That was easy enough. If Trevya ran, then her legs grew straight and strong. If she ran through a garden, then she became a child in a place where beauty was an affordable luxury. If she sang as she ran, then she was happy. If that word was Mother . . .
But no, Illyra would not acknowledge that part other Seeing-though it could have told her she would have the material security she craved. She preferred the loneliness other anxiety and clutched its darkness tight around her until slits of dawn light came through the shutters.
Dubro stirred, freeing her as he did. The soul of routine and regularity, the smith rose with the first dawn light year around and had his forge ready when the sun peeked over the horizon. Usually the sight of his broad shoulders as they vanished beneath his worn leather tunic was enough to banish Illyra’s night-bom doubts, but not today-nor did she share any aspect of her visions with him. She remained huddled in the bed until Suyan had the baby at her breast and even then Illyra gathered her brightly colored garments as if in a trance.
“Feel you poorly?” Suyan asked with sincere concern.
Illyra shook her head and laced a rose-colored bodice lightly over her own breasts. The girl’s voice-her odd, but lilting, syntax-grated with extra harshness this morning, and Illyra was, without forethought, deter- mined to ignore her.
“Herself cried but once in the night, though if that come at a bad time, it’s enough to keep you waking until dawn?”
Always a curl to her voice. Everything was a question that needed- no, demanded-an answer. But this time it would not work.