Adrian Silvercrest's Arc

Chapter 14 of 23

By the third day, Adrian stood in the kitchen and did not know where Elara kept the salt. He found it after opening four jars. He burned the porridge. Eric cried at the smell. Hope woke in the cradle and glowed against the blanket until Aldric lifted her out and pressed her to his chest. "We need a list," Aldric said. "What she does. All of it. Or the village sees a house falling apart and asks why." Adrian sat down. He wrote what he knew. Bread on Tuesday. Wash on Wednesday. Eggs to the neighbor on Friday. He stopped after six lines. He did not know the rest. He went to the bedroom. Elara lay against the pillows, thinner than a week ago. Her hair was braided. She had done that herself, and it had cost her. "Tell me the week," Adrian said. "Every task. I'll write it." She told him. The butter churn on Monday. The chicken feed measured in the tin cup, not the wooden one. The shutters closed halfway when the wind came from the north. Dan's wife expected a jar of preserves on the sixth. Adrian wrote until his hand cramped. When she cried that night, she cried quiet, so Eric would not hear. Adrian felt it through the wall. He went in and sat on the bed. "I'm useless to them," she said. "You're teaching me the whole house from that pillow," he said. "That's not useless." Aldric came in with Hope. He set the baby on Elara's chest, skin to skin. He put Eric's rattle in Elara's hand, a wooden thing with a clear top and colored beads inside. Eric climbed up and shook his own smaller one at her face, grinning. "Show mama," Aldric said. "Show her the noise." Eric shook it hard. Hope's small fingers opened at the sound. Elara laughed, then cried again, then laughed. She held the rattle against Hope's palm and the blue light steadied to nothing. By the end of the week Adrian knew the house. The bread rose on time. The wash hung on the line by noon. Dan's wife took her preserves and asked after Elara and left without a second question. The cottage looked as it always had from the lane. On the eighth morning Elara walked to the kitchen on her own. She held the wall, but she walked. She sat at the table and watched Adrian feed Eric with one hand and rock the flower-carved cradle with his foot. Aldric slid a bowl in front of her. "Sit," she said to both of them. "I'll do the bread." Adrian opened his mouth to argue. He closed it. He passed her the flour. They found the rhythm that morning. Three pairs of hands. One house. The village would still come, and Hope's palm would still glow. But today the bread rose, and Elara stood at her own table, and Adrian knew where the salt was kept.