Not quite a memory
I suppose this is a belated response to the childhood memory writing prompt. It comes in the wake of all the Penny-going-home stuff, and I didn't realize it went with the prompt until afterwards, but... uh... sure. It still counts. Thank-yous for Sef for telling me to post it despite my qualms. XD
She's always liked to be in her father's office. It smells like numbers in there, long lists of numbers that she can look at as long as she likes, written in her father's thick hand all across the hides. The only times she's allowed to stay up past her bedtime are when she's with him, simply because none of the nannies dare tell him that it's time for his three-turn-old daughter to be asleep. More often than not, however, she curls up on one of the overstuffed chairs next to the hearth, with her head on a sheet of her father's notes, and falls into a pleasant, half-dreaming state of warmth and security, the blanket effect of being in her father's presence.
Today her father was in meetings almost the entire time, and when he retired to his office, he brought one of the men he was speaking to with him. Penny was supposed to let her mother rest today, and so she has been in her father's office, waiting for him very patiently. Now, the other man sits in the chair opposite Penny's father's desk. She likes this one, compared to some of the people her father meets with, though he doesn't interest her too much right now. He has not brought the boys with him this time, and when her boys don't come there are no presents or tickling or games to play. So instead Penny listens, drowsily, her head pillowed on her hands and her lashes nearly closed.
"Come now, Mitali," her father says, in the low, rumbling non-roar that he used when in small rooms, and when pretending he was being quiet. "Serri's a good girl, and you've not been married that long. It'll happen."
The other man laughs, but Penny thinks to herself that it is somehow a sad sound. He is slighter than her father, less broad in the shoulders but just as tall, and though he tends to be solemn when greeting Penny, there is a twinkle in his eye that she likes. It reminds her of her boys. "Perhaps, perhaps. My good sisters have no qualms about teasing me about it, and if the situation were grave, they would probably not be so insensitive."
"Refill?" There's a clink of glasses, the light pop of the cork coming out of her father's favorite bottle. Penny has tasted it before, when no one was looking, and found it quite nasty. She knows the sound, though, and hears the liquid going into the glass even with her eyes closed. Then there's the sound of her father's chair, creaking as he stands, and his footsteps. Penny stays quite still. "It will happen," her father says again, his voice much closer.
There's a silence for a while, and then the other man speaks. "She is a beauty, Derien. A delightful child." Penny realizes they're talking about her, and tries to remain still despite the pleasure in finally understanding what they're talking about. That the man with a twinkle in his eye should call her a beauty is almost too much for Penny to bear without smiling. Everyone always calls her mother beautiful -- and, of course, it's true. Her father always whispers in Penny's ear that her mother is the most beautiful woman in the world.
"She is," says her father. There's a light touch, his big hand gentle as it brushes some baby-fine hair away from Penny's face -- she tries not to giggle, remains still with a phenomenal effort. She wants to hear what else the men will say about her.
"How has Lari been doing?" The other man's voice is quieter than her father's, but then again, most men's voices are quieter than her father's.
"She's doing a little better all the time," says her father, in a rough voice. This is as quiet as he gets, a rumble in his throat that Penny's always loved -- when he's carrying her, that rumble tickles against her cheek. "The healers say that she may well recover almost entirely, in time. But it will never be safe for her to-- this one was hard enough on her. She was not-- like her sisters in that respect. Another child would probably kill her." Penny listens, calmly. This is something she does not yet understand, and while she listens and remembers and remains still, she doesn't comprehend.
The other man clears his throat, delicately -- Penny can hear her father make an odd snuffling noise, underneath the other man's cough. "You will, of course, bring her back home come winter again," says the twinkle-man. "Our climate is so much more forgiving than yours. You and she -- and your little girl, of course -- are welcome at our Hold any time, for as long as you wish."
Penny's father clears his throat, too. "Thank you, Mitali. Your hospitality means the world to my Lari, I know it; she was never comfortable in winters up here, even before Penny was... I just wish--" But he stops, and Penny feels a little pang; if only she knew what her father wanted, what he was saying in that voice. Then maybe she could make it happen. She thinks about sliding down from the chair and asking to sit in his lap, but then he might send her to bed.
The other man's voice is soft. "You and I both, my friend." And then there's quiet for a while, the clink of a glass striking teeth, the sound of swallowing.
"You will have a son," her father says confidently. When he speaks in that tone, the apprentices scatter like so many rain droplets to do his bidding. "There's plenty of time yet, Mitali. As I said, Serri's still young."
