A bell rang in the front of the house then, followed by a clatter of limbs hitting wooden floors as two more sisters struggled past one another.
***
"Let me take care of them." Magda sighed, but she was smiling. Alina listened to the girls' first reactions to Magda's dress from the back room. She did truly look lovely; Alina hoped that she would enjoy the celebration. She expected to get some pleasure out of it herself, though the prospect was not without anxiety.
She turned toward the now-cold fireplace, and walked beyond it to the shallow cabinet where she kept needles, scissors, and other supplies. She drew out a luscious green cloak and brought it over to the stone work-table. It was made of wool--a rare commodity, since they had no sheep. A shepherd who lived, with his family, several days' journey to the north was the only source. They were nomads, so if wool was wanted, there was no choice but to wait. The shepherd had sent two sons and a daughter, all of whom he hoped eventually to marry into the village, to trade the wool for whatever goods the family needed. The sons could freely set the terms; those who did not need wool would still trade for it, knowing that there would be many others who would be willing to purchase the wool. Alina supposed that the wool to weave the cloak had cost her two weeks of sewing and another three of weaving and dying, which did not include the gathering of supplies for her dyes. Though the gathering was not her favorite task (perhaps Magda would like to take it over if, like Alina thought, Magda was relegated to the clothier's), these were the days on which she met Bren for the mid-day meal. Their last meeting was unusual for not being on a gathering day.
The cloak had been costly, but Bren would need a traveling cloak. Though she still hoped that Bren would stay--and meant to do everything in her power to persuade him, she had died the wool a deep green. Green and brown were the colors fo travelers, and Bren's eyes, too, were green. She had saved for this gift initially in the hope that they would be wed; a red cloak would have been the traditional choice for his marriage gift.
It was not often, after all, that their young men went away. Every person was needed, and there was a place for all in the village. The storytellers were not kind to those who left--or perhaps it was true that travel always ended badly. But some said that the shepherd had once been a villager. To be expelled and forced to wander--that was a painful punishment.
Alina became aware of her surroundings when a shadow fell on the wall in front of her. To all appearances, she had been meditating on the cloak, its shoulders held loosely in her two hands.
"Will he be going, then?"
"Mother." Alina looked up and smiled. "I don't know. He might." Alina shrugged one shoulder. "Are you and the twins getting ready for the Gathering, then?"
Her mother looked reproachfully and crossed the room, brushing a strand of loose hair away. Her hair was the same color as her older daughters--or had been--but peppered with grey and white. "Alina... If he goes away, you should choose another."
"Perhaps he will stay." Her voice held a hint of pleading, however, and she wrung her hands. "Can you hand me the brown paper?"
Her mother slid a length of wrinkled brown paper to Alina, who wrapped the cloak and tied it with a piece of twine.
"Anyway, I haven't spoken yet. Perhaps his mind is not made up."
Her mother smiled knowingly. "If his mind is not yet made up, it is not in reference to you that we are speaking." Alina's cheeks turned a deep pink. "Perhaps you are right. Perhaps he will stay for you." She stroked her daughter's hair. "Would you like me to do it for you? The bridal style?"
Alina's eyes shone as she looked up. "Please--if you would." Her voice was thick, and concern flickered across her mother's face, so similar to Alina's own with large, dark eyes and still-blooming lips.
"Shall we go up and dress, then?" She took her daughter's arm through her own, and they walked out of the workroom and up the stairs to their dwelling rooms.
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