Free Hawkmaiden by Terry Mancour Page B

old Sir Erantal spied her and took a fancy to her, there was little the Westwood could do about it, save rise in rebellion.  And rise they would, she knew; if the old knight made unreasonable demands for tribute and sported with a Westwoodwoman – the Master of the Wood’s daughter, no less – then the honor of the Hall would demand an uprising.  There would be bloodshed, all over her sister’s desire to kiss boys.
    Lista was in a fine fit today, Dara saw.  A pretty decorative belt she’d been given by their mother’s late sister on her flowering wasn’t fitting anymore, thanks to Lista’s widening hips.  It was made of copper, a kind of pretty chain design of interlinked pieces that fit around her sister’s waist.
    Or, at least, they used to.  And that was the problem.
    “I don’t know how I’m going to wear this now!” Lista complained to Aunt Lini, mostly because she couldn’t go anywhere while taking pies out of the oven.  Alina wouldn’t have done anything but scold her and send her away, but their oldest aunt was more sympathetic. Lista stalked behind her while she worked, the older woman giving only the most meager responses to the teenager’s ranting.  “It fit fine when I tried it on two moons ago, but when I put it on this morning the catch wouldn’t fit!”
    “Oh, by the Flame, that is a pickle,” Lini clucked.  “Your mother intended that for you, Flame keep her warm, and it does so suit your figure.”
    “It did ,”Lista emphasized, shaking the tingling belt under her aunt’s nose.  “It did look incredible!  Now it won’t fit!  What can I do?  Wear it as a necklace?” she snorted.
    Even Dara, whose sense of femininity was dulled, according to her sisters and aunts, could tell that the belt would work poorly as such an adornment.  But she noticed something else when her sister shook it. 
    Bells.   Tiny silver bells, each no bigger than her pinkie fingernail.  Dozens of them. 
    “I can fix it,” she said, before her sister could begin her next wave of ranting.
    “What?” she snapped.  “Where did you come from, Little Bird?  And what happened to you?  Flame and smoke, you look like you fell into a pit!”
    “I’ve been working on a cot in the nutwood,” Dara reminded her.  “The opportunities for a cleansing bath have been scant,” she said, sarcastically.  “It’s hard work.”
    “So?”
    “So . . . I can fix your belt.  Make it fit your . . . larger hips,” she said, trying not to be insulting.
    “There’s nothing wrong with my hips!” her sister screeched.
    “I didn’t say there was,” Dara replied, evenly, sipping a cup of hydromel she’d grabbed when her aunt wasn’t looking.  “Clearly, the belt is at fault.  I’m offering to fix it for you.”
    “How are you going to do that?” Lista demanded, arrogantly.
    “I’m good with that sort of thing,” Dara reminded her, calmly suppressing the urge to yank her sister’s dark hair so hard her head would snap back.  “That’s why I’m fixing the cot.  But if I string a leather thong on the back side of the belt, then the pretty part will be all that anyone sees.  Plenty of belts like that have leather closures.”
    “So I’ll look like I tied my belt on with string!” she snorted, angrily.
    “No, I’ll put a bead or something on the end, make it real feminine,” promised Dara.  “Flame, I’ll even shine it up for you.”
    Lista eyed Dara suspiciously.  “Why?  Why would you help me?”
    Dara snorted back.  “To get you to shut up about your ‘broken’ belt and your . . . hips .”
    Dara watched in fascination as her sister decided whether she wanted Dara’s help more than she wanted to be mad at her.  Finally Lista thrust the belt at her.  “Fine!  See what you can do with it!  And at least I have hips!” she said, demonstrating the fact with emphasis as she left the kitchen.
    “That girl,” her aunt said, shaking her head.  “If she isn’t wed soon,