer, touching a lock of hair, its ends blackened and burnt away.

Kiara stepped forward, peering around their mother to get a better look at Amelle, her eyes shuttering as she pieced together what had happened. "Papa…?"

"Is Amelle in trouble?" Carver asked, peeking over Kiara's shoulder. "She looks like she made a big mess. What did you do, Mely?"

Carver's question was sharply accusing and the tears that had stopped only recently welled up again. Lip trembling, she looked down at her hands, which had started all this trouble in the first place. "I… killed the peas."

"No," their father decisively said, squeezing her shoulder. "Your sister did nothing wrong."

Mama cleared her throat and took Amelle's hand, gently guiding her off her father's lap. "Come darling, why don't we get you cleaned up a little, hmm?" She looked back at Papa as she led Amelle out of the room. "I'll leave you alone so you can…"

Papa nodded. "I'll speak with them."

"They'll understand," she said, casting an eye over the remaining Hawke children.

He followed her gaze. "I hope they do."