frown. "Silverware," she said, and the other woman smiled and went back to arranging flowers.
"Spoons," Miri told Val Con, shoving them into his hand. "Knives. Forks." She frowned. "That all seems simple enough. You savvy silverware, boss?"
"Perhaps knives, spoons, and forks are separate names and silverware is the name for all together?"
"Not too bad, for a bald-headed guess."
He laughed softly. "But that is what being a Scout is—guessing, and then waiting to see if your guess was correct."
"Yeah?" She looked unconvinced. "Ain't the way I heard it."
"Ah, you heard we were heroes, risking our lives among savage peoples, magically able to speak any language we hear and never misunderstanding custom or intent." Mischief glinted in the bright green eyes.
"Naw. Way I heard it, only things Scouts're good for is drinking up fancy liquor and tellin' tall tales 'bout the dragons they killed."
"Alas, I am found out . . ."
"Meri! Corvill! Bring your bowls over here now. Soup's hot."
Miri grinned at him. "That's us—wonder what we're supposed to do now?"
He glanced over his shoulder in time to see the old woman pull a ladle from its hook over the stove. "Bowls, I think," he murmured, and picked up two, moving toward the stove with a deliberately heavy step.
Miri blinked at the unaccustomed noise, then shrugged, picked up the remaining bowl, and followed.
Zhena Trelu smiled and ladled soup into the two bowls Corvill held ready. Then she filled Meri's bowl and touched the girl's shoulder. "Wait."
She opened yet another drawer, produced a half-loaf of bread, and held it out. Miri took it in her free hand and carried it to the table.
Zhena Trelu hesitated, nodded to herself, and went to the icebox, pulling out butter. Her hand hovered over the cheese for a moment before descending. Skinny as they were? How could there be a question?
Butter and cheese balanced in one hand, she hefted the milk pitcher with the other and pushed the door shut with her knee. At the table she poured milk for all before looking around for her seat.
They had left her the chair at the head of the table, she realized then: Jerrel's place. The two of them sat next to each other, in what in later years had come to be the boy's chair, and his wife's.
Zhena Trelu smiled, pleased to see that they had not touched their soup. Manners, then, foreign or no. She picked up her spoon and had a taste, and they followed suit. Certain that they understood they were free to go on without her, she laid her spoon down, pulled the bread toward her, and laboriously sawed off three ragged slices. Then she took the cheese out of its paper and hewed off a largish chunk for each of them, laying it on the plates next to their bread.
Her own slice she slid into the toaster, reminding herself to pay attention to it. There was something wrong with the contraption; lately it burned bread to cinders without ever giving warning that it was done.
She picked up her spoon again and addressed the soup, watching her guests but trying not to stare.
The boy was left-handed and ate seriously, giving his whole attention, apparently, to the meal.
Meri was right-handed and appeared distracted, darting quick bird-glances around the room. She picked up her bread and broke it in half, using it to soak up some broth while she said something to the boy, who laughed and reached for his glass, and then jerked his head up, staring at the toaster.
"Oh, wind take the thing!" Zhena Trelu cried, smacking the release. The toaster chingged! and discharged a scorched rectangular object that smoldered gently and dripped charred bits onto the tablecloth.
"Damn you," she muttered, mindful of her company, and pulled the plug vindictively. She sawed off another piece of bread and buttered it, sighing.
She offered her guests more of everything, but they either did not understand or were too shy to avail themselves of her hospitality. Zhena Trelu finished her milk, wiped her
"Spoons," Miri told Val Con, shoving them into his hand. "Knives. Forks." She frowned. "That all seems simple enough. You savvy silverware, boss?"
"Perhaps knives, spoons, and forks are separate names and silverware is the name for all together?"
"Not too bad, for a bald-headed guess."
He laughed softly. "But that is what being a Scout is—guessing, and then waiting to see if your guess was correct."
"Yeah?" She looked unconvinced. "Ain't the way I heard it."
"Ah, you heard we were heroes, risking our lives among savage peoples, magically able to speak any language we hear and never misunderstanding custom or intent." Mischief glinted in the bright green eyes.
"Naw. Way I heard it, only things Scouts're good for is drinking up fancy liquor and tellin' tall tales 'bout the dragons they killed."
"Alas, I am found out . . ."
"Meri! Corvill! Bring your bowls over here now. Soup's hot."
Miri grinned at him. "That's us—wonder what we're supposed to do now?"
He glanced over his shoulder in time to see the old woman pull a ladle from its hook over the stove. "Bowls, I think," he murmured, and picked up two, moving toward the stove with a deliberately heavy step.
Miri blinked at the unaccustomed noise, then shrugged, picked up the remaining bowl, and followed.
Zhena Trelu smiled and ladled soup into the two bowls Corvill held ready. Then she filled Meri's bowl and touched the girl's shoulder. "Wait."
She opened yet another drawer, produced a half-loaf of bread, and held it out. Miri took it in her free hand and carried it to the table.
Zhena Trelu hesitated, nodded to herself, and went to the icebox, pulling out butter. Her hand hovered over the cheese for a moment before descending. Skinny as they were? How could there be a question?
Butter and cheese balanced in one hand, she hefted the milk pitcher with the other and pushed the door shut with her knee. At the table she poured milk for all before looking around for her seat.
They had left her the chair at the head of the table, she realized then: Jerrel's place. The two of them sat next to each other, in what in later years had come to be the boy's chair, and his wife's.
Zhena Trelu smiled, pleased to see that they had not touched their soup. Manners, then, foreign or no. She picked up her spoon and had a taste, and they followed suit. Certain that they understood they were free to go on without her, she laid her spoon down, pulled the bread toward her, and laboriously sawed off three ragged slices. Then she took the cheese out of its paper and hewed off a largish chunk for each of them, laying it on the plates next to their bread.
Her own slice she slid into the toaster, reminding herself to pay attention to it. There was something wrong with the contraption; lately it burned bread to cinders without ever giving warning that it was done.
She picked up her spoon again and addressed the soup, watching her guests but trying not to stare.
The boy was left-handed and ate seriously, giving his whole attention, apparently, to the meal.
Meri was right-handed and appeared distracted, darting quick bird-glances around the room. She picked up her bread and broke it in half, using it to soak up some broth while she said something to the boy, who laughed and reached for his glass, and then jerked his head up, staring at the toaster.
"Oh, wind take the thing!" Zhena Trelu cried, smacking the release. The toaster chingged! and discharged a scorched rectangular object that smoldered gently and dripped charred bits onto the tablecloth.
"Damn you," she muttered, mindful of her company, and pulled the plug vindictively. She sawed off another piece of bread and buttered it, sighing.
She offered her guests more of everything, but they either did not understand or were too shy to avail themselves of her hospitality. Zhena Trelu finished her milk, wiped her
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