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21

Blaine arranged tender spring flowers on the tiny mounded grave that held Willum. The fine carpets of short, early flowers were almost gone—spring warmed fast in these parts—but he had enjoyed picking them, so she'd made a special effort to find a few stragglers.

She sat back on her heels and stared at the grave, the newest in the small family cemetery up behind the barn. Lenie had come up with her, but hung back by Granpapaw's headstone.

Blaine had found her sister changed, a quieter person, someone whose comments were sincere even if not always what Blaine wanted to hear. Under the Annekteh, she had been driven hard, saddled with Cadell's chores as well as her own and Blaine's. Now that she was free of them, Lenie returned to watching after her appearance, but she presented a more somber image while she was at it. Blaine understood that in the mixing of the people of the hollows, Lenie had found someone to interest her, and the attention was being returned.

Respect for the dead demanded decent time before a wedding, but Blaine expected it would soon be her own turn to find someone.

Strange. She had helped to free her kin and neighbors. Now she felt like she had traded their freedom for hers. She was already back to the old life she had always fought against. Daddy hadn't thought to forbid her the hills—yet—but it had been only a bare week since her return. Several times she'd been out in the hills with Dacey, as he walked the ridges and searched for signs of Annekteh interlopers with his seer's eyes.

But he was due to leave after the dance party tonight, and surely then it would occur to her father that Blaine should not be allowed in the hills. Not if she was to devote herself to finding a good husband.

Well, Cadell couldn't be expected to look after her forever. Blaine understood that. She also knew that the taste of freedom she'd had would make it harder than ever to settle down.

Thoughts of leaving had filled her mind for days. If she was going to do it, she should do it now, so it would be merely one more shock on top of all the others.

South. Maybe she could go south, to the place where Dacey's glass window had come from. She had seen enough of Dacey to appreciate his loner's lifestyle, and to respect it, but surely he wouldn't mind if she tagged along on his way home, on her way to other places. Surely he'd come to enjoy her company, too.

"Poor Mommy," Lenie said, drawing Blaine from her thoughts with surprise. Since when had Lenie noticed any of what their mother went through? While Blaine's way might have been to run to the woods, Lenie had simply ignored what she saw and set her sights on something of her own.

"Poor Mommy?" Blaine repeated.

Lenie gave her an accusing look. "First to lose you, then Willum—oh, that was horrible, Blaine. They took Charlane Prater, and she held Willum whilst one of the soldiers—"

"I don't want to hear it!" Blaine turned away from the grave to shout Lenie into silence.

"We had to live it!" Lenie shouted back, then looked away. When she looked back, the anger was gone from her face. "Poor Charlane was worse off than Mommy, though we all told her we knew she had no say in what happened." Lenie's shrug was matter-of-fact. "You missed a lot, Blaine."

I went through my own trials. "Don't think you can figure what all I've done, either."

As though Lenie had heard her sister's thoughts, she shrugged again. "I guess you'll be part of legends now, just like the stories of Anneka Ridge. I don't mean to say you run out on us, nothin' like that. It's just you weren't here to see what happened to Willum, nor to see Mommy and Daddy when they thought you was gone as well. They told us you'd been kilt, you know. Havin' you back has done as much for Mommy as bein' freed of them."

Blaine stared at her sister, wondering suspiciously where this was leading. It certainly wasn't anything like the self-centered talk she was used to hearing from Lenie, but she still felt resentment creeping in. Lenie didn't seem to understand that Blaine had been just as scared, just as driven, as anyone here in Shadow Hollers. She didn't have any idea what it was like to hide, trapped and terrified, in a dairy. She didn't know what it was like to stare over the hills and yet see nothing, all her very self caught up in anguished worry about her family.

Then she heard a quiet echo of Dacey's voice, one telling her in his simple way not to worry what anyone else thought. His assurance that she was special. So instead of firing off the riled-up words on her tongue, she let the older girl talk.