"It's been eight turns, Derien," the other man says. "It's all right." Quiet again. They are often quiet together, her father and the man with the twinkle in his eye, and Penny knows that they will speak again soon if she stays still. And, a few minutes later, the other man does indeed begin speaking in a much brisker tone. "Jays. If she had been a son -- shells. If she had even a fraction of your intelligence, what a smith she would've made." A pause. Penny is listening very, very hard. "And if she has even a fraction of Lari's beauty and charm, what a wife she'll make someday."
Her father laughs, a low, uneasy chuckle. "Slow down, old friend. She's only three."
Penny feels a surge of pride -- yes! She is three. She knows that, and can make the number on the sandtable if her father lifts her up -- and she can count all the way up, higher than any of the other children, including Tomas, who is five. Which, she notes, bursting with pride at her skill in arithmetic, is Two Whole Turns older than she is. She doesn't even need her fingers, though she sometimes forgets the numbers in the middle while she's counting up, running them together in a jumble in her impatience to get to the top. She entertains herself for a while, reviewing some of her favorite numbers in her head. She likes the ones with zeroes on the end -- when her father makes them in the sand, they're always the prettiest -- because they stand out from the other numbers, all in a row. The ones with zeroes get new names, and are allowed to start off fresh every time. When Penny starts listening again, she realizes with a pang that the conversation has moved on without her.
"--for one of my boys," the other man was saying. "Don't you think? It would be... right."
Her father is quiet for a while, and there's a quality to his breathing that Penny recognizes with a faint pang of alarm. "Mitali. She's three." She rarely hears her father getting upset with this man, of all men. And he's not upset now, but Penny recognizes that careful exhale as an attempt to avoid -getting- upset. "Pray don't go matchmaking my little girl up with your sisters' ruffians just yet."
The other man laughs, and Penny hears the solid thunk of an empty glass being put on her father's desk. "Relax, Derien. It was only an idle thought. And ruffians? I take offense, old friend. My sisters' boys are a good bunch."
"I've seen them at work," Derien says mildly, though Penny still senses the thunder lurking there. "Poor little Pennifred came back last time all sticky from the candy they'd lavished on her, and she was covered in sand, babbling cheerfully about how she fell in the river. Nearly gave Lari a heart attack."
"They were reprimanded," says the other man. His voice is kind of stiff -- Penny, in her mind's eye, imagines that his eyes aren't twinkling now. "They love your little girl too, and the older ones know to take care of her. Thought Nerali's eldest was going to pummel his brother for letting her out of his sight. They're good boys."
Another long quiet, and then her father laughs -- and Penny relaxes. The thunder is gone. "Oh, I didn't mean anything by it, old friend. It's just -- look at her. Hard to imagine her growing up and getting married and going off to live at Boll. Though it would make a strange sort of sense... I took Lari from your beaches. It's only right that I send a girl of mine back to take her place."
"Many a man's heart broke the day you married our Lariande," the other man says lightly. "And I imagine little Pennifred will break her fair share of hearts before she settles on one man. Already she's charmed my boys into fighting over who gets to carry her."
Her father's tone is warmer now, the rumble of a complacent house cat rather than the incipient roar of a jungle feline. "Perhaps she -could- do worse than one of your boys. I think there's something to be said for a woman's happiness when she's got her husband wrapped around her finger." Penny doesn't understand, but can't help but smile at the warmth in her father's voice. She likes it when they talk about her boys.
"And she'd have a one in eight chance of being the next Lady Boll, assuming my sisters are through having children," the other man points out, with a smile in his voice. "Any one of those boys has charm and wits enough to outwit the Conclave, or they will when they grow up. Merrik's the oldest, and already almost as familiar with the improvements we're making on the place as I am. Boy would make a fine smith for you, if I didn't need him. And Sefton's only two turns younger -- nine, I think -- and he's already got his brothers and cousins doing his bidding as sure as they would mine."
Her father is quiet for a little while. "Mitali, my friend, you mustn't speak like that. Your nephews are good lads, it's true, but it's your son who will take over in your footsteps. Serri will come through one of these times, you'll see. Have faith in your wife."
"I have more faith in my wife than in my own self," says the other man, and Penny can see, in her imagination, the twinkle coming back.
She likes hearing about her boys, though she still doesn't understand why everyone was so angry when she went swimming. The boys were swimming, and no one was angry. And she would have gotten the hang of it in just a few more minutes, if Seffin hadn't spoiled everything by hauling her out so fast.
But they aren't speaking about her boys anymore, and they're not speaking about her, and Penny's attention wanders. It's very late, after all, and she is only a very little girl.
With a clarity that only comes to the very young, she finds herself thinking back to that wistful sigh of her father's and the sudden, physical need to do whatever she could to turn his sigh into one of his beaming smiles, just for her. "I just wish that..."
What had the twinkle-eyed man said?
If only she'd been a son, what a smith she would've made...
