“What have you done?”
Bragoleth pressed her ear against the door. From the other side, she heard her mother’s voice rise again, shuddering like a beast roused from slumber. “What have you done, child? Have you considered—”
“I know what I did, Mother. I chose it by my own will.”
“I never should have let your grandmother fill your head with myths and tales.”
Bragoleth recalled long winter evenings spent sitting by the fire with her sister, watching her practice her stitching while their grandmother told stories. The tale of how Huan helped Lúthien escape Nargothrond was her favorite. Did her mother believe it was all for the worse?
“Now you spin tales of your own. Is that your goal, Amardal? Do you wish to perturb me?”
“No.”
“If you have spoken falsely, you can still retract it. It is not too late.”
“I would not lie to you.” Bragoleth heard her sister pause. “She can hear us.”
“No daughter of mine will hide behind lies and fictions. If what you have done dishonors your sister, you will have to explain it to her regardless. Is it so terrible that she cannot hear?”
Her sister answered in a whisper too low for her to hear clearly. Bragoleth could hardly place where her sister’s susurrant words ended and the quiet began.
Silence unfurled between her and the door, replete with terrible possibilities. Were the animals sick? Was the harvest ruined? Had a letter arrived, announcing the loss of an aunt or uncle whose face she was already beginning to forget?
Then her mother’s voice shattered the quiet. “There is no child more foolish in all the earth. What would your grandmother think? What of the House of Bëor, the traditions of Andreth? Have you forgotten your inheritance? With our gifts comes duty, and your folly poisons the well of wisdom which was once entrusted to you.
And what of your friends and mine? I thought Gaellant’s influence would nurture the best in you, Amardal. What of her regard?”
Bragoleth heard her sister’s voice tremble like a reed in the wind. “I swore not to lie to you, Mother.”
“Why did you not tell me before it came to this?”
“Please let me explain—”
“I want none of your explanations! Your deception has brought shame unto this house.” Something scuffed across the floor. “Leave me be.”
As her mother’s words dissolved into sobs, Bragoleth heard the door creak open. Her sister stepped into the hall, her breath catching in her throat when she caught sight of Bragoleth crouched in the shadow of the doorway. “Come here, nethig.” When she reached out, Bragoleth took her hand. "The hour is late, Bragoleth. You should rest.”
“Why is Mother so upset with you?”
Looking away, her sister shook her head. “I don’t know.”
Somehow, Bragoleth doubted her. Her grandmother once said that some people grew straight, like tall pines, and spoke in words as forthright as their natures. Others curled in on themselves, unfurling to reveal their true intentions only when the hour was right. Her sister, who everyone called Amardal, was of the second kind, always smiling as if she knew a secret. Amardal, who was a grown woman—or near enough—and knew how their father was going to die, must have known the reason for their mother’s anger and grief.
“Did you hurt her, Amardal?”
Amardal smiled ruefully down at her. “I fear I have.”
Bragoleth waited for her sister to squeeze her hand, but she never did. Instead, she drifted down the hall toward the room they shared, silent as a ghost, tacitly expecting her little sister to follow.
Climbing onto her bed, Bragoleth sat and watched Amardal toss kindling on the fire. Her red-rimmed eyes, tangled hair, and long sleeves mottled with grass stains were clues to a secret life which Bragoleth realized she had never been privy to. While she had been climbing trees and watching birds circle over the ruins, Amardal must have found an adventure of her own. Bragoleth wondered how older girls passed the time between chores. Had her sister found something terrible in the cracks between the old stones?
“How did you hurt Mother?”
Amardal peered over her shoulder at Bragoleth. “You must be cold.”
“Mhm.”
“This should help.” Peeling off her muddy boots, Amardal rose from her spot by the hearth. She drew up the blankets, covering Bragoleth up to her chin, and shook out an old, faded quilt. Instead of lying down herself, she pulled up a chair to sit by Bragoleth’s bedside, the same way their mother once did when she read to her daughters. The scent of moss and leather, not clean linens and old books, lingered in the air around her.
“You asked how I hurt Mother,” she said. Bragoleth watched the corners of her sister’s mouth twitch as if she were about to cry, but no tears came. “I have broken something very dear to her.”
“Can’t you fix it?”
“I wish I could.”
