Still, nothing made sense.
Shew wondered again how such scribbled engravings could hold an important message. She could neither read the engravings on the front or the back of the pendant.
Another thing that caught Shew’s attention was the absence of chairs. There was only one chair while the table that was big enough for eight people. She brushed the tips of her hands over the chair’s back, hoping she’d remember something, the way she remembered her father’s training.
Again, nothing. It was just a chair.
On the table, Shew saw five items: a knife, some scattered beans, breadcrumbs, an empty plate, and a fork. The image of each item gave her a momentary, but acute, migraine. With each item, an image flashed. She caught the image of a boy with a green hat, a girl in a red cloak, and a moon. The rest of the images were unclear. Shew was almost sure these were the Lost Seven, and that each item belonged to one of them.
Why hadn’t she seen an image of Cerené, and what was her item?
Shew altered her gaze between the items and chair for a while. Her gut feeling told her the chair was the sixth item—that’s why there were no other chairs in the house. “They belong to the others I told you about,” Cerené said, pointing at the items on the table. She had begun nailing logs on the windows as if preparing for a zombie attack. “I haven’t been lucky enough to meet them,” she added with a nail between her teeth.
“Is one of the items yours?” Shew asked.
“No,” Cerené said. “I have what I need here,” she lifted her dress, showing her the glass urn underneath. Shew wondered why Cerené hadn’t pointed at her blowpipe.
“And where is the old man, Charmwill?” Shew said.
“Like I said, I only met him once. Funny man, and a funny parrot!” Cerené sucked the blood out of her finger. She’d hurt herself while hammering. “Come help me, and stop talking. We can’t let Loki get in.”
“This doesn’t look like a safe place, Cerené,” Shew commented, rummaging through a box of nails and looking for a hammer.
“I know,” Cerené considered. “But don’t worry. We’ll make it.”
Shew found a hammer and started nailing. She wasn’t enthusiastic about it. Keeping Loki out wasn’t going to be that easy. She kept wondering why Cerené brought her to this cottage. It didn’t look safe. Her first hit with the hammer landed on her finger, too. She let out a scream.
“You need to be tougher,” Cerené giggled.
“You just hurt yourself a second ago,” Shew defended herself.
“That’s true, but I’m not the Chosen One,” Cerené winked.
“How do you know I’m the Chosen One,” Shew’s face tightened. “I never told you.”
“Charmwill told me,” Cerené sighed. “Can you stop talking now and do some work?”
“Why is everyone else telling you things all the time?” Shew wondered. “Is that why you keep coming rescuing me, because you think you should care for the Chosen One?” Shew said.
“Yes!” Cerené snapped again. “Are you happy now? I am supposed to take care of you, the same way you will take care of me. Bianca told me so, and Charmwill told me so. Why is it so hard for you to accept that I am here for you?”
Shew said nothing, and continued hammering. Cerené was right. They were two lost girls with no elder to take care of them. Both were damaged, yet blessed. The Chosen One took care of the Clue, and the Clue took care of the Chosen one. It was like nothing Shew had read in history books before. This was Shew’s and Cerené’s special journey, and they had to do it their own way. Love was not always the answer and friendship was just as important.
The two girls nailed a board over every window for extra security. Cerené had pulled off planes from the beds and used them as logs, and then she blew out the candles and dimmed the cottage.
Finally, the two girls sat on the floor with their backs against the wall, staring at the cottage’s door. Cerené cleaned her blowpipe, but Shew didn’t bother cleaning her sword.
After some time had passed they assumed Loki wasn’t coming for them. Either the glass dragon had killed him or Loki had no idea they were in the cottage. Anticipating silence surrounded the two girls, accompanied by their own breathing.
“Do you think I will able to create fire one day?” Cerené asked in the dark.
“I would like to think so,” Shew said. “You’re still young. Maybe you’ll acquire the talent later.”
“And maybe the Creators are worried I’d use it the wrong way,” Cerené said.
“If I were one of the Creators, I’d gift you with every power available,” Shew said.
“Don’t try to glasscoat your words, Joy,” Cerené said. Shew supposed the phrase meant something like ‘sugar coat.’ Glass was as precious as gold and sweet as sugar to the people of Sorrow—and probably Murano at the time. “I know how weird I am. I’m not a fool,” Cerené confessed.