Passage - Lois McMaster Bujold [2]
They strolled to recapture the horses, and Whit waved toward the old barn. “The stalls you used before are empty. You still got that man-eating red nag, I see.” He skirted Copperhead to gather up Grace’s reins; from the way the bay mare resisted his tugging to snatch a few last mouthfuls of grass, one would take her for starved—clearly not the case.
“Yep,” said Dag, stooping with a grunt to scoop up the gelding’s reins in turn. “I still haven’t met anyone I disliked enough to give him to.”
“And he’s been ridin’ Copperhead for eight straight years. It’s a wonder, that.” Fawn dimpled. “Admit it, Dag, you like that dreadful horse.” She went on to her brother, in a tone of bright diversion, “So, what’s been happening here at West Blue since I left?”
“Well, Fletch and Clover was married a good six weeks ago. Mama was sorry you two couldn’t be here for the wedding.” Whit cast a nod at the solid stone farmhouse, sited on the ridge overlooking the wooded valley of the rocky river. The newlyweds’ addition of two rooms off the near end, still in progress when Dag had last seen it, seemed entirely complete, with glass windows, a wood-shingle roof, and even some early-autumn flowers planted around the foundation, softening the fresh scars in the soil. “Clover’s all moved in, now. Ha! It didn’t take her long to shift the twins. They lit out about twenty miles west to break land with a friend of theirs, only last week. You just missed ’em.”
Dag couldn’t help reflecting that of all his Bluefield in-laws, the inimical twins Reed and Rush were probably the ones he’d miss the least; judging from the sudden smile on Fawn’s face, she shared the sentiment. He said affably, “I know they’d been talking about it for a long time.”
“Yeah, Papa and Mama wasn’t too pleased that they picked just before harvest to finally take themselves off, but everyone was so glad of it they didn’t hardly complain. Fletch came in on Clover’s side whenever they clashed, naturally, which was pretty much every day, and they didn’t take any better to him telling them what to do than to her. So it’s a lot more peaceable in the house, now.” He added after a reflective moment, “Dull, really.”
Whit continued an amiable account of the small doings of various cousins, uncles, and aunts as they unsaddled the horses and turned them into the box stalls in the cool old barn. With a glance at Dag’s stick, Whit actually helped them put up their gear without being asked and hoisted Dag’s saddlebags over his shoulder. Feeling that such an apologetic impulse should be encouraged, Dag let him take them. As they made their way back out to climb the hill to the house, Fawn refused to give up her own bags to Dag, telling him to mind himself, and thumped along under the weight with her usual air of determination. Despite their late difficulties, she seemed far less troubled than at her previous homecoming, judging from the smile she cast over her shoulder at him, and he couldn’t help smiling back. Yeah, we’ll get through this somehow, Spark. Together.
The farmhouse kitchen was fragrant with cooking—ham and beans, cornbread, squash, biscuits, applesauce, pumpkin pie, and a dozen familiar go-withs—and the moist perfume of it all made Fawn weirdly homesick even though she was home. Mama and Clover, both be-aproned, were bustling around the kitchen as they stepped through the back door, and Mama, at least, fell on Fawn with shrieks of delighted surprise. Blind Aunt Nattie lumbered up from her spinning wheel just beyond the doorway to her weaving room, hugged Fawn hard, and spared an embrace for Dag as well. Her hand lingered a moment on the wedding cord circling Dag’s left arm, below his rolled-up shirt sleeve and above the arm harness for his hook, and her smile softened. “Glad to see this is still holdin’,” she murmured, and “Aye,” Dag murmured back, giving