"You still don't see," Lenie said, having realized she was to get no response from Blaine. "I know you better'n you think—no, don't look at me that way. You've changed some, but so have I—and deep down we still got parts that are the same. And I know you're gonna go. You ain't about to settle yourself down here and start looking for someone to work you and order you around. You think I am? But it don't bother me, Blaine, 'cause instead of fightin' it with claws out, I got other ways to get a man to look at things my way. If you'd realize that, you'd quit facin' everything with all that fire in your eye. Things are what they are, and havin' a man to look after you ain't the worst thing that could happen to you."

"Mommy used to have fire in her eye, too," Blaine said bitterly.

"Well, she don't no more, an' that's why I got my own ways of dealing with a man. It's not too late for me, or even for you. But you get all snorty about it and run off to find where things suit you, you're gonna take every last bit of fight out of Mommy. I hope you think about that real hard before you go."

Blaine thought about it. She turned her reflections inward, to images of her mother. First, the tired, resigned soul who simply wanted to keep her family healthy and fed, then a younger version, earlier memories, when that face had smiled more often, had fewer lines in it and less grey in the brown hair that was so much like Blaine's.

But the strongest image of all was that shocking first encounter in the meeting hall, when neither mother nor daughter had quite recognized one another. Blaine now saw that change as a hopelessness worlds different from Lottie's normal worn-out visage.

In the week since the Freed Day, some of that hopelessness had disappeared, and enough of Lottie's spark—tenuous as it was—had returned to direct the strict cleaning of their neglected house, to take pride in what she'd done at the meeting hall—even to take pride in Blaine.

Should Blaine leave, what then?

Blaine looked up at her sister, who was satisfied with what she had wrought.

"I got peas to hoe," Lenie said simply, and left Blaine alone with the graves. Alone to think about what she would or wouldn't do.

Blaine twisted around to stare at Lenie's retreating back—hips a-sway—as she walked down the hill, and settled back to her heels with a sigh. Never had she thought there was so much intent behind Lenie's ways.

Her sister was right, of course. Or at least, she had chosen a way that was right for herself. Blaine doubted she could mend her own looks enough to turn a man's head, and she was sure she wouldn't be able to sweeten her attitude to the flirt and beguile that Lenie so ably employed. No. Quiet rebellion, sometimes not-so-quiet rebellion. Those were her tools.

A cold wet smear on the back of her neck startled her—she jerked around, her bottom sliding off her heels onto the damp ground.

Blue. How could she have been so deep in thought that she hadn't heard the lumbering hound? She patted the ground beside her and Blue pushed up to sit tightly against her. He had missed her, he let her understand. Well, she had missed him too. It was comforting to know there was anything out there that cared as much as Blue.

"Your sister's got some turnin's in her head I wouldn't have guessed," Dacey said. He was up the hill a-ways, and coming down on quiet feet.

And how long had he been there? Blaine gave him a hard stare, and it was enough.

"I was going down to your house," Dacey said. "Blue brought me here instead. I didn't want to interrupt."

"So you listened?"

Dacey said nothing, only watched her with the intense eyes that would now always be just a little bit different. But then, Blaine had always thought there was a difference, even before the Annekteh unwittingly wakened his seer's sight. Eventually she dropped her own gaze, regretful of her words. She knew his decisions always had reasons. This time it meant giving Lenie her say.

"I guess she hid it well from me, too," Blaine said. "I never figured she saw what I saw in Mommy." She looked back up at him, scowling. "But her way'll never be mine."

"No," Dacey agreed, "you just got too much o' that fire. Don't believe there's any puttin' it out." She scowled harder, but he just grinned at her.

"Well," she finally muttered, and pushed off on Blue to climb to her feet, "I guess I won't never be able to change that. Not till I'm all wore out and got a big family."

"Family's important, Blaine."

Blaine looked down at the soft, scuffed toes of her boots and wouldn't admit that he was right.

Dacey sat down on the ground outside the grave area and looked at Blue. "He'll miss you. I guess he thinks you're family, now."

"I never did understand why he picked me, anyway. You know better'n most that I ain't much for a petted-on hound. Especially," she added with fierceness that did not reach her eyes as she looked down at the dog, "one that drools and blows its cheeks out all the time."

