I've forgotten what it's like to be in a house—the cozy heat of a fireplace, the sensation of bare feet against wooden floors, a towel to dry off with, clean clothes against my skin. Though the living room fire is small, the towel is rough, and the clothes drape on me like I'm a little girl who's stolen her father's nightshirt, we're in a house. We're safe inside a solid building that doesn't rock with the wind. Tomorrow, we won't break it down and pack it up. It will stay here, whether or not we do. That knowledge anchors my thoughts. It's refreshingly normal, refreshingly human. People are not meant to be herded like animals.
A quilt wraps around my shoulders as I sit in the floor before the fire, its reviving heat dispelling the chill of my wet hair. Sean sits beside me, brooding over the flames. I scoot closer to him, voice low. "Who are these people?"
He glances over at me, then slides his gaze back to the fire. "How am I supposed to know?"
"But how are they here? And why—"
"Riveirre!" I jump, and he looks me dead in the eye. "I. Don't. Know. Okay?"
I press my lips together but nod and slide back to where I sat before. The fire crackles in the silence.
A few minutes later, our hostess returns. "Are you two dry now?" The woman's accent is thick, making her Common even harder for me to understand. However, my months with the Traders at least produced some fruit since I can, in fact, understand her. I won't be completely lost, like I was at the beginning of this journey. I cling to that thought.
"Yes. Thanks," Sean answers.
"Of course! Couldn't leave you out there in the rain, could I?" Smiling, she ushers us into the dining room, where a pot of soup waits on the table. As soon as its savory scent hits my nose, my mouth waters. After months on scraps of dried fruit and jerky, this simple food looks like a gourmet delicacy. I force myself to wait for an invitation to sit.
Picking up a silver bell from the table, she raises it above her head and rings it repeatedly. The jangling tones stab my ear, and I flinch. "Dinner!" she calls.
I hope she's calling other inhabitants of the house and not her somewhat deaf husband standing right behind her. Apparently, he has the same fear. "I'm right here, dear," he informs her at a decibel just above a comfortable level. "No need to raise your voice."
She gently swats him. "I wasn't calling for you, silly." Ringing the bell as though daring it to break, she shouts again, "Dinner!" As I hide my wince, I wonder if maybe she's the reason her husband lost his hearing.
Little feet pad excitedly down the hallway, and a seven-year-old girl bursts into the room, grinning. Behind her, a deep voice calls, "No running inside, Zena." He shoulders in as she clambers into her seat. Zena pushes to her knees in her chair, hands braced against the table. Her ash-blonde hair falls into her face, and she blows it out of the way, annoyed. "Who are you two?"
Ignoring her, Sean offers his hand to the man. "Sean Rahkifellar."
The man gives Sean one strong shake. "Markus Delroy." He turns to me. "And you are?"
Embarrassment washes over me, as my brain scrambles to offer a proper introduction. It settles on an awkward, "Ah... Leavi." Understanding much more of the Trader's language than I can speak, I've spent the last couple months avoiding dialogue. I suppose I'll pay for that now.
Markus' hand hovers in the air, waiting for me to shake, and I hurry to accept it. He takes his seat next to Zena, and I tuck a piece of hair behind my ear, suddenly self-conscious.
Behind me, the door pushes open, and I turn to see a boy maybe a few years older than me saunter in. "Marcí, that smells exquisite!" A simple copper chain peeks from beneath the neck of his white tunic, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Roguish, inky hair wisps above lightning-blue eyes that light on me.
"Hello." He greets me as though we're old friends, tone easy and smile bright. "Mrs. Marcí," he scolds playfully, calling around me. "Why didn't you tell me we'd gotten such a beautiful new guest?" Turning back, he clasps my hand in both of his. "Jacin."
"Leavi," I answer, more confidently this time.
His grin stretches wider. "It's very nice to meet you, Leavi." Releasing my hand, he pulls out a chair and gestures at me. "After you, miss."
I blush, sitting, and he takes the spot beside me. Marcí settles on my other side, her husband next to her, leaving Sean at the far end of the table. While Marcí passes out plates, she quickly reintroduces everyone. "This is Markus," she starts. "He and I are cousins. And this is his darling little daughter, Zena."
She pushes up on the table again. "I'm not little!"
Markus shushes her, gently pushing her back into her chair.
"Of course you're not, dear." Marcí winks at us conspiratorially. "Anyway, that's Jacin Jazere. He just started boarding with us, oh, what was it? Three months ago?"
Jacin sips from the wooden water cup. "I think that's about right."
Marcí says something else, but I miss it, beginning to get lost in the rush of conversation. She speaks as though she's afraid her words are going to run away from her if she doesn't use them quickly enough. My confusion must be obvious because Jacin passes me a sympathetic glance. His gaze darts to Marcí, whose back is turned as she volleys a new barrage of words at Sean. Affecting overly wide eyes and an over-the-top smile, he mouths along to her bubbly monologue. I stifle a laugh with my hand, shaking my head, and he drops the act, giving me a genuine grin.
He leans over to whisper in my ear. "You'll get used to her eventually."
My attention snaps back to the conversation as Sean says, "That'd be appreciated."
"Oh, good!" Marcí exclaims. "And what about you, Leavi?"
"Ah..." Marcí stares at me, wide-eyed and expecting. Please stop looking at me and ramble about something else. But her eyes stay fixed. "I, uh... I sorry? No... hear?" Mentally, I groan.
