Private There won't be a third

[Vyn]

The Wagon stood apart. Not far enough to be strange. Just enough to make the Nightline wonder while promising to meet the rest of them halfway. The horses were tethered loosely, content. The bison pair dozed in the dust. The great elk, always had trouble laying down, watched them approach instead. And the blink was not quite trust, not quite fear.

Jem walked with tension. Like he hadn't yet made up his mind. Not really. Like the road might shift underfoot. Felt like it had. More than once. Vyn didn't say anything when he slowed, merely kept pace. Because it was a strange reversal. One that took time to notice. He was usually the one ahead, mind clearer and hands steady. She wondered where that man hid as they approached the farm. His forward step merely a shadow of her own. And it gave her pride to know that, at least once a year, she could offer support – instead of forever needing it. So when he trailed her like he was approaching a debt, she didn't make a moment of it.

Their shoulders brushed as they passed the firepit clearing. The kids were testing a pot and an older woman's patience. She could've lied and said he didn't need to, but didn't have the spine for it. Because she knew he did. Knew this was the stop he feared most. But Jem never wore his heart, much less his fear, on his sleeve.

The wind wanted her coat. Flared it out for a moment. It took but one hand to catch it. Like nothing was off balance. As if she hadn't heard him mutter before dawn, waking from something she hadn't asked about. She gave him space and the silence, but now someone had to guard those.

Jem didn't knock. Just stood near the post and shifted his weight like he might.

„I'll check the tack.“ She murmured, giving her hands something to do. Not because it was a thing that needed doing. But it gave a bit more space. Because his jaw remained stiff. Hands couldn't settle. Like they had somewhere to go. She didn't glance back. Just moved like she belonged. Let the beasts nudge her palms, and the wind take her hair. Let Jem have a moment to gather what he didn't know how to.

Inside, Jhimara might have already been watching. She was always the kind to keep one eye on where the Road bent.

And maybe she already knew they were coming.

 

[Jhimara]

Among the peculiar herd, the elk was most fluent in Vyn's language of open palms and silent courage. The slender muzzle bobbed, inviting scratching fingers into the trailing beard on the underside of its neck. Happily taking up whatever personal space Vyn would let it have.

"She likes you more'n me," Jhimara rumbled.

Unlocked and slightly ajar in the way she always left it, the door yawned open. It exhaled signs of habitation, fragrant with the sours from daylight hours. Sweat. Dander. The browning core of an apple, dregs of wild mint. The wind played with the rest, carried it away and mingled it with another wagon's scent, and another. Road perfume, smudged into the senses.

When there was nothing left for the Wagon to exhaust, she appeared in the dark entrance to block it back up. Crowded it like a boulder rolling into place. She sat heavy on the step, jammed a knee against the door to keep it from swinging the other way. Hair a glossy shadow, wet and uncharacteristically washed. Her gaze lofted anywhere but in the direction of her come-a-callers, and her voice landed on them as though they were omnipresent.

"Thought you'd swing by earlier," She sniffled, mock hurt. "Or maybe once we were farther away."

A line in the far distance marked the edge of a field. Eyes half-hooded ran the length until the dark horizon swallowed it, but Jhima knew that it carried on like food down a throat. It delineated seasonal pastures with stone walls dug out of ridges, or poles if the property crept towards the forest where straight wood was abundant.

At times the line was interrupted, bramble and haw grown over it like a skipped stitch, but the line was never completely broken. She had always made sure of that. The willing could get in, but rarely could they get back out. That was a point of pride, once. Or maybe still was. Keeping things in place. Using what the land provided to create a barrier against it.

Moon shapes played in her gaze as it settled on Jem. Tried summoning his anxious, gnawing thought to the top of the pot. Knew enough that he wouldn't let it bubble over into words. She shook her head like a dog then, felt the cool water freckle her bare arms and feet.

"So," She tested, "Where do y'all wanna go? Do I need to get dressed?"

 

[Vyn]

Happy at the offer, Vyn scratched. Good girl. Yes, she was. Space between them disappeared as she worked her fingers, like wind, through the tangled beard. For all the rubs, Jem's quiet kept her in the moment. He was never much for talking. But it still felt wrong to speak for him.

„Jem?“

Never turned around. Never stopped petting. Just threw his name out like a rope, hoping he wouldn't use it to hang himself.