"I know. Dumb ole Blue. He tried to save you from the Annekteh, you know. Too dumb to know he couldn't."

She narrowed her eyes down at him, but he gave her only the shrug of his shoulders under his worn shirt. Those shoulders held a strength beyond the muscles in them, and it showed in the ease of their carriage, in the quiet authority she had always admired in him. She said, "He was trying to help Mage—Rand was about to knock his head off."

"No," Dacey said. "Blue may be dumb, but he can read another dog. The threat was to you, and it was you he was protectin'."

Blaine looked back down at Blue, astonishment making way for affection. "I didn't know he'd do that."

"You protect what you love," Dacey said.

Blaine gave her foot a slight stomp. "Damn!" she muttered.

He raised an eyebrow.

"All right, I can't go! I can't leave her now. Or any of 'em. Not when they need me." Her voice lowered until it was just loud enough to be heard. "But I want to go."

"I know."

A quick look told her that he did know, that he really understood. She burst out, "I feel—I feel like a bird, one that's just learned to fly and then broke a wing."

"You'll fly when it's right," he said, and then looked away a moment. He was close to her all of a sudden; she wasn't sure how that had happened. He reached out and touched her hair, running a light hand down to her long braid, picking it up and placing it down again like he'd found a better spot for it. "When it's right," he said again, and she wondered who he was trying to convince; as clear as his gaze met hers, she wasn't sure it was her. He looked away. "I got to go. I've done what I came for, and I don't belong here."

"What if they come back?"

"You know where I am. By then, I'm thinkin', you might have some of your own seers here." He held out his other hand, opened it to reveal dozens of tiny flowers. Spring flowers, the like of which Blaine had searched so hard for—not any she'd seen before. The dark green-stemmed plants bore clusters of yellow blooms, thick as the seed in a milkweed and just as soft. She took them from him and smelled of them, inhaling a fresh odor—the hills after a cleansing rain, or the air on a crisp snowy day.

"I ain't never seen these before."

"Or me. But you'll find 'em aplenty amongst the rhododendrons on the hill beyond the hall."

"The fight ground?"

"The very same. There's magic in these hills, and there always has been. It's just been slumbering of late."

"But . . . flowers?"

"The Annekteh worked their magic on me, and look what happened. And they slung it out all over that hill. To my way of thinking, these here flowers popped up to spit right back in the eye of Annekteh magic. Keep watch, Blaine, and you might could find more signs of change here. Might even be some more magic of your own."

"I don't have no seers in my family line," Blaine said, more than a touch of obstinance showing through. She knew better. Knew things were changing.

"Not yet. Not full-blooded ones. But you've learned this much—there ain't no way to deny the kind of seein's you got."

Blaine snorted. "Magic weren't meant for the likes of me."

"Nor for me," Dacey rejoined quietly, looking at her with a touch of amusement, tucked in somewhere between his angular cheekbones and his eyes.

"But you're different," Blaine protested instantly. "You—you're . . . different!"

"You'd be surprised." He nodded at the grave. "I brought the flowers for Willum. Seems only fittin' that the first signs of the magic go to him, first killed in the battle that woke it. And I wanted to say good-bye. I'll be leavin' tonight, and I won't be obvious about it. Just make a scene if I was, and I wouldn't care for that."

"I know," Blaine said, carefully setting the flowers by Willum's headstone. When she straightened, Blue was gone, following Dacey up the hill behind Mage. Blaine watched long enough to see Chase and Whimsy shoot in from the side, knock Dacey about with their tails, and bound off again.

"Good-bye," she whispered.

* * *

The hall was set up for a celebration, with the refreshing yellow flowers in abundant display. They hung in bunches from the corners of the rafters, they came in sprigs tucked behind girls' ears and in the men's buttonholes. The room seemed lighter for them, certainly lighter than the candle and coal-oil lamplight Blaine remembered—even as bright as the south-made fancy lamp that Dacey owned.