Marcí's friendly face suddenly adopts a pitying look. "Oh, dear," she says to Sean regretfully. "Is she not very..." She taps her temple, unwilling to say it.
My jaw drops. Sean smirks, not bothering to correct her.
Jacin is the one who comes to my rescue. "No, no, Marcí. She's just not from around here. They've both got an accent, hear?"
"Oh." She smiles, patting my hand. "Well, then, I know the perfect job for you. They were looking for a girl who wouldn't talk too much anyhow."
My eyes widen in affront.
"Oh. Right." Projecting her voice, she says slowly, "A jo-ob. Wo-ork. You. Need. Yes?"
I actually have a harder time understanding her like that. I fist the over-large fabric of my skirt and force a smile. She means well, I try to convince myself. I sound like a dumb foreigner to her.
In Errelian, Sean prompts, "And now you say yes to the generous ditz, Riveirre."
Unable to glare at him in polite company, I turn him my bright smile instead. Confusion melts some of the arrogance on his face.
Marcí blinks at him. "What, dear?"
Switching back to their language, he says, "I'm just translating for her." He meets my eyes, smug smile glued back into place.
"Oh, good! So she'll take the job?"
He waves at me with his spoon. "I'm sure she can answer for herself." He leans forward, one elbow on the table, waiting for my response. Marcí's attentive eyes focus back on me.
I gather my words as my head dips graciously. "Yes. Thank you."
"Great! I. Can. Get. For. You." She beams and returns to her food.
I take a breath as I sink my spoon into the broth. This woman saved us from the rain and the wilderness. I can bear a little condescension. Conversation continues, and my gaze flicks up. Jacin's eyes offer a subtle apology, but Sean looks like he's trying to keep from snickering. I raise my brow at him, but his smile just creeps wider, the gloat of a self-satisfied fox. I look away.
Marcí keeps up cheerful chatter all through dinner. Despite my efforts, though, my tired mind refuses to keep up. The thrumming rain plays on the roof like music, its simplicity enticing. The drops are drums, the wind a pipe, the thunder crashing cymbals. No words, no expectations. The noise is hypnotic.
Eventually Marcí claps her hands together, and I start back to reality.
"Oh, dear me!" She places a hand on my shoulder. "Is she normally this skittish, Mr. Rahkifellar?"
I lean forward on the table and in Errelian say, "Sean, don't you dare—"
"Oh, we've got her all worked up." Turning me toward her, she leans in close enough our noses almost touch. Over-enunciating, her lips contort as she purses each word in slow motion. "It is okay. I did not mean to frighten you."
Frustration wells within me. I'm sick of being overpowered, by the Traders, by Sean. I'm not adding this woman to the list of people I don't get a voice with. Tired, lonely, and desperate to do something, I shoot to my feet, causing Marcí to jerk back. "I am not frightened."
A shocked silence stretches through the room. I stand there, quivering from fatigue. The stress of the last two months is slowly crashing in on me, making my head simultaneously fuzzy and strangely electric. "Just exhausted," I murmur in Errelian.
Sean makes the switch with me. "Riveirre, you're overreacting. Calm down before the weird landlady decides she doesn't want to host us after all."
My eyes flash to his. Angry tears well up against my will, and his gaze softens. "We're here now, Riveirre. No more wandering. Even if she is a weirdo, even if this is improbable, at least we're somewhere now."
My head dips.
"I think it's been a long day," Jacin interrupts. "Especially for those of us who had to travel to get here. Perhaps it's time we retire."
Marcí mutters, "Well, if they're going to be rude, I'm not sure I—"
"Marcí." Bukki sets a hand over his wife's. "Jacin's right. The girl's just tired. Why don't you show them their rooms?"
His kind eyes hold hers until she relents. "Oh, alright. Come along." Sean grabs his bag from beside his chair and follows her. I do the same, chagrined but grateful for the promise of a bed. She takes us up a flight of stairs and opens the doors to two opposing rooms, gesturing for me to enter the one on the right.
A candle in a tin holder dimly illuminates the space. Gaudy flower prints cover everything: the comforter, the rug, the runner over the bedside table. They're even painted on the walls and carved into the foot chest and headboard. Lacy curtains line the two windows on either side of the bed and ridiculous frilly pillows dominate it.
Nothing's ever seemed more inviting.
"Let me know if you need anything, dear. Oh, and here's the key." She presses it into my hand.
I stare at her, knowing how generous this all is. I could be in the rain right now, wandering in search of shelter, but instead, I'm here, warm and safe. Though we have nothing to offer her, though I've been less than polite, she's helping us.
"Thank you," I say warmly.
My accent apparently reminds her that she has to talk to me like I'm three. Too loudly, she answers, "You. Are. Welcome!" She smiles at me, then leaves, closing the door behind her.
Shaking my head, I drop my bag and collapse onto the bed, sinking into the luxury of a mattress. It cradles my body, far more forgiving than the ground. Slipping underneath the heavy comforter, I nestle into the mountain of pillows.
With my eyes closed, I almost feel like I'm back home.
A silent sob pulses through my body at the unexpected thought, and I burrow down further. My heart is suddenly so heavy, so full, it seems like it should rupture. Instead, tears just leak from my eyes.
They don't seem like enough.