Looking up at Jhima's wagon, Jem seemed even shorter than usual. Looked at Jhima for a bit, heel turning in the dirt. „Get dressed cousin.“ Voice dry as bark. „We need to go see the others before they get their pitchforks out.“

A familiar tone. The same one he used when pretending he wasn't afraid. Worry knotted in his ribs. But Vyn had learned to walk around it. Pretended not to see. Because it was easier for Jem to be strong when he believed everyone else believed him to be. So they just left the obvious unspoken. One stone did not stop the Road.

He never said where they were going. Didn't say what they'd do when they got there. But Vyn knew. And Jhimara probably did too.

 

[Jhimara]

Jem's dry bark met Jhima's rusty blade, the gritty laugh erupting from her like holding a hacksaw against worrywood.

"HA! Takes 'em long enough to find the damn things," Of pitchforks. Of the family who wielded them.

"I tossed two in the creek 'fore I left. One for me," Eye on her cousin, the rolling stone. The first.

"And one for you, 'course."

Worry switched victims and tried to drink from her too, fangs of it dared her to feel guilty for mirth. As if she could feel such a fuckin' thing. She cut the bloodsucker back. Let more laughter blanket them, balm them. Tongue run the rafters of her mouth while she sucked on upper teeth, eyes turning celestial with sparkle. Her form stirred to function, one hand angled behind her, fingers filing through sideless surcoats, riding breeches, and leather belts the likes of which had never known the insides of an armoire.

She didn't make them wait long. Dressed in the doorway, boots on first always. Stomped them for luck. Lacing the collar of her fresh smock was so much an afterthought that it came undone moments later anyways, dangling loose from fair flesh when she bent and lifted a saddle. But the decision on this was temporary, and the gear hung in her arms halfway back to storage.

She nodded at Vyn, her chin the only vehicle left for gesture while her hands were full.

"You wanna ride or walk?"

 

[Vyn]

A tiniest smile bloomed behind Vyn's eyes. One of those that needed time to work lip and teeth. It climbed down slowly, betrayed by crows feet. Jem was doing his best impression of a rock. But she knew he found it funny. She wasn't sure if it was men who were strange like that...or if it was just Jem.

„Let's walk. I still have saddleass from the other day.“ An observant soul might catch the lie in her too even step. But let them. This would give Jem more time to prepare. And it would do so without him having to ask.

„...Think they're still angry?“ Jem's voice needed a moment to reach an audible volume. He blinked it away like it was a mistake, but kept his hands busy.

„Y'know they told me I was a bad influence last time.“ And maybe he was. It was difficult to measure these things. And this farm had but the one stick. He hoped that thing made its way to a fireplace somewhere.

 

[Jhimara]

Jhimara hummed low, audibly contemplating. Then she carved the tone wetly into the wall of one cheek, blowing a flatulent sound out of her mouth. It was not polite, but it captured the correct emotion. Why be trivial about it with words. Vyn and Jem could be used to her manner by now.

“Bad influence, yeah,” she muttered, rolling her eyes to dismiss any truth in that accusation. She latched the door and tied up the smock for the second time.

“Guess I gotta keep reminding you I was just following their suggestion to leave.”

Still angry? Not at Jem, not entirely. She couldn’t outright deny he had been an influence, never mind good or bad. Had he never joined the wagons, she wouldn’t have needed to call her kin's bluff. And the family held no real grudge against Jhimara for leaving either, despite the argument it caused. But what boiled was now a simmer, stewing into history, while the wagons still came and went. At least twice now, since. Pleasant visits, where it was abundantly clear they didn't hate Jem. They didn't hate her.

Jhima had always done for them what was needed, in some cases what they wanted, and fallen short in few other ways. When it came to leaving, it wasn’t about her tastes. She simply wasn't going to be able to carry on the family name.

But others would. Her siblings. Jem’s siblings. Those who’d stayed to strengthen the bonds with other clans. Children born in haylofts, some almost as unpredictable as she and Jem. Kids who might feel the pull of the road, chafe under the weight of stale soil. Toss pitchforks into creeks. And if the Elum inspired any more of them to wander, the family would be furious.

So if it happened again, they should be, but only at their own brand of agrarian hubris, Jhima bitterly thought.

"A fine night for a walk to the ol' Heehaw," She relented, starting a pace that seemed like she could cross fields with a single stride. It would slow, eventually. Her wagon was nearly swallowed by the murk when the elk bugled softly, begging to be brought along. Jhima ran a hand through her cropped hair, looked sidelong at Vyn.

"Mopey heifer. Come on then, Podgit," she groaned.

