Free Cyrion by Abigail Borders Page A

other handle of the tub. They lifted it on the count of three and headed towards the backyard. Jon had just opened the door to the backyard when he heard Greta say from the kitchen:
    “Them boys need a haircut. Where’s me scissors, then?”
    The boys threw the water out, dropped the wooden tub clattering on the mudroom floor, before running through the kitchen to the front room, determined to get out of Greta’s reach before she found her scissors. They ran past Naeem in the front room, his nose buried deep in a book.
    “Slow down there, lads,” Naeem said, putting his book aside.
    He sat on a comfortable upholstered couch of carved rosewood with mother-of-pearl inlays. The front room was flooded with the light that streamed in through generous windows, fitted with panes of clear glass.
    “Don’t worry about the scissors,” Naeem said. “She won’t be cutting hair today, boys. I’d be bald myself if I left them in the house. I buried them by the chicken coop in the backyard. No chance of her getting them. Chickens terrify her.” He paused, as if to re-consider his last statement. “Well, live chickens, anyway.”
    “Wot you do with me scissors, you crazy ole fool?” Greta bellowed from the kitchen.
    “Greta, you’re scaring the children,” Naeem said, a blissful smile on his lips.
    “Is she a Watcher too?” Saul asked in a soft voice.
    “No, lad. Greta is…Greta. Actually, you’d better call her Grammy Greta. Yes, I think she’d like that. She might decide not to torture you as much.”
    “Is she my…grandmother?” Jon tried to keep his face impassive and the horror from his voice.
    Naeem laughed. “No, lad. Of course not! She’s been with the family for years. We grew up together, she and I. Your grandmother died young, so she practically raised your mother.”
    Naeem tweaked his cheeks. Jon did not mind when his grandfather tweaked his cheeks. He bore the comforting, masculine scent of sandalwood and aged tobacco, while his mother tended to smell like whatever she was cooking at the time.
    “Why does she talk so mean?” Jon asked.
    “The meaner she talks to you, the more she loves you.”
    “Well, she must love us very much,” Saul said, his eyebrows arched.
    “And that is Greta,” Naeem said. “Just don’t tell her I said so.” He winked.
    “But she’s really old, Grampa,” Jon said. “Shouldn’t she retire, or something?”
    Naeem laughed. “The last time I suggested she do so, she chased me with a broom and locked me out of my own house for a week.” He shook his head. “Sorry lad, I’m not trying that again. I did try to get her a helper though.”
    “Where is her helper?” Jon craned his neck and looked around.
    “I said ‘tried’. He was a nice enough lad, of Nomadic tribe stock, from the far South. Greta was very nice to him.” Naeem paused for a moment, frowning. “Which really should have tipped me off.”
    “What happened?” Saul said.
    “Greta poisoned him.”
    “What?” both boys said in unison.
    “Not fatally,” Naeem said, flapping his hands. “With pigeon berries. The shrub grows by the low wall in the backyard. Greta slipped them into everything the poor lad ate and drank. He didn’t even last the week.” Naeem leaned back on the couch. “You know, no one could ever prove she did it.”
    “You talkin’ about me, you crazy ole fool?”
    “Why yes, Greta,” Naeem said.
    “Wot you tellin’ them, then?”
    “We love you,” Naeem said, a playful twinkle in his jet eyes.
    “Wot you talkin’ about, you crazy ole fool?” Greta stomped into the front room, arms akimbo, smelling of olive oil and fresh garlic.
    “Good morning, Grammy Greta,” both boys greeted her in unison, shrinking back slightly from her presence.
    The thunderous scowl on her wrinkled brows softened when she spotted them.
    “You lookin’ for your friend, then?”
    Jon nodded. Saul stood uncharacteristically still and quiet, terror on every line of his face.
    “Well,