A Single Stone by Meg McKinlay

be,” she replied. For the most part, this was as good an answer as any. But in response, there was a soft laugh. She turned to see a familiar face framed against the orange glow from the Square. The effect was an odd one, as if the boy were lit from the inside.
    “I asked if you were all right,” Luka said. “Funny way to reply.”
    “I didn’t hear you. I just thought …”
    “So are you then?”
    “All right? Why wouldn’t I be?”
    Luka shrugged. “Berta said you were tired. She was going to make you a tonic.”
    “I don’t need a tonic. I’m fine.”
    It was true. What had happened that afternoon already felt far away, like a dream that had receded.
    “That’s what I said.” Luka grinned. “I told her how tough you are. She said she knew but you could still use a tonic.”
    Jena returned his smile. Although the long hours of wrapping and training meant that girls tended to keep to themselves, as Berta’s grandson, Luka was often around, and over the years they had developed an easy rapport.
    “Anyway, congratulations. Forty and forty.”
    His words did not call for a reply. There was something to simply hearing the numbers. Jena looked down, taking in the compact sweep of her own body. She herself had been forty-four, forty-six, numbers that had made the village gasp back then. But babies had been coming earlier lately, and smaller. Perhaps there would be a day when a girl began with thirty, when forty didn’t earn you a bird and fifty was enough to make people spit on the ground.
    “Six moons.” Luka gave a low whistle. “You should have seen the Mothers getting everything ready last night. They were so excited.”
    “Last night?” Jena’s eyes widened. She hadn’t realised Mama Dietz had laboured through the night. It must have started after she and Kari had gone to bed; they always turned in early when they were tunnelling and rose before dawn, slipping out soundlessly almost before they were fully awake. Even if Papa Dietz had heard them, he would have said nothing, not wanting to worry them, knowing they must keep their thoughts on the harvest.
    Jena considered the thick slices of bird on her plate with satisfaction. There was strength in there and that was what a mama needed after a birthing.
    “I should go.” She gestured down the darkened street.
    “Me too. Berta said she’d save me a mouthful of bird.” Luka looked back towards the Square. The table was all but invisible in the midst of the swarming crowd. “See you around then. You’re not going inside tomorrow, are you?”
    “No,” Jena began, “but …”
I’ll be busy
, she was going to say.
With Min and the baby and Mama Dietz.
But Luka was already moving away and so she did the same, turning her back on the fire and the feast and hurrying away down the narrow road towards the rock wall, towards home.

EIGHT
    “There you are!”
    Papa Dietz’s voice was chiding, but gentle all the same. He was stirring a shallow pot on the hearth, steam rising as he turned the spoon in slow, lazy circles. The liquid inside was a pale brown, so thin as to be almost clear.
    “How’s the soup?” Jena asked.
    Kari flashed her a wry smile. “How do you think?”
    “This should help.” Jena slid her plate onto the table.
    “So much bird! That’s very generous.” Papa Dietz lifted the spoon, letting a stream of liquid fall onto the soup’s surface. Aside from his porridge, it was the least appetising thing Jena had ever seen.
    “Where’s Mama Dietz?”
    He nodded down the hall. “She’ll be along soon. You should go and see her though. We missed you earlier.”
    “I know. I–”
    “It’s all right. Go on.”
    The door was ajar but not wide open. Jena knocked gently and waited.
    “Who’s that knocking in her own home? Come on in!”
    Though Mama Dietz’s tone was light, it was shot through with weariness. She was sitting on the edge of the bed. Her nightshirt was unbuttoned and she had one hand at her breast, squeezing.