She leaned against the wall between two of the massive tables lining the dance area, her breath coming quick. Although it was well into the evening, the musicians still played the quick dances. Soon they'd switch to the slower, more precise figures, the ones meant for older dancers and courting youth. Blaine knew those well enough, but had no intention of being dragged into them, not yet.

Soon enough, her parents would host her quilt party, and all of the women and older girls would supply a storm of man-talk while they quilted, in one afternoon, the quilt that Blaine's mother had been piecing for her since Lenie's first engagement.

Until then, she was undeclared and determined to make the best of the time.

Which meant, as the music strings started up again, rushing back out onto the floor for another whirling dance. She and the other girls were passed from boy to boy, many of whom gave her a wink or smile of recognition—companionable recognition, the kind she was comfortable with. They still thought of her as the girl in the tree who'd pointed out the Taken.

She danced with nearly all of them this evening, even Estus, whose damp and dirty looks had undergone a thorough washing for the celebration. She missed Burl, who would have been a fun if less than graceful partner, and there were plenty of others absent, if not remarked upon. Not tonight. In a day or two, they'd meet for a Remembrance of all the lost ones, Willum included; for now, they celebrated their freedom. Blaine was glad to see her parents, at the other end of the room, joining in on the fast steps of the dance. She had passed Lenie and her new beau some time before. She had even seen her cousins—whose remarks, for once, had been nothing but amiable. She could not help a glow of satisfaction at that.

The music tumbled to a stop and Blaine found herself opposite Trey, who panted as hard as she. She flapped her skirts—regular, whole skirts—up and down to fan her sweaty legs and Trey laughed.

"Let's go outside," he said. "It's cooler." The next dance started, slow and traditional. Blaine followed him out into the hall yard.

"Looks like you're even quicker'n me to shy away from the courtin' dances," she teased as he led her to the well. Trey shrugged, pulling up the rope and dragging out the bucket. He unhooked the dipper from the well frame, scooping up cool water and offering it to Blaine.

An out-and-out courtesy. At first taken aback, Blaine accepted water and drank her fill. She returned the dipper to Trey with a quizzical look, and watched while he got his own drink.

"Where's Dacey?" he said, wiping his dripping chin.

"Gone," Blaine said sadly. "He told me he'd dodge good-byes. One thing about him, he means what he says."

"Snuck out in the middle of a dance, I'll bet."

"You'd win it," she sighed. She had watched him go, deliberately looking away when he glanced at her.

"I'll miss him, too," Trey said.

She nodded, and they lapsed into silence that didn't trouble Blaine, but that Trey seemed to find increasingly awkward. So she watched him, as the light from the hall played off his face—an unsettled, still growing into itself face—and occasionally sparked off his eyes. She knew it wasn't kind, but she watched him until he broke into an actual fidget. "Uh, Blaine . . . "

"What?"

He hesitated again. "Spirits," he said, sounding almost desperate, "we always been straight enough with one another. I know Lenie's committed to my cousin Nathan, and we both know what that means to you."

Blaine made a noise her parents would have called her on.

"Yeah, I know. I saw enough in the mountain to know you're some wilder than the girls hereabouts—wilder than most the men'll stand for, anyway. You done tickled Dacey that way."

"I did?" Blaine said, then regretted it as Trey's discomposure seemed to deepen. "Sorry," she murmured, looking down at the well just for something other than him to rest her eyes on.

"I . . . I just wanted to say . . . well, I'd stand for it. I seen the good it brought to these hills, and I'll never forget it. I just wanted you to know."

"Why, Trey," Blaine said, startled into looking straight at him again—and then could come up with nothing else. When had he . . . she'd had no idea . . . Although, thinking back, she could see that at some time he had quit fighting her and begun to work with her. Quit bossing her and begun to listen.

She looked away from him again and up into the dark shape of the mountain that loomed behind the barn. The new waxing moon had not yet made an appearance, but the night was clear. The stars made enough light to show her the darkened undulations of the hills, the scoops and swags that led her eye to the site of the battle. For a moment she was back in that fight, reliving the fears, the uncertainties, and even the joys.

