As Jurij wiped the dust into a rag, I numbly placed bowls and spoons for four people at our table. A brief jolt of pain brought me to life as I placed Jurij’s setting down next to Elfriede’s, and I thought of who had once sat there. “Ah. Good day, Jurij,” came a slow, slurring voice, a croaking echo of what it had been. I glanced up to see Father in the doorway. He stumbled his way to his chair, a shade of the father I had known.
Father had the same features, but they were muted somehow. His strong, dark chin poked through a rough, unkempt black-and-gray beard. His curls drooped and stuck out in all directions, although somehow the pointed tips of his ears made a slight appearance through the wild tangle of knots. His eyes sparkled, but in a different way than they once had. The flame within them burned as lightly as a candle in its final few moments before the wick withered away.
Perhaps that described my father. He had lost his sunlight and was left only with the dimmer echoes in the children she left behind. What room was there for happiness with the sun’s light gone forever? The moon alone could never be enough, not after years of dancing in the sun’s delight. It was just a matter of time. Nissa’s father had died the same evening as his wife. They rarely lasted beyond a year.
“Good day, Gideon,” said Jurij. He tore himself from Elfriede long enough to put his hand on Father’s shoulder. “How’re Vena and Elweard?”
“Huh?” asked Father absently. Often these days you had to ask a question more than once.
“The tavern masters,” I reminded him. Father practically kept them in business since Mother’s death.
“Oh, fine, fine.” Father’s eyes glossed over.
“Father?” I asked, covering his trembling hand with mine. He looked at me, the smallest of smiles edging onto his lips. The light flickered in his eyes. It was still there. Of course it was. But only just.
Jurij picked up Father’s and my bowls and brought them over to the fire. Jurij and Elfriede worked in perfect harmony, one ladling the stew and the other holding the bowls out to receive it.
“Vena asked about your wedding last night,” said Father as he withdrew his hand from mine. For a moment, my heart nearly stopped.
“And what did she want to know?” asked Jurij jovially. He placed the stew bowls in front of Father and me.
I felt a rush of relief. Of course. Their wedding.
Father smiled, his face almost as warm as it had once been, his eyes growing brighter. “How much ale you’ll need for the festivities, of course!”
Jurij shook his head as he grabbed the empty bowls for himself and Elfriede. “You know we only want a few bottles at the most.” He paused a moment as he slid soundlessly next to Elfriede. Even from the table, I could see the lines burrowed deep between her brows.
“Or maybe none at all,” muttered Elfriede. She plopped the stew into their bowls with a little less tenderness than was her custom.
My father’s face fell. “I’ll be on my best behavior. I promise you.”
No one spoke.
Father and I sipped from our stew for a few moments longer, and Jurij sat down next to us, placing the bowls on the table and picking up his spoon.
Elfriede lingered back at the pot for a few minutes longer, stirring and stirring. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her dab her cheek with her apron.
“Noll,” she said tentatively. She stirred the stew with a little too much interest. “Would you be willing to help Darwyn deliver the bread to the castle?”
I drummed my fingers on the tabletop. “I didn’t think the bakers were so busy they couldn’t spare a few dozen members of their family to deliver bread to His Lordship.”
“Noll. Help Darwyn deliver the bread,” interrupted my father. He tried to take a sip of his stew, but his hand shook and the stew slid off the spoon, spilling onto the table. Whether because he had now gone a short while without his bottle or because he could barely contain his rage at me, I wasn’t sure.
He only managed to truly seem among the living these days when it came to rejoicing in Elfriede’s wedding and lamenting my unspoken opposition to my own.
I glanced out the window. Newly unmasked Darwyn stood in front of our house next to his cart full of bread. Father had no doubt come straight with him from the village and had let Elfriede know ahead of time.
“I promised I’d meet Alvilda after lunch.”
“Noll, you need to stop with that woodworking—”
I didn’t let Father finish. I grabbed a chisel and a block of half-carved wood and bolted out of the door, walking straight past Darwyn—no doubt fuming with impatience to be done with the task and back in his goddess’s arms. I headed down the dirt path, my head held high in the western direction.
The wheels on the cart squealed. Darwyn had no interest in waiting for me to change my mind. Just as well. I wasn’t going to.
Arrow bolted up the pathway from where he’d been playing nearby to lick me goodbye. I pulled the chisel out of his reach so he wouldn’t hurt himself and kept marching forward. Arrow followed me for a bit, jumping and yipping and straining against all hope that the wood I carried would prove edible. Perhaps to him it was.
“Arrow! Here boy!”