Fall of Angels

LXXI

NYLAN SET THE cradle-pale wood glistening in the indirect light that filtered through the single armaglass window of the tower’s top level-where Ryba would see it.

Then he drew into the dimness behind the stones of the chimney and central pedestal and waited, sensing her climbing the steps. In time, the sound of her steps, slower slightly with each passing day and heavy with the weight of the child she carried, announced her arrival.

Nylan watched as she bent down, as her fingers touched the wood, stroked the curved edges of the side panels, as her eyes focused on the single tree rising out of the rocky landscape in the center of the headboard.

“Do you like it?” He stepped out from the corner. While the cradle was no surprise to her, he had tried to keep the details from her as he had finished the carving and smoothing-all the laborious finish work.

Ryba straightened, her face solemn. “Yes. I like it. So will she, when she is older, and so will her children.”

“Another vision?” he asked, trying to keep his voice light.

“You make everything well, Nylan, from towers to cradles.” Ryba sank onto the end of the bed.

“I didn’t do so well with the bathhouse.”

“Even that will be fine. We just didn’t have enough wood this winter to keep it as warm as we needed.”

“The water lines needed to be covered more deeply.” His eyes went to the cradle again.

So did Ryba’s. “It is beautiful. What do you want me to say?”

“I don’t know.” Nylan didn’t know, only that, again, something was missing. “I don’t know.”