At last she turned her eyes back to Trey, who still waited for a response—any response, just to stop the agony of the waiting. With a start of guilt, she smiled at him, a shy expression. "I ain't reflected much about it, yet," she told him. "But I like your words."

He let out his breath in a relieved sigh—she supposed he had worried she might laugh, or scorn him—but it was a good offer. Most likely the best she would get. Someone who already knew the quirks of her ways and who didn't resent them. She would run circles around herself to keep a family tended right, but she would still have the woods and her wandering ways.

If she ever found the time for them.

"Yes," she said, and nodded. "I'll think on that." She knew she should be pleased. He understood her. Respected her, even her strangeness. But . . . her contrary stomach had turned heavy and hard.

"You want to go back in?" He nodded toward the doorway, where a lull in the music and the considerable laughter in its place indicated that someone spun a tale.

"No," Blaine said. "I guess I'll just listen to it all for a while. I enjoy a good dancing, but somehow . . . tonight I feel on the outside looking in. I never was slaved, like they were."

"But you—"

"I know. I done my part. But I warn't here."

He didn't understand, she could see, but he wasn't fighting it. He leaned against the well alongside her and listened to the snatch of voices drifting out of the hall.

She'd done her part, all right. Not that either parent quite believed her stories—especially not her father, who, though as proud as he'd ever been, had told her not to have fancy thoughts of herself, that she'd likely mostly been in Dacey's way.

Rand's instant defense had gratified her. There was the bearskin, he'd argued, and even Cadell couldn't deny that Blaine had been in the ash, directing the fighters below. Anyone else would've sent arrows that hit their mark—Rand had said that with a smile—and at last Cadell had to concede that the stories he was hearing could be true.

But he still didn't seem to want Blaine to put much stock in herself over it. Like he couldn't stand for her to think about it, so he wouldn't have to think about it himself.

Some of those stories referred to Dacey's killing touch, but not one of them identified Rand as the last to be Taken. Rand had not mentioned it, and Blaine, with a chance to pay him back for kept secrets, did not see fit to bring it up.

But now she was home. All she had left of those weeks were the stories, and no one would ever quite know or believe all of it. Blaine sighed into the darkness. It was a clear night, damp and warm—good for a hunt. Her ears perked for the sounds of familiar hound song, disregarding the fact that those voices were behind her and lost forever.

Even now her ears imagined the start of a chorus, using memory in place of reality. Stupid.

"What's that?" Trey asked suddenly.

Too clear to be a memory, that was certain sure!

Blaine straightened and took a step away from the well, toward the hill behind the barn where the song had started. It was Dacey she heard, briefly, before Mage joined in and the two younger dogs warmed up. A farewell song.

An unwanted tear shimmered her vision. It was her very own good-bye. No one else could separate those voices, nor know just who started the singing. She listened, entranced, while Trey stood behind her and respectfully kept his silence.

A much closer moan hit her ears, starting as a rough, low growl and rising to a clear, wavering note. Its euphony with the chorus on the hill first stirred her, then startled her. She took her gaze away from the mountain and looked at the barn, certain the longing howl came not from the hills, but from that dark building.

Forgetting Trey, she ran to it.

Tied just inside the barn was a mournful, confused ticked creature. Its ears hung low, and it subsided into a confused whine as Blaine entered. It strained at a braided rawhide leash, its front feet pattering up and down in excitement, its tail tip wagging uncertainly as it sought to understand why the pack sang from the top of the hill, so far from this place and growing farther.

"Blue," Blaine breathed. "Blue, how could he leave you?" She slid to her knees and hugged his forlorn face, slapped his solid chest in appreciation. She pretended not to see when he slyly reached for her braid.

Sudden realization ended her caresses; she stared at the mountain—blocked by the back of the barn as it was—the tears coming down her face fast and happy. He couldn't leave Blue! He wouldn't! 

Trey, too, understood the hound's message, and he took a step back, giving her room for her dreams.

"He's coming back," Blaine whispered into Blue's jowly face.

He gave her a lick upside the cheek and wiped away her tears.

 

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