Legacy of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [72]
I startled myself, for I am not given to tears and sobbing. I don’t believe that I had cried since I was a child. I was half-ashamed of myself, when I finally forced myself to quit, but the outburst of emotion had done me good, acting like a release valve. I felt calmer and oddly rested, more capable of handling whatever might come.
Picking up four stools, slinging the rungs over my arms, I returned to the main living quarters.
I found I had not been the only one working. The smoldering furniture had been carried outdoors, either by Mosiah or his magic. The smoke was clearing from the room, blown away on a crisp morning breeze. A fire crackled in the fireplace. Water was heating in a kettle which, though dented, had survived the destruction. Scylla was scooping loose tea leaves into a cracked pot. Eliza was sorting through broken crockery, searching for any cups that might have escaped intact. She looked up at me with a wan smile when I entered. She, too, was better for having something to do.
Lifting one half of a large broken platter, she found Teddy lying beneath it.
The bear was in a sorry state. One arm was completely ripped off, one button eye missing. His right leg hung by a thread, his stuffing dribbled out of torn seams. His orange scarf was bedraggled and singed.
“Poor Teddy!” Eliza said, and taking the maltreated bear in her arms, she began to sob.
She had borne up bravely until that moment. That was her release valve.
Mosiah, with a wry smile, seemed about to say something, but Scylla forestalled him with a look and a shake of her head. Mosiah certainly wasn’t taking orders from Scylla and would have gone on to have his say, except that even he could see this wasn’t the time.
I longed to comfort Eliza, but I felt myself in an awkward position. I had only known her a day and a night—a traumatic day and night, to be sure, but that wasn’t really relevant. Her grief was hers alone, and there was really nothing I could say or do to ease it.
I set down the stools near the fire. Mosiah walked over to gaze out the window, his black robes leaving a sinuous trail in the ash on the floor. Scylla poured water from the kettle into the teapot. By this time Eliza had dried her tears.
“I’ll sew him back together,” she said, using the sleeve of her shirt to wipe her eyes.
“Don’t bother,” came a weak voice. “I’m done for. Finished. Kaput. The sands of my hourglass are running low. My goose is cooked. My stuffing left to be nibbled by mice. What happened? Did we win? Is your dear father safe, child? That’s all that matters. If so, my life has not been spent in vain. Tell me, before I slip away to meet my Maker—”
“He’d only throw you back,” Mosiah said shortly. Leaving the window, he came to stare grimly down at Teddy. “Don’t fret over this fool, Eliza. Simkin is immortal. And a very bad actor.”
“So this is Simkin,” said Scylla, joining them. She stood over him, her hands on her hips. “You were my favorite character in Reuven’s books, you know.”
Teddy gazed up at her with his one remaining button eye.
“Pardon me, madam,” he said stiffly, “but I don’t believe we have been introduced.”
“I’m Scylla,” she answered, and handed me a cup of tea.
Perhaps it was my fatigued imagination, but at the sound of that name, Teddy’s black button eye glittered in the firelight and stared very hard at Scylla.
“Put me together again, will you? There’s a dear child.” Teddy spoke to Eliza, but he continued staring at Scylla.
“Put yourself together, fool!” Mosiah said irritably. “Let Eliza alone.”
“No, I don’t mind,” Eliza said.
She found her mother’s workbasket, tossed into a corner, and though her lips tightened a moment when she picked up the basket and its scattered contents, she retained control over herself. Sitting down on the stool, she took the amputee bear into her