A Turn of Light by Julie E Czerneda

Wen the other. Lorra and Frann each had their own rooms on the main floor. The large airy central room, where Jenn stood, served as kitchen and workroom. It extended from front to back, well lit by windows at both ends and by light streaming through the open doors on either side, and held an argument unlikely to end while its proponents lived.
    Tidy shelves filled the left wall from floor to ceiling, with clever pegs to hold bobbins and spindles of thread. Baskets of leather and fabric scraps shared space with bottles of homemade buttons. The irreplaceable scissors and forms and needles, Frann’s most precious millinery supplies, were, Jenn knew, safely tucked into the long boxes on the topmost shelf. In front stood a loom, threads hanging from the rafters above, beside a small desk and chair.
    The wall to Jenn’s left formed the opposing side. Great messy clumps of clay sat in bowls on the floor. Or on the floor. Bits and pieces of a pottery wheel leaned against the wall. The wall itself?
    Bare but for a single painting, showing a tall young man beside a table. Jenn leaned from side to side, entranced as always by how the eyes in the portrait seemed to follow her. Creamy lace erupted from the young man’s collar and cuffs, gold brocade shimmered down the front of his coat, and he looked, in Jenn’s opinion, thoroughly uncomfortable. The table in the painting held a bowl of exotic peaches. The bowl was a Treff family heirloom; the elegant young man, hard as it was to imagine, had grown into Davi, the village smith.
    The room was divided by more than each woman’s passion. A wavering line of chalk, fresh by the look of it, led along the floor from front door to kitchen. Streaks of clay and bits of thread crossed it here and there, sorties into enemy territory. Jenn wasn’t surprised. The shouting that went on when both women were at work could be heard all the way to the mill, if the wind was right.
    For now, to Jenn’s relief, serenity reigned. Davi must be out in his smithy, attached to the barn beside the house. Cynd, his wife, would be in her garden. As befitted her former station in Avyo society, she was accomplished in embroidery and other fine handwork, skills she turned to good use during winter when she, Wen, and Frann sewed most of the village clothing. Though uninterested in plants before, she’d quickly realized gardening would keep her out of the house in summer, when Lorra and Frann were most at odds. To no one’s surprise, the Treff gardens produced the best gourds and potatoes. Cynd’s childless state hadn’t endeared her to her husband’s mother in Avyo; her abilities in Marrowdell did. They’d grown closer.
    Which could not be said of mother and daughter. Wen Treff lived in the same home. She sewed and cooked with Cynd. She listened to the flute Frann would play come winter evenings and drew designs for her mother’s pottery, but Marrowdell had claimed her more than any other.
    Wen talked to toads.
    Not only toads. She chatted with birds and squirrels. Jenn had once caught her lecturing a butterfly, her face animated and glad, mouthing some soundless language of her own.
    Come a person too close, and Wen fell still. By her actions, she understood what was being said, but no matter how others railed or coaxed or reasoned, she uttered not a word in return.
    The silence of her daughter might have explained something of Lorra Treff’s fiery temper. Or Lorra’s temper explained the silence. No one was quite sure.
    “I swear, Lorra Treff, you’ll poison us by the time you’re through. What are you thinking? Get this mess out of here!”
    The heated complaint came from the kitchen. Jenn took a step back. This might not be the best time for a visit.
    “I’ll work where I want in my own house!” Hotter and louder. “And how many times have I asked you, Frann Nall, not to leave your wretched great loom in the middle of the floor so no one can move without you shrieking? Cynd! Stop fussing with