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Show Ill "'Tis no virtue to be over honest." from The Memoirs of Dr'Igor Grant-Sheblem It was much later that afternoon. Dr'Anya stood quietly just inside the recovery room door; holding a straight, black walking stick in one hand. It was the work of a moment or twain to adjust her eyes to the darkness inside, then she spied the bed and the draped form lying atop it. Her heart lurched of a sudden against her ribs and she had to take a firm hold on herself before she could cross the thick carpet and bend over the bed. The draped form sighed and rolled her head sideways toward Dr'Anya. "Is't my Lady Mother?" she asked softly. "Aye, Janni." Dr'Anya pulled the bedside chair toward her and sat herself down beside her daughter. She stroked the girl's long dark hair, spread in a tangled fan upon the pillow. "What sayest thou, child? What in Isaac's worlde brought thee such a devilish thing?" she asked. She leaned her stick against the bed. It was not so much needed, the stick, as accepted by her as part of the equipment of a Needlesmith. Her father always used one, beginning with the arrival of his first gray hairs, as did his mother before him and her father before her. They were Needlesmiths, they'd reasoned, were they not? And Needlesmiths, of a surety, all needed help with walking after reaching a certain a g e . . .. 24 |