The cow elk loped up behind them enthusiastically, a hornless shadow to the three devahni, and perhaps the only eager one among them.

*​

"Heehaw" was a too easy tongue-in-cheek moniker, but it always got a laugh. The High Hawe, as they were properly known, were freeholders of land that had been in the family for generations, its origins manorial, tracing back to a time before the free states were free. Communal yet intimately kin-based, the ranch functioned as part village, part family compound. Gardens overflowing with pale blue chicory and white oxeye fanned against squat dwellings, skirted by paths which led to paddocks, outbuildings, and larger fields rippling with wheat and flax and rapeseed. An old, crooked longhouse, its timbers said to be a gift from the fellpeople, nestled somewhere in the middle of the pastoral labyrinth.

Jhima shrugged away the rustic warmth and charm, repelled it. The wind shifted slightly and the heady smell of livestock and pungent fertilizer was for a moment overwhelming, verging on sickening for the uninitiated. Now it felt familiar, home-like, and she leaned in. The wind veered again and the air was once fresh once more. Fickle on the open plain.

Podgit the elk, or Podgy, short for Porridge, Jhima's least-liked meal, lowed in response to some sleepless cattle penned nearby. Jhima hushed her without shroud. The silence was only otherwise broken by her attempt at chat with Vyn.

"Forgive me if I'm misremembering," she continued from some bit of conversation left off, and not truly apologetic, "but have you met them before? I recall wild gatherings, wagons spiraling around the big house like a serpent, not parked leagues away in quiet oblivion.

"It was a thing they looked forward to. I looked forward to." She chuckled. “But my memory is shit. I was young, shy. I didn’t actually meet anyone at those parties. And Cousin never wanted to braid manes or tails with me.” That mock‑hurt note, her specialty, returning to prick Jem.

 

[Vyn]

It wasn't a Vyn way to do it, but she could appreciate Jhimara's effort. Mouthfart and all. Her levity made Jem's shoulder seem lighter. And that was all she cared about. She'd never asked Jem why he left. Maybe that was her own weakness. Her own fear. Or perhaps there simply wasn't a need to know. He was her family now.

Vyn appreciated the mopey heiffer bit a lot more than the elk did. Still scratched behind the ear. Because an elk beat some people when it came to good company on the Road. Glad for the distraction, she'd fuss around the animal – keeping watch on Jem in a less obvious way. Podgit, huh? That was some name. Jhimara would be a Truenamer yet. Kept to herself hoping Jem would open up. But if it wasn't happening, she wasn't about to make the entire walk there depressing.

„Remember the house.“ Thought interrupted by manure. Vyn'd been around horses all her life. Still wasn't ready for the sheer amount of stink. It was easy to act tough when two shits rubbed together. When there was a mountain of them at your doorstep, it was another matter entirely. „And how we parked the Wagons like ol' Estvan's teeth.“ Remembered how they called it pulling teeth when the wheels finally pulled out. They were still welcome back then. And it wasn't like they were unwelcome today. Still received. Still fed. But the bread was cold.

Felt like Podgit greeting the cows – terribly out of place.

„And the braids.“ She'd liked the idea of those. Got into your eyes less. Also gave you a head tail. Wasn't sure what someone would do with such a thing. But she found the image sweet. „Coulda used your manebraiding cousin then.“ Elbowed Jem hard enough to make him lose step. „But story goes he was too busy teaching goats to juggle.“ Jem huffed at that. Like he remembered how to be fun. How to be anything other than serious and sad all the time. She wondered where that man went.

 

[Jhimara]

Maybe one of the road-aunts had been keeping count, marking time by the spokes of the wheel, able to name which of the Eight was biggest in the sky the night Jhima first joined the Wagons. She didn’t care to ask, or know. There was pleasure in not knowing.

However many seasons had turned, it still fell short of enough. Not enough time to confidently claim she knew all there was to know about her cousin. But she was trying, fortifying a familial bond the only way she knew how: slowly, quietly, leaving room for the occasional dark joke. Her laugh at Vyn’s jab came soft, warm with the fondness of a memory that didn’t kick or bite. She reached out with one arm, playful, displacing the air near Vyn’s head just enough to send her hair fluttering in a lazy woosh.

“An’ I’m sure the goats only dropped the ball half the time.” Her chin tilted upward, carob eyes settling on the big house ahead. Still crooked. Still standing. Still too proud to admit any part of it needed righting.

“Yeah, the braids. You’d’ve hated mine. Too tight. That’s how you know they were good.”

