Free Flame of Sevenwaters by Juliet Marillier Page B

now. You must eat.”
    By the time Rhian and I made our way to the sewing room, the morning was well advanced. We walked in to find the place full of women. The shutters were wide-open. Slanting sunlight fell on industrious hands, on heads bent with concentration over spinning or mending or embroidery. My sister Deirdre, straight-backed and immaculately dressed, was working on a tiny, delicately patterned garment. Mother got up from her sewing when she saw me, opening her arms in welcome.
    “Maeve! Come in, my dear!”
    She embraced me; Deirdre got up to give me a kiss. The others greeted me, then turned their attention back to their work. Iguessed Mother had instructed them all on how to behave. There were some familiar faces from childhood: head seamstress Orlagh; Mother’s maidservant Eithne; the wives of one or two long-serving men-at-arms. I bestowed nods and smiles.
    “Sit down with us, Maeve, and tell us about your journey.” In company with so many women, Mother was not going to touch on sensitive matters such as what she thought of my staying away for a whole ten years, or how my crippling injuries might affect my future. “You must be tired.”
    “I slept well, thank you. I have spoken to Father this morning; I met him in the little garden where…where the annex used to be. Perhaps there’s some handiwork Rhian can help with. She’s an expert seamstress.”
    “But we don’t want to take up too much of Rhian’s time. You’ll be needing her…”
    “Not all the time,” I said firmly. “And she’s a very capable needlewoman. She mends my things, though I am no longer the child who used to come home from adventures in the forest with her gowns ripped and muddy.” I caught Rhian’s eye and suppressed a smile. My time in the stable yard tended to have something of the same effect; she was kept busy darning my stockings and trying to get the smell of horse out of my gowns.
    “Orlagh will find you some mending to do, Rhian,” Mother said. “We always welcome an extra pair of hands.” A moment later she flushed red, realizing what she had said.
    I sat down beside her. “It’s all right, Mother,” I said quietly, under cover of Orlagh’s instructions to Rhian about hemming, which I could have told her were superfluous. “It’s the way things are. I’m used to it now.”
    “Of course. But I wish…” She was clearly mortified; lost for words. Had she changed so much since the time of my childhood? We had always viewed her as the strong center of our lives. Perhaps my memory was playing tricks.
    “Maeve is a grown woman, Mother.” Deirdre kept her voice quiet, so the words would reach only Mother and me. “From the little I’ve seen so far, she seems to be coping rather well.”
    I was surprised. I did not remember this particular sister standing up for me very much in those early days. Indeed, I recalled her being somewhat absorbed in her own interests. I gave her a smile of acknowledgment. “I gave up wishing long ago,” I said. “There’s no point in it. Now tell me, Deirdre, what’s that you’re making? May I see?”
    The conversation turned to family, and I was rapidly brought up-to-date on the progress of my various nieces and nephews and the news of what all my sisters were doing. Sibeal was expecting her first child; the little gown with embroidered owls was for her baby, who would be born far away in Kerry, in the spiritual community where my younger sister now lived and worked. In the north, Muirrin had a little boy and Clodagh twins. Then there were Deirdre’s children, this morning out on a walk with their nursemaids. The Sevenwaters family was becoming a far-flung tribe.
    In my turn I told them about Aunt Liadan and Uncle Bran and the cousins in Britain. But all the time I was aware of industrious hands around me, plying shuttle or spindle or needle, and beyond the windows the sun moving across the sky. I reminded myself that Mother had waited ten years for this