The waiting game was not one Loir was good at. From the earliest she could remember, she had been terrible at it.
‘Mamà, when will the rain come, the animals look sick?’ ‘When it comes, child?’
‘When can I hear more about Perè’s home?’ ‘When he returns, he promised he would teach you.’
‘What will I do if I don’t want to be a merchant like you and Peré?’ ‘Don’t worry, child, you’ll know when the time is right?’
She had her own answers, her own way of handling things. She had made up a way to call the rains (it wasn’t technically successful, though it did rain a week later); taught herself to read (d’Angeline at four, Jebe-Barkal at five, Tiberian, Aragonian, and more by nine); and decided to leave for the holy City of Elua and Heliotrope at ten (she spoke to Olivier herself and expressed her desire to join his House). Loir was strong in mind and body, strong in her soul if such a thing existed, she found solutions.
Until she couldn’t. Until there were no solutions to find, only time to wade through. Time that felt as sluggish as the river in the depths of winter.
She stood in the kitchen, making a dish from her homeland that the adepts had learned that they loved, using the long cooking process to help her manage. It was not a great solution, unfortunately. Yes, the time was long, but it was a lot of stirring and waiting, things that only gave the mind more time to wander. First, she thought of her dear friend Mena, and how she was only now looking like her usual self. It had been a month since that ground dwelling spineless weevil that passed for a Peer of the Realm had been thrown from the House. Her fingers tightened on her spoon, remembering her knife in her hand and wishing she could go back in time and just gut him like the deranged predator he was. Mena had tried to tell her that he wasn’t worth it, wasn’t worth the stain of his blood on Loir’s hands, wasn’t worth the risk attached to his murder. Loir countered with his low value was even more reason to remove him from the glorious d’Angelline bloodline, in order for there to be a stain Loir would have to feel guilt over his death (which she wouldn’t), and that if he’d been dumped in the river, no one would know who killed him nor would anyone really mourn him so there was no risk.
Mena did not agree, so they dropped the matter.
Loir worried about Olivier. She had made almost as many visits to his bedside as Mena. But unlike Mena, she had borne witness to her own grandmother’s death back in Jebe-Barkal, so she knew what the other woman was blissfully unaware of, his time was close. Loir felt he would likely not live until the arrival of spring, though she did not tell anyone of her concerns. There was enough going on without her throwing grease on the bonfire.
She swung the iron arm off of the fire and checked her dish. It was done and would be on the table tonight for both adepts and patrons. Pity Mathan, the dye merchant who’d helped with Kyrian, wasn’t back yet. Loir was sure he’d like it. There was something about the man, who came every night to the House but never lay with an adept, that made Loir’s heart lighter. He was special, she just couldn’t figure out how.
Brushing aside thoughts of the merchant, she felt herself come to an unexpected decision, one she had to share immediately with Mena. She hurried through the corridors until she reached her friend’s office. The door was open so she didn’t bother knocking, just stepped in and said, “Mena, I think I will go and keep vigil with Olivier. I’ll remain until he is welcomed home and return with the news myself.”