Then, softer. No trace of mocking or hurt or any of her usual raspberry-blowing noises.

“But I woulda done yours nice and loose. Would’ve made you look like one o’ those village witch types.”

Suddenly she brought herself to heel, stilled by movement ahead that wasn't wind or cattle. A shadow unfolded from the dark, growing shoulders and lifting a small curl of flame. The light moved, brushing the corner of a building, tracing along a stone wall, then vanishing into the blue and black like it had never been. A voice came, sounding close. Old. Twangy.

"Evenin' folks. Seems to me like yer trespassin'."

 

[Vyn]

Would've been a warm moment – braid in memory and offer both. But the new voice took away those feelings. Didn't know how to feel anymore. Jem, on the other hand, seemed certain. Moved in front of her before she even clocked it. He always moved a bit too quietly for someone whose only business was... wasn't actually sure what Jem officially did. Only that he and Gordar talked, a lot. Still seemed an overreaction. Like they were in danger. She understood he was on edge, but it was all a bit much.

They called him Bob Fiveguys, son of Devon, whose father was Abel. Story went that he'd knocked five men out cold, all at once, couple dozen years back. Perhaps Jhima still remembered the stories. Jem never argued, but didn't laugh either. Just endured it with a quiet of someone who'd been there. Someone who knew how to count. And it wasn't five. Was three – drunk as floorboards – and two knocked themselves out. Still, the name stuck – and who was he to get in the way of a good story.

Problem was, big story gave Bob a big head.

„Tresspassing, is it?“ Vyn had never heard it before, but was that Jem getting angry? „Born here, Bob. Same as you.“
„Like fuck you are... wait, lil' Jem?“ They looked to be the same age. Bob did have a near foot on Jem, though.
„Careful there, Three... no, wait – Fiveguys.“
„Pfft. Still mouthy.“ Vyn couldn't understand family talking to each other like this. „Why are you here, childstealer?“
„Jhima and I have come to see the folks.“
„Right, on you go then.“ Jem nodded to the other two. „Oh and... make sure you keep your hands to yourselves. Else it might not be the bread that's cold next time around.“
Wasn't sure who they were her to see, but Vyn hoped it was worth all this.

 

[Jhimara]

Like Vyn, Jhima didn’t need to know the details of whatever kept Jem busy. It was enough to see he had become the sort who wouldn’t take guff from busted old Bobby. Pride swelled up in her chest, pulling a grin she didn't hide, teeth catching Bob’s lantern light. Sure, it wasn’t much to boast about, standing up to a bully who couldn’t even count, but she and Vyn could find a way to spin it around the fire later. The tale of how cousin showed Fiveguys a fistful of five fingers for calling them child-stealers.

Nice to imagine. Reality was duller, with no violence to pay the remark back. Wagonfolk knew how to push without swinging, or so Jhima had learned. Had she really?

"Oh and... make sure you keep your hands to yourselves. Else it might not be the bread that's cold next time around."

Jem might have had the sternness to let that pass, but Jhima couldn’t stomach it. It hit her all at once, at odds with her usual humour and stoicism -- maybe something she’d been holding back for a long time. Heat climbed her neck, nostrils flaring like steam might pour out. She hated being told to watch herself in a place that she once called her home. A place where she’d paid her dues. She’d earned warm bread and open palms here, always.

Stormed right up to Bob with a bull's temper, chin to chin, nearly knocked the light out of the old coot's hand.

"How ’bout you go on then, Barndick Bob?" she spat. "What’re you even doing out here, huh? Estelle kick you out again for drinking so much you mistook her mama’s urn for a latrine?"

She shoved him hard in the chest. The man stumbled but stayed upright, lantern held out like it might ward her off. Jhima lunged again, but he sidestepped and cussed.

"You rotten fence-cutter," Bob coughed. "Creepin’ in here at night? That’s low, even for you. I’ll raise the alarm, call it cattle thieves, if you don’t turn tail and go back to your damn wheelbarrows!"

"Fence-cutter?" Jhima’s voice cracked into a yell. She knew she was escalating beyond reason; couldn’t help it, something buried had broken loose. She stalked closer and threw the first punch, catching Bob high on his round, hairy ear. He yelped and smashed the lantern into her shoulder. The flame flared and died, the crunch of glass on dirt drowned out by the thuds and shouts of an old-fashioned country brawl.

