Ren. Maybe I can bring you by to say hello to my family at least. I know my father would love to see you.”
I glance over at my aunt. She’s calmly sipping her tea, but the corner of her lip twitches at the mention of Gareth’s father.
“I’d like that,” I say cautiously. “I haven’t seen him in a long time.”
“Well, then,” Gareth says, his face tense, “I’ll be off.”
Rafe gets up to see him out, the legs of his chair squeaking against the wooden floor as he pushes it from the table.
Trystan gets up, too, followed by my uncle and the twins, and all the males make their way out of the kitchen. I sit down, feeling self-conscious.
My aunt and I are alone.
She’s tranquilly sipping her tea and studying me with sharp, intelligent eyes. “Gareth seems to take quite the interest in you, my dear,” she muses.
My face grows hot again. “Oh, no...it’s not like that,” I stammer. “He’s just a friend.”
My aunt leans forward and places a graceful hand on mine.
“You aren’t a child anymore, Elloren. More and more, your future will be decided by the company you keep.” She looks at me meaningfully, then sits back, her expression lightening. “I am so glad your uncle has finally come to his senses and is letting you spend some time with me. I have a number of young men I am very eager for you to meet.”
* * *
Later, after we have eaten supper, I make my way outside to bring the leftover scraps from dinner to the few pigs we keep. The days are getting shorter, the shadows longer, and a chill is steadily creeping in, the sun less and less able to fight it off.
Before, in the light of day, the idea of attending University seemed like an exciting adventure, but as the tide of night slowly sweeps in, I begin to feel apprehension coming in with it.
As eager as I am to see the wider world, there’s a part of me that likes my quiet life here with my uncle, tending the gardens and the animals, making simple medicines, crafting violins, reading, sewing.
So quiet. So safe.
I peer out into the distance, past the garden where the twins were playing, past the Gaffneys’ farmland and estate, past the sprawling wilderness, to the mountains beyond—mountains that loom in the distance and cast dark shadows over everything as the sun sets behind them.
And the forest—the wild forest.
I squint into the distance and make out the curious shapes of several large white birds flying in from the wilds. They’re different from any birds I’ve ever seen before, with huge, fanning wings, so light they seem iridescent.
As I watch them, I’m overcome by a strange sense of foreboding, as if the earth is shifting beneath my feet.
I forget, for a moment, about the basket of pig slop I’m balancing on my hip, and some large vegetable remnants fall to the ground with a dull thud. I glance down and stoop to gather them back into the basket.
When I straighten again and look for the strange white birds, they’re gone.
Goodbye
That night I’m in my quiet bedroom, softly illuminated by the gentle glow of the lantern on my desk. As I pack, my hand passes through a shadow, and I pause to look at it.
Like all Gardnerians, my skin shimmers faintly in the dark. It’s the mark of the First Children, set down on us by the Ancient One above, marking us as the rightful owners of Erthia.
At least, that’s what our holy book, The Book of the Ancients, tells us.
The traveling trunk Aunt Vyvian has brought for me lies open on the bed. It hits me that I’ve never been away from my uncle for more than a day, not since my brothers and I came to live with him when I was three, after my parents were killed in the Realm War.
It was a bloody conflict that raged for thirteen long years and ended with my grandmother’s death in battle. But it was a necessary war, my beleaguered country relentlessly attacked and ransacked at the beginning of it. By the time it ended, Gardneria was allied with the Alfsigr Elves, ten times its original size, and the new, major power in the region.
All thanks to my grandmother, The Black Witch.
My father, Vale, was a highly ranked Gardnerian soldier, and my mother, Tessla, was visiting him when Keltic forces struck. They died together, and my uncle took us in soon after.
My little white cat, Isabel, jumps into my trunk and tries to pull a string from my old patchwork quilt. It’s the quilt my mother made while pregnant with me, and it’s linked to the only vivid memory I have of her. When I wrap myself in it, I can hear, faintly, the sound of my mother’s voice singing me a lullaby, and almost feel her arms cradling me. No matter how bad a day I’ve had, just wrapping myself in this quilt can soothe me like nothing else.
It’s as if she sewed her love right into the soft fabric.
Next to my trunk stands my apothecary kit, vials neatly stacked inside, tools secured, the medicines meticulously prepared. I’ve inherited this affinity for medicinal plants and herbs from my mother. She was a gifted apothecary, well-known for several creative tonics and elixirs that she developed.
Beside my apothecary supplies lies my violin, case open, its amber, lacquered wood reflecting the lantern light. I run my fingers along the violin’s smooth surface.
I made this instrument, and there’s no way I can part with it. I’m not supposed to know how to make violins, since women aren’t allowed in the music crafter’s Guilds. My uncle hesitated to teach me, but as time went on, he became increasingly aware of my natural talent and relented.
I love everything about violin-making. My hands have always been drawn to wood, soothed by it, and I can tell just by touching it what type it is, whether or not the tree was healthy, what kind of sound it will support. I can lose myself for hours on end carving, sanding, coaxing the raw wood into the graceful shapes of violin parts.
Sometimes we play together, my uncle and I, especially during the winter evenings by the light of the hearth.
A polite knock on the door frame breaks my reverie, and I turn to see my uncle standing in the open doorway.
“Am I disturbing you?” My uncle’s face is gentle and softer than usual in the dim, warm light. His words, however, have a troubling edge of concern to them.
“No,” I reply tentatively. “I’m just finishing packing.”
“Can I come in?” he asks, hesitating. I nod and take a seat on my bed, which looks forlorn and foreign without its quilt. My uncle sits down next to me.
“I imagine you’re feeling quite confused,” he says. “Your aunt sent word a few months ago that she might be paying us a visit at some point, to discuss your future. So I started to make arrangements with the University. Just
