Passage - Lois McMaster Bujold [108]
He looked up in satisfaction to find Fawn and Berry both standing at his sides with lit spills in their hands and their mouths open. A silence stretched around the crowded table. Hod was blinking. Hawthorn’s eyes were wide. Bo seemed to have bitten his tongue. “Was that…not right?” Dag asked hesitantly.
Whit said, in a rather hollow voice, “And I’d have been impressed if he’d blown them out all at once!”
Remo laughed out loud. Actually, Remo cackled, Dag decided. Dag might have been more annoyed, particularly as Remo didn’t stop for quite a while—choking himself off, eventually, into his sleeve—except that it was the first time ever he’d heard the boy laugh.
“That was just fine, Dag,” Fawn assured him valiantly. “You can light all our birthday cakes from now on.” She blew out her spill and handed him a knife.
Dag waited a while for Fawn to enjoy the glow—or conflagration—while he enjoyed the play of the warm light on her face, like a summer sunset here on the edge of winter. He didn’t cheat much, blowing out the candles again. Fawn extracted the wax stumps for reuse, sharing the task of licking off the frosting with Hawthorn, an eager volunteer. The pocked cake was divided into generous slabs, with half still left for breakfast. After, Dag was made to sit by the fire with Fawn just as he’d pictured, while Whit and the crew took charge of the cleanup. The rain drummed on the roof as Hod and Hawthorn pestered Remo to show them how Lakewalkers cheated in games of chance, Remo protesting that he didn’t know how to either play or cheat.
And then, with a faint groan and a definite jerk, the Fetch lifted from the sand bar. Berry whooped, and everyone dropped all other tasks to turn out and get the boat away from the bar and down the island to a safe landing, to be tied properly for the night. Both of the Lakewalkers, with their ability to move surely in the dark, were pressed into this task, but when they all came trooping wetly back inside Fawn had hot tea waiting and prewarmed towels stacked by the hearth. Sodden clothes were stripped off and hung up—except for Dag’s, adequately protected by his new boatman’s rain gear—dry clothes were donned, and those with room snagged more cake and beer. The patter of rain gusted into a rattle of hail, but the guide ropes held the boat in its new mooring as they all settled around the hearth once more.
Then Berry pulled out her fiddle and gave them three tunes, two lively, one slow and plaintive. There wasn’t enough room to dance, but while Berry shook out her fingers and rested up the Clearcreeks debated teaching boatmen’s songs to the Bluefields. Hawthorn claimed he knew all the rude words.
“Yeah, but you don’t understand ’em,” drawled Bo.
“I do too!”
“Maybe it’s time for a lullaby,” Berry suggested.
“No, not yet!” Hawthorn protested. Hod looked torn. Whit looked wistful.
Remo was sitting on the floor near the fire, the overfed raccoon kit asleep in his lap; his head came up, turning.
“What?” Dag said quietly.
“There’s a Lakewalker out on the river in a narrow boat.”
“In this weather?” Bo snorted. “Fool should be on shore with the boat turned upside down and him under it. Tied down at both ends, too, if he’d a lick of sense.”
Dag silently agreed, but stretched his groundsense outward. A Lakewalker indeed, and just as miserable as you’d expect. Their grounds bumped, and the narrow boat changed course, fighting through the wind waves.
Remo’s eyes widened. He set down the kit and scrambled to his feet. “It’s Barr!”
A clunk and a thump were followed by the muffled pounding of a fist on the side of the hull.
“Remo, you fool!” Barr’s voice called hoarsely. “Blight you! I know you’re in there! Come give me a hand before I freeze in this