When Marta came in later, carrying a steaming bowl of soup and fresh towels, Taya had almost worn herself down to quiet again.
The old lady left the soup and an oversized spoon on the table by the bed. “How’s she doing?” she asked. She set the cloths on the table beneath the window, then bustled about, lighting the candles in the room while Demial mumbled a reply to her question.
Demial was only aware of how dark the room was after it grew bright with flickering candlelight. She stood and stretched her tired muscles. She was stiff from sitting so long, yet her back and shoulders were as tired as if she’d arched and twisted every time Taya had done so. Her throat was dry as if each of Taya’s cries had been her own.
Marta filled a cup and brought it to the edge of the bed. Demial took it and drank the cool water herself before refilling it for Taya. She stopped the old lady from taking her place at the bedside.
“I’ll do it.” So far Taya had said nothing other than her name and inexplicable mad ravings, but who knew what she might say?
She eased Taya up. Taya roused and opened her eyes. She touched the cup to Taya’s lips. The young woman opened her mouth and gulped hungrily at the water, making Demial feel guilty that she had not thought to offer it before. She grasped at Demial’s forearm as the cup was withdrawn and said clearly, “What number do you believe in?”
Demial shook her head and eased Taya back against the pillows. The fingers gripping her arm flexed. Taya didn’t have enough strength to hurt her, just enough to communicate her agitation.
“What number do you believe in?” she repeated.
Demial knew what was coming now.
“What number do you believe in? What number do you believe in?”
Taya’s voice would grow more and more shrill; the words would tumble out faster and faster, until her poor voice would wear out. There was no answer that was right. Choosing a number made her more frantic. Telling her to hush made her louder. Saying that she didn’t understand made her change to another equally nonsensical question. There was no touch, rough or gentle, that could soothe her. Demial had already tried everything.
Almost everything save the clear broth that was steaming the air near her elbow. Demial dipped the spoon in it and brought soup to Taya’s lips.
“What num-?” Taya’s wild gaze danced around the room, sliding past walls and furniture and Marta, stopping at Demial.
“There,” Demial said, the way she’d heard mothers and fathers soothe their children. “There now.” She scooped up another spoonful of the broth, blew on it to cool it, and fed it to the pale pink mouth that suddenly resembled a baby bird’s gaping beak.
“Hmphh.”
Demial looked up from the feeding. The quick glance up at Marta jarred the spoon, and she spilled soup across Taya’s chin. She used her fingers to wipe it away.
“Hmphh!” There was more emphasis this time, a combination of disbelief and amazement and maybe just a little respect. Marta pierced Demial with a gaze that seemed to see beneath the artifice of her practiced smiles and cheerful demeanor.
A flush warmed her cheeks. “What?” she asked, only keeping the sharpness out of her voice with effort.
“Who’d have thought it?” the old one said softly.
“Thought what?” Demial returned to her task, dipping, blowing, dribbling broth into the baby bird’s beak.
Marta thrust a cloth into her hand to use for wiping Taya’s chin. She continued to watch a moment longer. “Who’d have ever thought you’d watch over this one like she was your own sister?”
Demial didn’t dare look up. That piercing gaze would see right through her, would see her for the fraud she was. It wasn’t the first time that she’d realized not everyone was taken in by her sunny smiles and her small good deeds, but it was the first time the thought bothered her. “We were friends once,” she said simply.
“Hm-m-m,” Marta agreed in a tone that didn’t really agree. “You were thick all right. I remember that, but for all that, I never thought you liked her much.”
“I like her fine,” Demial snapped. Taya started nervously at the harshness in her voice, and she lowered it carefully. “I told Quinn I’d take care of her. I always do what I say I will.”
“Hm-m-m.”
Demial clenched the spoon handle tightly. If that old fox said “hm-m-m” once more. .
Marta shifted into motion, quick steps that belied her ancient, thin-looking bones. “I’d better leave you to it then.”
Before Demial could react, the old lady was out the door, saying over her shoulder, “Someone’ll be in with your supper soon.”
The door closed behind her, and Demial sat, spoon dangling, dripping broth into her lap. Why hadn’t she watched her tongue? She’d been so disconcerted to hear the truth, but now she had to stay with Taya until someone else came. She’d been sure Marta would relieve her.
Taya shifted, her fingers beginning their dance in the air. “I believe in Mishakal, goddess of light,” she said. “I believe in-”
Demial turned back to her and cut off her litany with more broth. “Yes, I know,” she said. “So did we all, at one point or another. Look where it got us.”
It was Quinn who brought her meal. He came quietly through the door with a bowl of stew in one hand and a board with bread and cheese in the other.
He startled her, and she came up quickly, fists clenching, feet spread for the best balance, before she realized who it was. She smiled at him sheepishly. “I must have dozed off.”
She had leaned her arm on the table and rested her head upon it, just to ease the muscles in her neck for a moment. Taya’s voice must have lulled her to sleep.
She could tell Quinn had slept, too, but it had done him no good. His eyes were tired, drooping, bloodshot as if he’d been out in a windstorm. She wanted him to come to her, to touch her wrist, but he only stood in the doorway, looking at her as if he didn’t know what to say, as if he were loath to come in.
His gaze slid past her to Taya, and his expression softened. His eyes blinked rapidly. “I’ve brought you something to eat,” he said, advancing into the room.
Demial looked down at Taya. She’d been asleep until he spoke. Now she moved and worked her mouth as if she was about to start talking again.
Demial would have liked to hate her, for the words that would soon pour out, for the wounded way Quinn looked at Taya, but she didn’t have the strength.
“I’ll stay with her now,” he said, coming up behind Demial, “if you want to eat. If you want to rest.”
Demial nodded and moved away. She wasn’t hungry, but she was tired, so tired. She paused in the doorway and looked back at Quinn.
He was perched on the edge of the small chair, leaning over Taya, smoothing back her hair.
“I’ll come back in the morning,” Demial said, “so you can go to the mine.”
“That’s all right,” he said. “I don’t care about going to the mine. You go.”
He didn’t even look back, but Taya’s eyes were open, and she was looking right at Demial.
Demial wrenched herself away, not even bothering to take a candle to light her way. She stumbled home and fell across her bed in darkness.
She was still tired when the sun woke her. She rolled over, confused for a moment that the curtains were open, allowing bright cheerful sunlight to cut across the corner of the bed. In an instant she remembered everything, and reality slammed into her. She blinked away the sudden tears and rolled out of bed. She dressed slowly and walked up the path to Taya’s hut. Quinn sat in almost the same position as when she’d left the night before, his big hands dangling uselessly between his knees. Taya was sleeping restlessly, moving beneath the blankets.
Demial went to the bed and folded the blankets back to her waist. “She doesn’t like the weight,” she told him.
He glanced up at her and tried to smile, but it only looked as if his mouth was too tired or too frozen as if he were too numb with grief.
“I’m going to check on the mine. Maybe work for a while.”
