Page 77 of The Storm
“It’s sturdy.” He lowered the cradle to the floor and bundled the ropes inside. “We had big babies, Evelina and me.”
“I consider myself warned.”
When Leo had told his grandfather that Kyra was having a baby, the old man hadn’t said much. But he’d nodded and rocked in the old chair by the fire, and Kyra didn’t think she was imagining the emotion in his eyes.
Peaceful. He looked peaceful.
He’d spent the next two days opening cedar trunks with Leo and Max, pulling out old things that had belonged to their family. A set of silver spoons. Blankets knitted by Evelina and her mother. Wooden cups and small toys that had belonged to Lauma and Stasya. Artis had kept it all hidden away.
Renata and Kyra had sorted through the treasures, putting some things back in storage and packing others. The basket cradle, Kyra definitely wanted to take.
“Leo is talking about driving back,” Kyra said. “We can’t take all these things on the plane.”
“You shouldn’t be flying,” Artis said. “A car would be better.”
“It’s three days of driving. Probably four or five.”
“What is a few days?” Artis shrugged. “You have time.”
“I suppose you’re right.” She put a hand on his forearm.
At Renata’s suggestion, she was trying to touch Artis more. Irin scribes and singers needed contact with each other. They were not designed to be a solitary race. It was possible it had been over two hundred years since an Irina had laid hands on either Peter or Artis, which would leave the men so severely out of balance it was detrimental to their health. Just like she needed Leo to ground her energy, Leo needed her to balance and lift him.
“Can you feel what is in the woods?” Artis asked her. “Do you fear it?”
“Fear it?” Kyra shook her head. “If it is Azril, he is familiar to me.”
She hadn’t been surprised to feel Azril’s presence around the house. It had grown stronger every day, but it did not frighten her. The angel of death was neither Fallen nor Forgiven. He played by neither set of rules but lived in a limbic space between the heavenly and earthly realm. And if her father Barak had anything like friends, Azril had been one.
“He is familiar?”
“He often visited my father,” Kyra said. “I do not fear him. He was always gentle with my sisters.”
Artis’s eyes were wide. “I see.”
“Are you afraid?” Kyra laid a hand on her belly. “Or reluctant now? I told Leo I didn’t want to tell you about the baby because I wasn’t sure if you would feel obligated.”
“My great-grandchild will be well protected. Of that I have no doubt. I am ready.” He took a deep breath and slowly released it. “I have been ready for hundreds of years.”
She nodded. “I promise, if you welcome him, he will be kind to you.”
“I will remember that.” He laid a tentative hand on Kyra’s shoulder. “Thank you, daughter.”
“You’re welcome.” She looked at the cradle. “And thank you. I will treasure it.”
* * *
Max and Renatasat in the woods, perched on logs in the middle of a ring of trees where the strange presence felt strongest.
“What are we doing here?” Renata asked. She wasn’t afraid, but she was uncomfortable. Something about waiting for death scraped on her nerves. Death was a thief, stealing her family from her. It had stolen Max’s mother and father, stolen any kind of childhood from him.
“Wait,” he said. “Just wait.”
When her mate had become a Zen master of calm was a mystery to Renata. They had been at the farm for seven days, having one-sided conversations with Artis and Peter, milking cows, and taking care of repairs. Kyra had baked enough bread to feed a small village, and Renata had spent time caring for the animals, which was soothing. Leo sat in the smithy with his silent father, and Max had spent most of the week walking through the woods.
“I can hear you thinking,” Max said. “You need to quiet your mind.”
“I can’t quiet my mind.”
