’
Not much more grown than her. That made no sense! ‘ She's a lot older than I am. At least fifteen years!''
‘ Oh, but the difference between where you are and wher e she is grows less and less every year—a lot of differenc e when you were a baby, fifteen years ago. But the years a young child up faster than they grow any of us old, d oes that make sense? It doesn't seem yesterday that your uncl e was your age. And hardly yesterday again since I was fifteen , doing things I assure you nobody's mother would approve! But I, mouse, I was just an ordinary boy, not a wizard who can leave just a little smoking spot where our house was. Your mother can do that, first thunderstorm that comes along. So can you, if you ever wanted to—you could do it without ever realizing you'd done it, so naturally your mother's a little anxious about tantrums. ’
The idea was strange. But her father always made her feel safer and wiser, just by being by her—for one thing because lie never wished at her, would not, could not, it made no difference: the fact was he did not, and all the world else did. Her father always made sense to her, in ways even uncle Sasha did not, and her mother almost never.
‘ I can see that,'' she conceded.
He gave her a hug and a kiss, and they walked as far as the edge of the trees, where the old road had used to go through the woods. He stopped there, set his hands on her shoulders, looked at her very seriously and said,
'' Your mother did something very terrible once. She didn't mean to. She never intended what happened. And don't let her know I even told you that much: someday you will know, but for now just take my word for it—it was as bad and it went worse and worse before anyone could help her. It's be c au se she's so very strong that she got in trouble. And she loves you very much and she can't explain to you. ’
'' Why can't she explain?'' What her father was saying of fe red for the first time in her whole life to make sense of her mother—but he shook his head and said, maddeningly:
‘ Some mistakes you have to be grown-up to make, or to understand; and you're getting there fast, mouse, but you're not there yet. Just, when you think your mother's holding you or watching you far too closely for your peace of mind, remember that she sees you as so much like her—she was s ixteen when this thing happened, understand? And you're sixt een and your mother's dreadfully scared. ’
It traded mysteries for another mystery. And maybe she sh ould want her father to tell her everything he knew and even m a ke him do it, but it was more than wrong. There were secrets grown-ups kept: that was the rule she had learned, and if a nosy girl got into them she could look to have everyone she loved unhappy with her, maybe forever and ever.
Though some things were awfully hard not to want, when they were almost in her hands.
‘ Are you wishing me? ’ her father asked her.
She shook her head, shook it harder, and tried, in the way her uncle had taught her when she was troubled, to think about running water —
But that made her think about the river; and about Owl.
‘ I'm trying not to, ’ she said, and put her arms about her father's neck and hugged him with all her might. ‘ I love you. ’
Her father hugged her back, and said, ‘ I love you too, mouse. Be good. All right? ’
When her father said that it was easy to be good. For at least as long as she could keep from thinking.
Pyetr's step echoed on the walk-up. A not at all happy Pyetr, Eveshka supposed, and tried to think simply about the herbs she was grinding and how she was going to try a little more rosemary in the stew this evening.
Pyetr opened the door and took his cap off, came over and put his arms around her and kissed her—which she was sure had everything to do with her daughter storming out of the house.
She said, in advance of complaints, ‘ I know Ilyana's upset. I'm upset. We're both upset. ’
‘ Hush, ’ he
Not much more grown than her. That made no sense! ‘ She's a lot older than I am. At least fifteen years!''
‘ Oh, but the difference between where you are and wher e she is grows less and less every year—a lot of differenc e when you were a baby, fifteen years ago. But the years a young child up faster than they grow any of us old, d oes that make sense? It doesn't seem yesterday that your uncl e was your age. And hardly yesterday again since I was fifteen , doing things I assure you nobody's mother would approve! But I, mouse, I was just an ordinary boy, not a wizard who can leave just a little smoking spot where our house was. Your mother can do that, first thunderstorm that comes along. So can you, if you ever wanted to—you could do it without ever realizing you'd done it, so naturally your mother's a little anxious about tantrums. ’
The idea was strange. But her father always made her feel safer and wiser, just by being by her—for one thing because lie never wished at her, would not, could not, it made no difference: the fact was he did not, and all the world else did. Her father always made sense to her, in ways even uncle Sasha did not, and her mother almost never.
‘ I can see that,'' she conceded.
He gave her a hug and a kiss, and they walked as far as the edge of the trees, where the old road had used to go through the woods. He stopped there, set his hands on her shoulders, looked at her very seriously and said,
'' Your mother did something very terrible once. She didn't mean to. She never intended what happened. And don't let her know I even told you that much: someday you will know, but for now just take my word for it—it was as bad and it went worse and worse before anyone could help her. It's be c au se she's so very strong that she got in trouble. And she loves you very much and she can't explain to you. ’
'' Why can't she explain?'' What her father was saying of fe red for the first time in her whole life to make sense of her mother—but he shook his head and said, maddeningly:
‘ Some mistakes you have to be grown-up to make, or to understand; and you're getting there fast, mouse, but you're not there yet. Just, when you think your mother's holding you or watching you far too closely for your peace of mind, remember that she sees you as so much like her—she was s ixteen when this thing happened, understand? And you're sixt een and your mother's dreadfully scared. ’
It traded mysteries for another mystery. And maybe she sh ould want her father to tell her everything he knew and even m a ke him do it, but it was more than wrong. There were secrets grown-ups kept: that was the rule she had learned, and if a nosy girl got into them she could look to have everyone she loved unhappy with her, maybe forever and ever.
Though some things were awfully hard not to want, when they were almost in her hands.
‘ Are you wishing me? ’ her father asked her.
She shook her head, shook it harder, and tried, in the way her uncle had taught her when she was troubled, to think about running water —
But that made her think about the river; and about Owl.
‘ I'm trying not to, ’ she said, and put her arms about her father's neck and hugged him with all her might. ‘ I love you. ’
Her father hugged her back, and said, ‘ I love you too, mouse. Be good. All right? ’
When her father said that it was easy to be good. For at least as long as she could keep from thinking.
Pyetr's step echoed on the walk-up. A not at all happy Pyetr, Eveshka supposed, and tried to think simply about the herbs she was grinding and how she was going to try a little more rosemary in the stew this evening.
Pyetr opened the door and took his cap off, came over and put his arms around her and kissed her—which she was sure had everything to do with her daughter storming out of the house.
She said, in advance of complaints, ‘ I know Ilyana's upset. I'm upset. We're both upset. ’
‘ Hush, ’ he
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