Someone cared for paint and art, whether in this generation or in the last.
Amarys was down the hall, and she took a strangely deep breath before opening the door before her. “I keep it clean,” she told them as they passed. “And I told Rezen that we would need a larger bed once you had grown. If... if you ever came home.”
Her eyes were misty again, and Penryn laid a hand on her arm before entering the space. It was a well-prepared room, with a dresser that doubtlessly held all the little things that a new fledgling might required. A few were upon the top, impossibly small stockings for tiny feet, a soft brush for downy feathers that had not fully fluffed into those needed for flight.
There was an inscription too, carved in wood and lovingly painted upon the wall.
“That is not your name, of course,” Amarys hurried to note, already hurrying to the wall as she caught Penryn looking at it. She reached up, as if ready to yank it down, but Penryn stopped her, her throat strangely tight.
“No, please,” she managed to get out. “Maerwen is a lovely name.”
Amarys turned, looking suddenly young and lost as she must have been, a new mother without a babe to hold at the end of her labours. “I always cared for it,” she murmured, glancing at Penryn, wistful and full of longing, even as the daughter she longed for stood right beside her.
But it was not the same. Not exactly. A woman created in fantasy, with features and personality conjured by imagination rather than reality.
A name for another life, if not another girl.
Her mother twisted her fingers together, staring anxiously, and Penryn patted her arm. “We will be most comfortable here, thank you,” she assured her. It was a room made ready, not only for visitors, but to be lived in.
Penryn would not be surprised if there was clothing that might fit her stashed within the confines of the drawers, carefully kept and chosen, saved so her daughter might feel welcome.
And she did.
She had not been forgotten. Their lives might have carried on, finding room to love two young foundlings into their adulthood, but she had never been replaced.
“If...” Amarys continued, giving Penryn a wistful smile. “If you have need of anything, please come find me. I doubt I will be able to sleep tonight.”
Her mother placed a gentle kiss as she passed, and Penryn thought she saw the hesitation, as if it took a great deal not to lock the door behind her.
It was a habit Penryn could well understand, the need for safety, a compulsion more than a habit, an urgency to secure all that was dear to her.
And although Penryn had wanted nothing more than to be alone with her husband once more for so much of the day, now she found a part of her longing to go back out.
But Grimult was beginning to sway with exhaustion, and she softened, turning to her husband and taking his hand. “Sleep,” she urged, tugging at clothes and weaponry, urging him to ease some of the tension still residing in him. The bed was a cushion on the floor, covered in blankets intricately woven.
A name that was not hers was stitched into the side, and she rubbed her thumb over it, trying to picture Penryn there instead.
She could not.
Belly full, and heart even more so, it was not difficult to fall into slumber beside Grimult. It was a more snug fit than their bed in the cottage that had known the first days of their marriage, but it was a blessed relief compared to the unrelenting travel of these last days, hard earth and an inadequate bedroll their only comfort from the long days and too-short nights.
Yet still, she found herself awake all too soon, something urging her up. She had stripped to only her borrowed shift, and she wrapped the shawl back around her, creeping out from the chilly room. The door was well oiled and did not squeak, Grimult so deep in his own slumber that he did not realise her absence.
She crept out toward the kitchens, the fire still crackling and inviting, only to see her parents seated there, holding one another close, their eyes meeting hers, smiling with welcome.
A lump settled in her throat, and she found it easy to go to them, to join their small huddle on a blanket before the fire, reclining on cushions brought in from the main living space. It was a moment of quiet repose, but to her surprise, she did not feel an intruder.
It was as if they were waiting for her.
And although she knew her place was beside her husband, there would be a lifetime yet of wakings and sleepings with him by her side.
And they had only this one as parents and daughter.
At least for a time.
There would be words spoken. Stories of childhood, of memories and sorrows. For if she had to leave, she would do so filled with as much history as they could manage.
This time not of others set apart from her.
But of her own ancestors, of parents who had met as fledglings, of a man who had courted and wooed his sweetheart early.
Who had built them a home and promised her that it would be filled with love.
It had been delayed for a while. And there were more trials than either could possibly have expected.
But for one night.
All was as it should be.
And as they lay before the fire, basking in the silence and the quiet of the moment...
All was well.
Tomorrow Penryn would do what was necessary. She would face the unknown with courage and all the poise she could muster.
But that was then. And this was now.
And she had a family after all.
Thirteen
