Then, out of his unsure second, he lowers his arms, looking surprised and sheepish all in the one face.
"Well, good morning, and where did you learn that luverly block?"
The boy raises his eyebrows for an answer, disclaiming knowledge. The bruiselike shadows under his eyes have deepened to mauve.
"Did you have a good sleep? Or are nightmares catching?"
He smiles.
"Mmm. Well anyway, in case you're wondering, it's tomorrow, the Tainuis are safely over the hill, your father is picking you up sometime this morning, and what do you want for breakfast?"
From hearsay, children wallow in milk. She considers her normal breakfast, black coffee and yoghurt, while watching something like
guilt slide across his face and vanish, and composes a list of alternatives.
"You like, say, porridge? Coffee? Milk? Fruit? Blackpuddingeggsanonions?"
He nods to the lot, sitting up now and holding his hands with the fingers spread out.
God knows what it's trying to say, but she answers,
"Hokay, so you'll be eating for a month of Sundays."
He leans back on his elbows and yawns a yawn that is partly sighed.
"I'll leave you to get up then. You know where the bathroom is. I'll be down on the next floor, doing exciting things like lighting the fire and burning the breakfast."
He looks at her uneasily. As she goes out the door, he clicks his fingers.
"A yes? Or what?"
He pantomimes while she ponders aloud, "Sleep? Definitely sleep… okay, did I sleep? Nope? Where did I sleep? Nope? O, did I have a good sleep?"
Impatient fingers, Yes, Yes, Yes.
"I did, o politeness-impersonated. Aside from the penitential part," and leaves him to consider that.
The only time she regretted having a range was now, early on a cold morning facing a grate full of ash. So much easier to flick switches… she loathes all the cold iron frame of it until the fire is lit and it begins to live again.
Upstairs, Simon is thinking. What does she talk like that for? To fool me? and shakes his head in exasperation. Kerewin's multisyllables were, for the main part, going straight in one ear and out the other, leaving behind an increasing residue of strange sounds and bewilderment.
What does that mean, penitential?
"That's the penitentiary, you. So watch it."
Joe to Luce: "Tell him you mean jail. And it's not for you,
tama."
But he couldn't place or connect that either. He kneels for some minutes on the end of the bed, trying to dredge up more past conversation that contained the word, but that's the only bit that sounds similar. So he gives up, and limps down the stairs, more mindful of his heel than when he had first slid out of bed and kept going straight on down with the shock of impact.
She made a thick oatmeal porridge that bubbled and klopped like a waking mudpool; fried half a loop of black pudding and two onions and several eggs in butter; made coffee and toast with quick and
careless efficiency; then loaded the lot in assorted hot plates and bowls and mugs onto the dropleaf bench.
"Eat."
She is a slow and methodical eater, not from convictions regarding health but because she enjoys food of all kinds immensely. Save for offaclass="underline" humble pie ain't for her eating. Brain, tripe, liver and guts
— nuts to 'em. But o for the black blood pudding and the merry
kidney stew!
The boy finishes before she does again, ducks his head and eyes her over his arms again, but this time he grins as he does it.
And maybe it is because it is a new day with the sun just coming up, but the annoying nature of his presence has faded. Despite herself, she becomes involved in a conspiracy of smiles.
Which is bloody stupid. But then again, a smile doesn't cost that much, and he's not a bad looking goblin.
She starts washing dishes, slinging him a teatowel. "Here, payment for board," fervently hoping his minor speciality won't manifest itself. But he does dishes very well, spending long careful moments doing clusters of soap bubbles to death, and not dropping a single cup.
Kerewin sits smoking, crosslegged by the fire, watching her smokerings dissolve over the still spread form of the boy,
who is thinking, not half so much asleep as he seems, It looks like someone tried to cut her throat.
What the hell have you done to your hair? Kerewin thinks. Nothing, I'll bet. Snarled, entangled, a ravelment. Slept in, obviously.
Almost telepathically, he lifts a hand, becomes absorbed in combing a knot out with his fingers.
"You want to wear it like sailors used to," says Kerewin suddenly. "In a queue, tied at the back of your neck." Tightly.
He grins in the crook of his arm.
"I'm going to have a wander round my garden. See how the weeds are doing."
The room is warm, and lightening all the time, but once out of it, the chill comes seeping into her. Downstairs, the very air feels frozen. She pushes open the door, and looks out on a whitened world.
A bird hops on the hardened grass, and the hopping is audible. She can hear the grass blades snap. It is perfectly still everywhere.
There is a raw smell, like smoke, in the air. Every inhalation catches in the throat, and stings the soft lining in her nostrils.
A soft shuffling creep, and Simon stands in the doorway beside her, cloaked in her jerkin. His left sandal is on, but unbuckled, and slops with every step.
"You'd be better back by the fire."
He sniffs.
She shrugs, and walks to the nearest piece of garden, stands, thumbs in belt, kicking the rockhard earth.
"About ten degrees," she estimates.
The ground looks less frosted by the manuka hedge. Everything appears as though it will survive. She culled out two days ago, leaving only what she thought were plants accorded to the season. Not sacrificially, either.
She catches the glint of his hair out of the corner of her eye; Simon, hopping in the frost, laying tracks in the glitter, dark dead grass steps for tomorrow.
"Be careful! Go…" as he inevitably skids "easy," she says belatedly, watching him pick himself up.
Not a sound. Not a whoop of dismay or pain. Just her breathing, and his.
Not a prepossessing sight, this silent child: hair a bunch of tangles, fingers chilled orange and blue, and his nose running with the cold. Swaying somewhat drunkenly as he attempts to put his sandal on, shivering so his teeth chatter.
She retrieves her jerkin and drapes it over his shoulders.
"Come on. I think we'd better go inside again. There's nothing much to look at this time of the year anyway."
From the jarred look on his face, she gathers the fall hurt his dignity more than anything else.
"O, and a handkerchief," amused and revolted by him at the same time.
He wipes his nose cursorily with her handkerchief and pockets it.
From the bright chill outside to the chill gloom inside, and up the dank stairway.
The boy goes up each step cautiously, bringing both feet to a standstill before he ventures to the next step.
Bloody hell, brat, life might be a death march, but do you have to make it so obvious?
The clock on the wall shows just after eight. Late morning, the operator said, so there's hours to go yet-
"What'd you like to do? Play draughts or something?"
He frowns. He blows what looks like a silent raspberry.
Her turn to frown, "Ah, wait a minute, I have it. No, it's a game, not a wind… if you don't know it, we won't play it. I thought you might, and it's the only childish thing I have a board for. What do you know in the way of games then?"
He shakes his head forlornly.
"Hell, you must know one or two. I mean, I've come a couple
of decades since childhood and I still remember dozens. You're still mired in the state, damn it."