 

[Vyn]

Vyn looked at Jem surprised. Was he really going to take that? She would've kneed Bob in the nuts herself – but, you know – you don't do that to Jem's family. So her face spread in mad glee when Jhima had no such reservations. Served him right! Had Jem still been his fun self, she may have proposed a bet – but those days seemed to be long gone.

The short man simply rubbed at his temples. If he had something to say, he kept it to himself. Vyn should've probably been the responsible one and broken up the fight, but Bob had it coming. And if he ever did get the upper hand...well, there were three of them. Two more likely. Jem never looked to be the fighting sort. Wondered why he never fought with others – what was that about?

But some gold was happening right there – Fencecutter? Barndick? Childstealer? – she noted them all down. Might try to throw 'em at a chicken as soon as tomorrow. Such opportunities were not to be wasted.

But noise had a habit of attracting attention. And whether it was by punch, kick, slap, or yell – they'd gathered an audience. First one was a small boy right out the stables, sleep still in his eyes. Jem waved, but the boy didn't. Next came three people from one of the houses and Jem winced.

„Jhima, sweetie, are you fighting again?“

„Told ya these childstealers were up to no good.“ What Bob hid in malice, he couldn't hide in breath. A mixture of rye, mean, and unclean washed over the air as he spoke.

In the distance, more people were pouring in. These had tools in their hands.

Vyn'd heard of hoedowns and hoped the name wasn't literal. Taking a hoe to the dome wasn't a good way to go. Especially not when Heehaw went full yeehaw – things were only getting fun.

 

[Jhimara]

Jhima was still playing at her vengeful game, driven by the sense that Bobby would bolt like a foal to its mother the moment his crabby old wife called him off. And as long as Estelle wasn’t among the sleepy-eyed spectators who’d gathered, Jhima meant to leave him with a few more lumps to nurse by dawn. She cut across his path when he slipped her grapple, goading him with a wagging finger. Her face was swollen from lip to jaw with some manner of split wound -- maybe from the glass, maybe from Bob’s belt buckle. It stained her teeth red when she bared them and dragged bloody spit down her chin like a drooling dog.

She briefly considered tagging Jem in, tag-team match style, like she remembered the older cousins did. Backed up and opened the space a little, just in case he wanted to land a kick or two between Bobby’s bitchass ribs. But one glance at the fingers pinching her cousin’s temple told her this was her own fight. She looked to Vyn instead. Wasn’t quite sure what she expected to find there -- maybe a mirror of Jem’s disappointment. But the deva’s darting eyes, full of smug satisfaction, only lit her spark again. Not to impress. Just to prove she could finish what she started.

She rolled her shoulders back, chest heaving, and cranked her knee into Bobby’s fat gut.

“Jhima, sweetie, are you fighting again?”

“Fuck,” Cowpoke spat a mouthful of blood. She spun around, eyes wild but brows level, and let Bob crawl and mutter his way through the pile of shit he’d landed in.

“Hi, Nana,” she said softer, tamed by the sight of the old woman in her nightgown and wide-mouth welly boots.

With a deflated wave, Jhima gestured toward the figures in the dark. Podgy-elk was still out there somewhere, too. “Jem’s here. And that’s Vyn.” She spoke around her tongue, working it through sore gums to check if any teeth had shaken loose. “Sorry to wake you. Only meant to stop in for a quick visit.”

Then she saw what Vyn had already noticed, farmers and family spilling out of doorways, silhouettes of sickle and scythe outlined in shroudlantern light.

She rolled her eyes. “Guess it’ll be quicker now.”

“Nonsense,” Nana huffed, arms akimbo, silver hair haloed under her wooly cowl. She turned, cupped her hands to her mouth, and hollered across the yard, “Bob tipped his arse into the ditch again!”

A groan rose from the dirt.

“Go back to bed, you nosy nellies, or you’ll be sleepin’ in past the crack of dawn, and don’t think I won’t make note of it!”

Nana turned back to the wagonfolk. She seemed kind, if not a little displeased.

“Well, come on then. Into the house. If you’ve got time to kick a drunk’s ass, you’ve got time for a cup of tea.”

 

[Vyn]

Guess it was the same everywhere. An elder told you what needed to happen, and people set themselves to purpose. This was a familiar rhythm – one Vyn could appreciate. People cleared out before further ruckus could happen. Some straight to bed, another needed to tend the unshitening first.

Vyn smiled at the old woman, but Jem didn't. Always wondered about his uptight self. These people were his family – like Vyn had been. If he'd had half as much of this stick up his ass when he talked to her... well, she'd be upset.