Penny's eyes close the rest of the way, lulled by the background murmur of the men in her father's office, the words echoing back again to fill her head as she drifts off to sleep. Oh, what a smith she would make...
She's always liked to be in her father's office. It smells like numbers in there, long lists of numbers that she can look at as long as she likes, written in her father's thick hand all across the hides. The only times she's allowed to stay up past her bedtime are when she's with him, simply because none of the nannies dare tell him that it's time for his three-turn-old daughter to be asleep. More often than not, however, she curls up on one of the overstuffed chairs next to the hearth, with her head on a sheet of her father's notes, and falls into a pleasant, half-dreaming state of warmth and security, the blanket effect of being in her father's presence.
Today her father was in meetings almost the entire time, and when he retired to his office, he brought one of the men he was speaking to with him. Penny was supposed to let her mother rest today, and so she has been in her father's office, waiting for him very patiently. Now, the other man sits in the chair opposite Penny's father's desk. She likes this one, compared to some of the people her father meets with, though he doesn't interest her too much right now. He has not brought the boys with him this time, and when her boys don't come there are no presents or tickling or games to play. So instead Penny listens, drowsily, her head pillowed on her hands and her lashes nearly closed.
"Come now, Mitali," her father says, in the low, rumbling non-roar that he used when in small rooms, and when pretending he was being quiet. "Serri's a good girl, and you've not been married that long. It'll happen."
The other man laughs, but Penny thinks to herself that it is somehow a sad sound. He is slighter than her father, less broad in the shoulders but just as tall, and though he tends to be solemn when greeting Penny, there is a twinkle in his eye that she likes. It reminds her of her boys. "Perhaps, perhaps. My good sisters have no qualms about teasing me about it, and if the situation were grave, they would probably not be so insensitive."
"Refill?" There's a clink of glasses, the light pop of the cork coming out of her father's favorite bottle. Penny has tasted it before, when no one was looking, and found it quite nasty. She knows the sound, though, and hears the liquid going into the glass even with her eyes closed. Then there's the sound of her father's chair, creaking as he stands, and his footsteps. Penny stays quite still. "It will happen," her father says again, his voice much closer.
There's a silence for a while, and then the other man speaks. "She is a beauty, Derien. A delightful child." Penny realizes they're talking about her, and tries to remain still despite the pleasure in finally understanding what they're talking about. That the man with a twinkle in his eye should call her a beauty is almost too much for Penny to bear without smiling. Everyone always calls her mother beautiful -- and, of course, it's true. Her father always whispers in Penny's ear that her mother is the most beautiful woman in the world.
"She is," says her father. There's a light touch, his big hand gentle as it brushes some baby-fine hair away from Penny's face -- she tries not to giggle, remains still with a phenomenal effort. She wants to hear what else the men will say about her.
"How has Lari been doing?" The other man's voice is quieter than her father's, but then again, most men's voices are quieter than her father's.
"She's doing a little better all the time," says her father, in a rough voice. This is as quiet as he gets, a rumble in his throat that Penny's always loved -- when he's carrying her, that rumble tickles against her cheek. "The healers say that she may well recover almost entirely, in time. But it will never be safe for her to-- this one was hard enough on her. She was not-- like her sisters in that respect. Another child would probably kill her." Penny listens, calmly. This is something she does not yet understand, and while she listens and remembers and remains still, she doesn't comprehend.
The other man clears his throat, delicately -- Penny can hear her father make an odd snuffling noise, underneath the other man's cough. "You will, of course, bring her back home come winter again," says the twinkle-man. "Our climate is so much more forgiving than yours. You and she -- and your little girl, of course -- are welcome at our Hold any time, for as long as you wish."
Penny's father clears his throat, too. "Thank you, Mitali. Your hospitality means the world to my Lari, I know it; she was never comfortable in winters up here, even before Penny was... I just wish--" But he stops, and Penny feels a little pang; if only she knew what her father wanted, what he was saying in that voice. Then maybe she could make it happen. She thinks about sliding down from the chair and asking to sit in his lap, but then he might send her to bed.
The other man's voice is soft. "You and I both, my friend." And then there's quiet for a while, the clink of a glass striking teeth, the sound of swallowing.
"You will have a son," her father says confidently. When he speaks in that tone, the apprentices scatter like so many rain droplets to do his bidding. "There's plenty of time yet, Mitali. As I said, Serri's still young."
"It's been eight turns, Derien," the other man says. "It's all right." Quiet again. They are often quiet together, her father and the man with the twinkle in his eye, and Penny knows that they will speak again soon if she stays still. And, a few minutes later, the other man does indeed begin speaking in a much brisker tone. "Jays. If she had been a son -- shells. If she had even a fraction of your intelligence, what a smith she would've made." A pause. Penny is listening very, very hard. "And if she has even a fraction of Lari's beauty and charm, what a wife she'll make someday."
