“This is *not* the centre of Rosehaven, dear sister.”
“Sshhh,” she implored in a lower tone. “Keep it down. They could be out there… watching.”
“They *who*?”
“Father’s people. Maybe even mother’s.” But she said these almost as questions.
“Both are dead. Both are gone. We must move on. Mother only lived on through the father. We must be in the now and present. Meditate with me, sister. Learn my wise ways. You won’t be so anxious.” His voice was slightly muffled and watery; hers clear and metallic.
“You shouldn’t be so talkative if you’re so relaxed,” she shoots back, then peers through the window again.
“The cave should have been the meeting point. I told you to meet me at the cave. You’d feel safer there. But no, it had to be the peasant’s village. Father’s old hideaway where he went to woo his wenches. Maybe that’s why we’re so different. Two different mothers. Maybe even two different fathers.”
“You *know* why we’re different.” She didn’t have to finish the rest. Both knew that Merry Gouldbusk physically took after the father and he after the mother. But inside, roles were reversed. For the boy (Ingo) was in danger of becoming as cold as the father given time. For the girl: only melancholy futures.
Merry Gouldbusk stared at the sphere encapsulated face of her brother. “Do you ever remove that thing?”
“Not even to eat,” he replied quickly. “I… get insights. I want to share some of them with you. About the dividing.”
“All ears,” she said, folding her ears toward him with her golden fingers. It was an old game they played. Ingo still smiled at this, which was comforting.
Sunklands 