A Change of Heart

Afternoon of Monday March 8, 1490

By the time Ynez and I had finished the food Mother Doria had laid out, everyone else was trooping into the dining room, and Calla silently carried in another basket of burnt bread and hard cheese, as well as flasks of watered wine. I sat without speaking, moodily swirling the acidic wine around in my mug and watching it splash at the edges — until Tel threw himself into Astera's chair with a contented sigh. It was our mother's throne, as old and battered as the rest of the furniture after four centuries of rambunctious orphans, but cushioned at least, and it had presided over the adults' dining table for as long as I could remember. Not even our new Prima had dared to claim it. Ignoring her offended yelp, Tel ripped off a hunk of bread, shoved the chair all the way back with no regard for how its legs squeaked and protested across the floor, and propped his cothurnus-clad feet right next to his plate.

"Tel!" I ordered. "Get your feet off the table!"

His self-satisfied expression vanishing, he whined, "Oh, c'mon, Marina. It's been an awful week. I just want to relax."

Yes, I knew it had been an awful week. It had been an awful week for all of us. But you didn't see me putting my dirty slippers on the dining table. "You're setting a bad example for mice!"

Indeed, over at the children's table, Sy gleefully pushed back his child-sized chair and mimicked Tel, complete with a chunk of bread in one hand. His attempt to copy Tel's sigh failed only because he couldn't keep a straight face.

I rounded on him next. "Sy! Get your feet off the table!"
"Awwww, Mariiiiiina, it's not fair. If Tel can do it, why can't I?"

"Tel, look what you've done!" I whipped my head back and forth between the two miscreants. "Sylvester, if you don't get your feet off the table, you're washing dishes for a week!"

"Awwww, Mariiiiina, you can't do that...."

"Yes I can! I'm the one who makes the chore list." Unless Prima Ynez had assumed that aspect of my duties, which I rather doubted. "Feet off the table, or you're doing dishes for a week."

Not having been threatened with extra chores, Tel simply leaned back and watched the show. Sy, on the other hand, crossed his ankles defiantly and grinned roguishly straight at me. I could practically hear his challenge: I'm the god of street urchins — make me.

In all my years, I'd never been able to make Sy behave for any length of time. "Ghallim, help!"

"Well, 'ow about 'eating up ze tables?"

Excellent point. Thoren would have hated this trivial use of vulgar magic — but Thoren wasn't here because of his own extravagant display of vulgar magic, so it was his own damn fault that he couldn't stop me. Ferociously carving a small dining table, I raised the temperature of the wood under Tel's and Sy's shoes until it glowed like an ember. With indignant yelps, they yanked their sizzling feet away, thumping back down to sit properly.

"Oww!" complained Tel. "That hurt!"

"Mariiiiina, that was mean!" Sy sounded grudgingly impressed by my resolve. I rarely used Ars Essentiae offensively — and certainly never on the children.

"Yes," I told both of them. "Now eat your lunch!" Wonder of wonders, they actually obeyed.

But of course any semblance of a big happy normal family wasn't going to last, and Ynez cleared her throat and reluctantly said over the sawing of tough bread and thumping of mugs, "So. There is still the matter of Thanos and the Hearth." And here I was thinking that as Prima and Secunda, we'd already settled it. Why did we need anyone else's approval? All I wanted was to get Thanos here, and get the loom ritual over with before anything else went wrong.