Her father laughs, a low, uneasy chuckle. "Slow down, old friend. She's only three."
Penny feels a surge of pride -- yes! She is three. She knows that, and can make the number on the sandtable if her father lifts her up -- and she can count all the way up, higher than any of the other children, including Tomas, who is five. Which, she notes, bursting with pride at her skill in arithmetic, is Two Whole Turns older than she is. She doesn't even need her fingers, though she sometimes forgets the numbers in the middle while she's counting up, running them together in a jumble in her impatience to get to the top. She entertains herself for a while, reviewing some of her favorite numbers in her head. She likes the ones with zeroes on the end -- when her father makes them in the sand, they're always the prettiest -- because they stand out from the other numbers, all in a row. The ones with zeroes get new names, and are allowed to start off fresh every time. When Penny starts listening again, she realizes with a pang that the conversation has moved on without her.
"--for one of my boys," the other man was saying. "Don't you think? It would be... right."
Her father is quiet for a while, and there's a quality to his breathing that Penny recognizes with a faint pang of alarm. "Mitali. She's three." She rarely hears her father getting upset with this man, of all men. And he's not upset now, but Penny recognizes that careful exhale as an attempt to avoid -getting- upset. "Pray don't go matchmaking my little girl up with your sisters' ruffians just yet."
The other man laughs, and Penny hears the solid thunk of an empty glass being put on her father's desk. "Relax, Derien. It was only an idle thought. And ruffians? I take offense, old friend. My sisters' boys are a good bunch."
"I've seen them at work," Derien says mildly, though Penny still senses the thunder lurking there. "Poor little Pennifred came back last time all sticky from the candy they'd lavished on her, and she was covered in sand, babbling cheerfully about how she fell in the river. Nearly gave Lari a heart attack."
"They were reprimanded," says the other man. His voice is kind of stiff -- Penny, in her mind's eye, imagines that his eyes aren't twinkling now. "They love your little girl too, and the older ones know to take care of her. Thought Nerali's eldest was going to pummel his brother for letting her out of his sight. They're good boys."
Another long quiet, and then her father laughs -- and Penny relaxes. The thunder is gone. "Oh, I didn't mean anything by it, old friend. It's just -- look at her. Hard to imagine her growing up and getting married and going off to live at Boll. Though it would make a strange sort of sense... I took Lari from your beaches. It's only right that I send a girl of mine back to take her place."
"Many a man's heart broke the day you married our Lariande," the other man says lightly. "And I imagine little Pennifred will break her fair share of hearts before she settles on one man. Already she's charmed my boys into fighting over who gets to carry her."
Her father's tone is warmer now, the rumble of a complacent house cat rather than the incipient roar of a jungle feline. "Perhaps she -could- do worse than one of your boys. I think there's something to be said for a woman's happiness when she's got her husband wrapped around her finger." Penny doesn't understand, but can't help but smile at the warmth in her father's voice. She likes it when they talk about her boys.
"And she'd have a one in eight chance of being the next Lady Boll, assuming my sisters are through having children," the other man points out, with a smile in his voice. "Any one of those boys has charm and wits enough to outwit the Conclave, or they will when they grow up. Merrik's the oldest, and already almost as familiar with the improvements we're making on the place as I am. Boy would make a fine smith for you, if I didn't need him. And Sefton's only two turns younger -- nine, I think -- and he's already got his brothers and cousins doing his bidding as sure as they would mine."
Her father is quiet for a little while. "Mitali, my friend, you mustn't speak like that. Your nephews are good lads, it's true, but it's your son who will take over in your footsteps. Serri will come through one of these times, you'll see. Have faith in your wife."
"I have more faith in my wife than in my own self," says the other man, and Penny can see, in her imagination, the twinkle coming back.
She likes hearing about her boys, though she still doesn't understand why everyone was so angry when she went swimming. The boys were swimming, and no one was angry. And she would have gotten the hang of it in just a few more minutes, if Seffin hadn't spoiled everything by hauling her out so fast.
But they aren't speaking about her boys anymore, and they're not speaking about her, and Penny's attention wanders. It's very late, after all, and she is only a very little girl.
With a clarity that only comes to the very young, she finds herself thinking back to that wistful sigh of her father's and the sudden, physical need to do whatever she could to turn his sigh into one of his beaming smiles, just for her. "I just wish that..."
What had the twinkle-eyed man said?
If only she'd been a son, what a smith she would've made...
Penny's eyes close the rest of the way, lulled by the background murmur of the men in her father's office, the words echoing back again to fill her head as she drifts off to sleep. Oh, what a smith she would make...