Simon grinned. “I love their sandwiches.”

“Yes, but my purse does not.”

“Atheria won’t destroy anything,” Rielle said. “She’s graceful, despite her size.”

“I’m not worried about that as much as I am about her taking a shit on my floors.” Garver dumped the rags on the table in the far corner, then turned with a raised eyebrow. “Godsbeasts shit too, don’t they?”

Rielle laughed, but that felt dangerous, triggering a tingling heat behind her eyes. She swallowed the sound almost at once. “Everything shits,” she replied.

“Ah, the wisdom of the Sun Queen. That’s one for the prayer books.” Then he squinted, pointing one bandaged finger at her. “You look terrible. Are you ill?”

“You’ve hurt your finger. What happened?”

“Bah.” He waved his hand at her. “Don’t waste my time.”

“How dare you speak to me that way.”

“I treat everyone the same in my shop. Everyone bleeds and everyone dies. Sun Queens and beggars alike.”

Rielle drew an unsteady breath. “I’ve run out of maidsright herbs,” she said, which was the truth, and then burst into tears.

Garver’s eyebrows shot up. “Sweet saints, what did I say?”

“Nothing,” Rielle sobbed. “You didn’t do anything. It’s just that I’ve come home from weeks away, and it was terrible in Kirvaya, and wonderful too. I’m so tired I can hardly stand.”

“Then sit, for God’s sake,” muttered Garver, cleaning off a plain wooden bench for her.

She did, gratefully, wiping her face with the hem of her cloak.

“What happened in Kirvaya, my lady?” came Simon’s soft voice. He perched on the bench beside her.

“I can’t tell you. And the people I can talk to about it, I don’t want to be around at the moment. I think that’s why I came to you. So I could sit for a while in a place where I can forget, for even a short time, that I’m…whatever it is that I am.” She looked up at Garver helplessly. “Does that make sense?”

Garver scratched the back of his head, then flung a hand at Simon. “Make sure Lady Rielle has what she needs, while I fold these rags. And if I discover that this is some elaborate plot between you to get Simon out of his chores, I must tell you that my revenge will be unpredictable and immense.”

“Here, my lady,” said Simon quietly, offering her a clean cloth for her face. “You can eat supper with us, if you want to.”

“Oh, can she?” Garver grumbled from the fire. “I suppose you’re now the master of this shop, then.”

“That would be a comfort, if you have enough for me,” Rielle admitted. Then, noticing how Simon kept glancing toward the shop windows, through which Atheria was staring, her breath puffing against the glass, she added, “And I’d be grateful if Atheria could join us.”

Simon straightened, his blue eyes lighting up.

Garver snorted. “What, we’ll ask her to sit herself down at our supper table?”

“She looks rather lonely out there, is all,” said Rielle. “It seems cruel to leave a creature of God outside in the dark.”

She shot a sly glance at Simon, who was stifling a smile. When Garver turned to glare at them, they were all innocence. Outside, Atheria let out a pitiful, lonesome cry.

Garver’s mouth thinned. “Fine, fine. But it’ll be you, Simon, scrubbing the shit off my floor, and not me.”

Simon jumped up, ran for the door, and flung it open. Though Atheria hardly fit through the frame, she seemed entirely untroubled by this fact and lowered herself promptly onto the floor by the fire, her bulk taking up most of their dining space.

Garver stared at her, frozen midfold.

Rielle pulled Simon along by the arm, situated herself on the rug beside Atheria’s belly, patted the floor so Simon would do the same, and blinked guilelessly up at Garver.

“You see?” she said. “Isn’t this much cozier?”

Garver’s indignation was so complete that he seemed to have lost all capability of speech.

Rielle turned to Simon with a grin, her tears drying on her cheeks. And as she answered his endless string of questions about the godsbeast, she existed only in that moment, in that humble, tidy shop, with smells of supper filling the air. Thoughts of Kirvaya simmered quietly, harmlessly, at the edges of her thoughts.

And the need for a fresh supply of maidsright herbs fell out of her mind entirely.

32

   Eliana

“You’ll no doubt scold me roundly for this in your next letter, but as you know, I’ve long been immune to your ire. Simon has requested I begin teaching him foundational threading practices, and I’ve agreed, though I’ve forbidden him to practice without my supervision. You’ll say he’s too young. And I’ll say in response that we were too young for many things, and yet somehow we survived them all. Anyway, the boy has a remarkable talent, and I’d rather he start using it now. His hunger is insatiable. He’s like you in that way. You’re both gluttons for knowledge and too stubborn for your own good.”

—A letter from Garver Randell to Annick Caillabotte, dated October 4, Year 997 of the Second Age

Rozen had once told Eliana that, for the first few months of Eliana’s life, neither Rozen nor Ioseph had been able to sleep through the night.

“We could hardly believe you were real,” Rozen had said, smiling at the memory. This had been eight years ago, when Eliana was ten, and Ioseph was home from the war for a brief spell. He had sat on one cushion, on the floor by the fire, and Rozen on another, with Eliana squished between them and Remy asleep beside her, his four-year-old limbs sprawled across their laps.

“We thought we would wake up in the morning, and you would be gone,” Ioseph had told her, with a gentle brush of his knuckles against her cheek. “Our daughter. A miraculous thing, you were. A gift from God.”

Eliana had wrinkled her nose, indignant. “God isn’t where babies come from. Mama told me.”

Ioseph’s dark eyes had crinkled with laughter. “Well, no. It’s not as though God cuts open the sky and leaves a baby in the road for parents to find. But that’s what it felt like to us. And so we woke up, several times a night, just to look at you and make sure you were still breathing. That you were real, and ours.”

Eliana felt much the same, eight years later, as she sat in the dirt with Remy in her arms. If she slept, she might miss something important. He might stop breathing, as he had done only days before. His stomach would open where she had knit him closed, and he would bleed out while she slept. She would try to heal him again, and her castings would fail her. His body would pale and shrivel before her eyes.