“her father said softly.
They were sitting together in his workroom on a fine spring morning, the third year after the Bull appeared. The windows were thrown open for the warmth, and the breeze stirred the parchments on the table, wobbling the feather of the quill which Mariarta had just laid aside. Her father’s eyesight was not what it had been; she did most of the writing and figuring for him, these days.
She looked up from the papers. “Bab,” she said, “think where the story comes from.”
“Yes, I know Flep’s half mad, these days,” her father said, and reached out to the cup. Mariarta lowered her eyes, thinking, He never used to drink it unwatered, and never so early in the day. “But even a crazy man can see straight sometimes, and when duonna Aia sees it too— We have to do something. If the lower pasture starts to go the way the upper one has—”
“Have you thought of something we haven’t tried already?”
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