No further argument was made by either, following in the wake of the old Wagon. Vyn kept wondering if Jem and Jhima ever fought. It was hard to imagine Jem fighting, but that was true for most other things. He'd been him for so long that she often forgot that he too had a history. And that, maybe, a long time ago Jem wasn't Jem. Maybe he was a Jhima. Or gods forbid, a Bob.

Would've shuddered the thought, but they were moving inside. Jem scraped the mud from his boots on something wooden and hung his coat in the narrow passage. Vyn followed suit. Wondered if that was why he always did it before he entered her Wagon. The corridor opened to the mouth of a dimly lit room, more candles being encouraged into burning past decent hours.

Nana, or whatever her name was, tapped the low wooden table. Moved towards the smell Vyn recognized as the kitchen without a word. Even at this late an hour, the air still remembered food, and a more recent memory of smoke. Couldn't place the wood, but the knock was solid – would've made good Wagonwood. The many chairs circling the table didn't match – some old and stained, some freshly made and yet to be lacquered. Even the type of wood used seemed to vary. Whoever made all these had clearly done it awhile and with whatever was on hand. Vyn took a dark, older thing. New was nice and all, but when it came to settling your ass onto something – it was better to go with tried and true. Jem didn't seem to be paying much attention and simply plopped down next to her.

„What the fuck...“
„No cursing in my house, Jem'el!“ Vyn may have had something to say, but no longer. Not with the old bad hearing through the walls.
„Sorry, Nana.“ Then quieter. „What are we doing here, Jhima?“

 

[Jhimara]

Jhima also chose something old for herself, straight-backed, solid, and gaily painted in faded hues. She felt she needed a chair she could lean back on with her full weight after her scrap. It was a seat at the table she vaguely remembered belonging to an aunt she didn’t know well enough to ask about. Nana would have likely shot her down for asking anyways, something she did swiftly enough with Jem'el for cussin'.

She waggled her brows at him for getting scolded. The fighting bull’s blood in her had drained out through the cut lip, replaced by the placid but pecking nature of a hungry hen -- not antagonistic, just the kind of attitude that came naturally when sitting at the family round table.

"What are we doing here, Jhima?"

She brushed the last streak of blood away with the back of her hand. The cut and swelling weren’t as bad as they had first appeared.

“Gods, I don’t know anymore. Visitin'. Seeing the state of things, and who still wants to see us. As I suppose Childstealers do, Jem." She waved her hand in the air, circular-like, thick with sarcasm. "Bob called me a fence-cutter! I built those fuckin’ fences!” Shit.

Her hand was snatched out of the air by the wrist. Nana’s grip was firm, fingers like old rope, noose cinched tight.

“I said NO cursing!”

The old woman threw down a platter of spongy yellow cakebread on the table. It smelled like fresh summer corn, spiced honey, and twice-churned butter. She followed it with a tray of earthenware cups and a matching pitcher. Jhima quickly said her apologies and rubbed the sting from her wrist while Nana poured cold, dark sweet tea. She set a cup down in front of Vyn, indicating that she should get first choice of cornbread before the unruly cousins did, and pointed out an appetizing-looking corner piece.

“How on Garton's grave can you Elum tolerate the mouths on these two? You must be here to return them.” She dropped down into her own chair -- a proper matriarch’s throne, with cushion-covered arms and legs that rocked. “You should know we don’t do refunds around here.” She chuckled, exasperated.

 

[Vyn]

Joke or no, you didn't talk about Jem like that.

But she couldn't well tell Nana to go fuck herself in her own house – didn't seem proper to disrespect the local Elder like that. So she helped herself to the bread. A full mouth was far less likely to respond uninvited. Problem being – the old woman was still focused on her. So she simply added to the already uncomfortable scene.

„I quite like their mouths.“ She was careful to swallow, cheek stuffed to the side between words. „Jem actually taught me to swear when I was little.“ A point of pride. Just like being Gordar-named. Jem didn't curse often, but it was always a special kind of spice.

He winced like it wasn't praise – but granny needed to be clear – the Elum liked Jem. Those Bobminded could go fuck themselves.

„Always wondered where Jem grew up.“ Wanted to say she wondered about his family too – but she was his family, and there was no place for question there.

And while the tone might've been all honey and spice, Jem still gently kicked her under the table to be nice.

„Jhima and I came to see you, Nana. Maybe some of the others. Didn't want Bob, didn't need Bob.“ Reached for the cakething. Stopped mid motion. Wasn't like him to hesitate.

„Do they all... do you think of us like that?“