“I had the flux just before my thirteenth name day,” Sabiha said. “I still remember it. I thought I was going to die.”
“It is terrible,” Clara agreed. “But you seem to have recovered nicely, dear. I’m only sorry that you missed the wedding and of course the funeral so close after that. Odd how the world seems to pair things that way. Something pleasant right up against something awful.”
“God’s sense of humor, I suppose,” Elisia said. Her voice had changed a bit. Taken on the slightly clipped vowels of the eastern reaches where Antea shared its borders with Sarakal. “I’m glad Corl didn’t get it. When he was younger, he’d catch everything, and there is simply nothing worse than being ill with an ill child.”
Sabiha’s smile came from past the horizon.
“I wouldn’t know,” she said.
“Of course not,” Elisia said, “but I imagine you will soon. New brides and all that. It was hardly a year after I was married before I had Corl.”
“I think it may take a bit longer for me,” Sabiha said. “Jorey’s gone so much with the war.”
Elisia made a sympathetic clucking, then shrugged.
“Still better too long than not long enough.”
Sabiha laughed and nodded as if the insult hadn’t struck home. There was hardly even a flicker in her eyes. Clara thought Jorey’s wife really was an impressive girl in her fashion.
“Oh!” Clara said. “I’ve forgotten my pipe. Honestly, I think my memory’s starting to fail. It did for my mother, you know. Spent her last years wandering about the house trying to recall what she was looking for. Perfectly amused by the whole situation, even when she was quite out of her mind. Did I have my pipe in your sitting room, Sabiha dear?”
“I don’t think so. Perhaps your withdrawing room. Would you like me to go look for it?”
“Would you, dear? I don’t want the servants to think I’ve gone mindless on them. They start taking liberties.”
Sabiha rose, nodding to mother and daughter as if they weren’t all of them perfectly aware that Clara had asked for a moment’s privacy. As the girl stepped into the house, Clara let the mask of geniality fall. Elisia rolled her eyes.
“She isn’t my sister,” Elisia said even before Clara spoke. “I can’t believe you’ve let Jorey marry her. Really, Mother, what were you thinking?”
“Whatever I thought, her name is Kalliam now. Prodding her about dead scandals isn’t going to do any of us well. And you could at least pretend you were actually ill.”
“I have spent weeks defending you and Father to my husband and his family. Do you know what they call us? Kalliam’s shelter for lost girls. How do you think that makes me feel?”
“Ashamed of your husband, I should think.”
Elisia’s mouth closed with an audible click. A loud splash came, and the nurse’s scolding voice. A breeze almost too gentle to feel set the rosebuds nodding. A few had already bloomed, white and orange. Clara had always preferred simple roses with two or three rows of petals to the grand and gaudy balls that others seemed to favor. She took a deep breath, gathering her composure before she turned back to Elisia.
“Family is what we have, dear,” Clara said. “There will always be others, people on the outside, who will try to tear us down. It’s not even their fault. Dogs bark, and people gossip. But we don’t do that in the family.”
“She is—”
“She is going to be mother to my grandchildren, as much as you, my dear. She has an unfortunate past which you and your husband are bringing to my table. She isn’t. You are. And I have never heard her say a word against either of you.”
Elisia’s mouth pressed thin and two bright spots of color appeared on her cheeks. Clara raised her eyebrows and leaned forward, inviting comment or reproof. It was the same pose she’d taken before Elisia since her daughter had been a child in diapers, and long training had its power.
“Excuse me a moment,” Elisia said. “I think Corl called for me.”
“I’m sure he did, dear,” Clara said. “I’ll wait here.”
Clara took up her cup. The tea had grown cold, but she drank it anyway. Children were difficult because they became their own people. There had been a time when Elisia had run to Clara with every scrape and hurt feeling, but that girl was gone, and this young woman had taken her place, and Clara would never say aloud that she wasn’t sure of the exchange.
Clara watched the footman trot out from the house. He was a new boy. Messin or Mertin or something along that line. She would have to find out discreetly. He wore his uniform well, though, and his voice was gentle.