40. Spring 517
The letter was a crumpled mess in Hortense’s fist, though it had been in that condition before she found it. She had washed the bedsheets that morning, all three of them, and the underlying blankets too, as was her habit. Out of her father’s blanket came, fluttering, this letter. She had picked it up from the ground with some surprise – why would he tuck it away like a bandit hiding a treasure map? There were no secrets in this family, that was one of Rendan’s own rules. The children had been caught trying to keep one, once or twice, when they were younger. Their father had found out about each of them, and he had not been happy about it. If Rendan felt the need to keep something hidden, Hortense knew, it must be something important and either a large surprise or terribly dreadful. She would have questioned him about it if she had seen a letter laying around, but this was different. This one, he had deliberately hidden, and that was against his principles. Hortense felt that it was only fair that she opened the letter now to see what the secrecy was about. Perhaps a lover? She did not wish to imagine her father’s relationships in detail, but if there was someone, it would not feel right to her. Her mother was out there, somewhere.
She smelled the letter. No, this was too plain. A woman would have scented it. Or maybe the perfume had long since fled, she could not tell. She opened the letter, read it, gasped and with a tremor shaking her hands, read it again. Then, she went to find her brother.
The moment Oleander felt his sister approaching, he knew something was wrong. It was a twin thing – when one’s emotions became especially strong, the other often somehow just knew – not what, and not necessarily whether it was a good or a bad thing, just that something was moving them.
He looked up from the book he’d been occupied ith – nothing fanciful, merely a notebook in which he attempted to draw and document local leaf shapes, grasping the quill too tightly to steady his wobbly, impractised hand – even before she stormed through the door. He bit back any “what’s wrong”s and “are you allright”s, his sister was not the type to keep news that moved her to herself for long and did not take lightly to interruptions of her thought train.
“It’s from mother”, she blurted out, waving the note excitedly.
This made Oleander put his writing utensils aside. “So she’s alive.” Hortense gave him the letter and his eyes flew over it as fast as he could decipher the words. His mother’s hand was tiny and it was hard to tell the “n”s, “m”s and “w”s apart, as all of them were small and rounded. “She’s in Syliras”, he noted.
“How do you know they never travelled? There are birds everywhere.”
Oleander shook his head. “How would she know we’ve moved here? Nobody in the outpost would’ve gotten a letter wrongly sent there, picked it up and returned one. Most people there can’t even read. At least she’s been there, and someone must’ve told her where we’ve gone.”
“Or father could have written her before we left”, Hortense mused.
“If he even knew where he’d reach her. This sounded like someone was hunting her down. She was probably on the constant move before hiding.”
“He also wouldn’t hide it from us, would he?”, his sister said, dismissing her own idea. She sat down on the bench next to Oleander. “We need to find her.”
“Find her?” Oleander shot up. “Are you out of your mind? She’s in Syliras, Hortense, if this letter is real! We’re in Zeltiva.”
“We can take a caravan back”, his sister insisted and reached for his hand to pull him back. “We’ve been here for almost half a year. You still have not tried to get into the University, Oleander. How important can this truly be to you?”
Admittedly, Hortense had a point. It was not only the financial aspect that kept Oleander from signing up. It was also the fear of being denied, paired with respect and intimidation. These people were scholars, he was a villager. They’d laugh at him or turn up their noses and snort, like that apothecary had. But Hortense knew these things, and still she utilized them as an argument to serve her point, deliberately hurting her brother to have her will.
A few years ago, he might have stormed out to find a quiet spot and sulk. Now, she stared at his sister with sorrowful eyes. “I know. We need to talk to father about it.”
She smelled the letter. No, this was too plain. A woman would have scented it. Or maybe the perfume had long since fled, she could not tell. She opened the letter, read it, gasped and with a tremor shaking her hands, read it again. Then, she went to find her brother.
The moment Oleander felt his sister approaching, he knew something was wrong. It was a twin thing – when one’s emotions became especially strong, the other often somehow just knew – not what, and not necessarily whether it was a good or a bad thing, just that something was moving them.
He looked up from the book he’d been occupied ith – nothing fanciful, merely a notebook in which he attempted to draw and document local leaf shapes, grasping the quill too tightly to steady his wobbly, impractised hand – even before she stormed through the door. He bit back any “what’s wrong”s and “are you allright”s, his sister was not the type to keep news that moved her to herself for long and did not take lightly to interruptions of her thought train.
“It’s from mother”, she blurted out, waving the note excitedly.
This made Oleander put his writing utensils aside. “So she’s alive.” Hortense gave him the letter and his eyes flew over it as fast as he could decipher the words. His mother’s hand was tiny and it was hard to tell the “n”s, “m”s and “w”s apart, as all of them were small and rounded. “She’s in Syliras”, he noted.
“How do you know they never travelled? There are birds everywhere.”
Oleander shook his head. “How would she know we’ve moved here? Nobody in the outpost would’ve gotten a letter wrongly sent there, picked it up and returned one. Most people there can’t even read. At least she’s been there, and someone must’ve told her where we’ve gone.”
“Or father could have written her before we left”, Hortense mused.
“If he even knew where he’d reach her. This sounded like someone was hunting her down. She was probably on the constant move before hiding.”
“He also wouldn’t hide it from us, would he?”, his sister said, dismissing her own idea. She sat down on the bench next to Oleander. “We need to find her.”
“Find her?” Oleander shot up. “Are you out of your mind? She’s in Syliras, Hortense, if this letter is real! We’re in Zeltiva.”
“We can take a caravan back”, his sister insisted and reached for his hand to pull him back. “We’ve been here for almost half a year. You still have not tried to get into the University, Oleander. How important can this truly be to you?”
Admittedly, Hortense had a point. It was not only the financial aspect that kept Oleander from signing up. It was also the fear of being denied, paired with respect and intimidation. These people were scholars, he was a villager. They’d laugh at him or turn up their noses and snort, like that apothecary had. But Hortense knew these things, and still she utilized them as an argument to serve her point, deliberately hurting her brother to have her will.
A few years ago, he might have stormed out to find a quiet spot and sulk. Now, she stared at his sister with sorrowful eyes. “I know. We need to talk to father about it.”
