The Grey Tower

I've heard it said,
That people come into our lives
For a reason
Bringing something we must learn.
And we are led to those
Who help us most to grow
If we let them
And we help them in return. It was a simple room that would not have felt out of place in a humble farmhouse. Opposite one another, two straw mattresses neatly made with white linen sheets and wool blankets sat on plain wood frames against either stone wall. At the foot of each lay a large trunk while in the corners rested twin, spartan bookcases. A brick hearth and small window shared the exterior wall while a modest woven rug dominated what little floor space remained. The spring evening was cool but not unpleasantly so and the light draught blowing through seemed almost friendly; it would be distinctly less agreeable come winter when the winds began whipping down from the surrounding mountains’ icy peaks.

One half of the chamber was obviously inhabited. The bed was pristinely laid; however, there were clothes carefully folded in the open trunk and books precisely stacked on its neighbouring shelf. There was nothing that could provide any clue as to the occupant beyond her being a Novice. Then again, Flora was sure her half of their tiny abode would shortly be identical. As instructed, the singer set a pile of folded snowy dresses in her own trunk on the left side of what was apparently her room. No doubt once she started classes, she too would meticulously line the shelves with her study materials. As was explained by a curt Accepted, tidiness and obedience were to be her gods while she was in white.

Flora fell heavily onto the bed on her side of the apartment, wincing in discomfort – the ground was better suited to sleeping than this lump-filled bag of straw. However, having spent a week confined to bed-rest, her limbs had found the short walk today from the infirmary to Illyria Sedai’s office and now her own quarters taxing. So, nestling in to the mattress, the singer made do. She leaned back against the cool stone, letting exhaustion leech from her listless limbs. Unencumbered by fatigue that weighed down the rest of her body, green eyes passed again over the room: her new home.

Home was a concept foreign to the Cecil family. Unless one considered the wagon under which she had slept most nights a “home”, Flora had never known anything by that term; her family never spent longer than a month in one town and rarely more than a week at the same inn. Those things that gave the singer a semblance of comfort or sanctuary were now gone: her family, the people from whom she had not been parted for more than a handful of hours at a time, could be anywhere from the Spine of the World to the Mountains of Mist, while her music… How did one describe the sense of loss for a future that had been so optimistically anticipated?

The week Flora had lain unconscious was the lengthiest period of time she had ever gone without playing her harp or at least singing something - anything. Every time she gave voice to writhing agitation, the singer received blithe reassurance: there would be some time for her music, to sing and to play the harp again. Some time… The idea brought tears to her eyes, born of sorrow and bitter mirth. Some time was a bare step above no time – she had lived, breathed, been music. A song had been the first thought in her mind when she woke and the lullaby that soothed her off to sleep. The singer: it had been the only label that mattered. Did these people who passed off her grief as trivial not understand being blissfully lost in obsession or the luxury of confidence in one’s purpose?

She squeezed moist eyes, blinking away the trails of thought she had followed so often since Caemlyn, her mind had beaten the paths bare. The singer knew every argument, reaction, and tangential thought; she had chased them all in circles for weeks. Her feelings on the matter were of no consequence moving forward, Flora Cecil was now bound to the Grey Tower and destined for a shawl. If only pushing ahead was easy as burying her past below six feet of earth, she might feel more excitement toward starting life in Novice White.

Just then, the door handle rattled, snapping her head towards its sound. Someone stood in the entryway and while red light from flickering torches illuminated a blanched dress, shadows from the unlit room obscured her sharp features – Flora had not realized the darkness in which she brooded. How long had she been sitting there? The singer sat up on her bed to make introductions but the sound alerted this new Novice to her roommate’s presence. What little the Andoran could discern of this shadowy figure’s face shot over to where Flora sat in crepuscule. These two girls regarded each other in obscurity for long moments before the stranger dared punctuate their appraising silence with a snort.

“Well, this is ridiculous. Is there any particular reason you are sitting alone in the dark or may I a light a candle so we can properly see one another?”

Before she had even consented, “Of course”, the girl was fumbling at her bookcase. Moments later she left and returned with a glowing candle whose flame played lambently over her features. In the wavering light, Flora could finally gauge her roommate. Tan colouring and high cheekbones rendered her exotic; medium skin tone marked her either Domani or Altaran. A hooked nose dominated her face but did not render the young woman unattractive, though she was closer to striking than beautiful. Far as the singer could tell, they were nearly the same height and age.

“My name is Maria Cavardossa.” the other girl stated bluntly, assessing her new cohabitant as intently as she was assessed in turn.

“I am Flora Cecil.” The young woman stood from her bed, uneasy being stared down at.

“So you are the silly strong Novice that everyone has been going on about.”

This had been a bright spot upon her arrival at the Grey Tower. While lying in the infirmary, with very little to do, Flora began eavesdropping on conversations. The Aes Sedai and Asha’man were never so careless as to speak freely within her earshot; however, the Tower’s initiates were less cautious. Her anxiety over being simply mediocre as a channeller had been happily unfounded: she was one of the strongest Novices seen in years. Somehow, tales of her misadventure outside Whitebridge had reached the institution’s conspicuous grapevine. While the Sisters and Brothers treated her no differently, she noticed a change in attitude from those in white, from those who suddenly spoke with her at length to those who would go so far as to label her within hearing a “dirty wilder”.

Their spite did not cause the Andoran great stress. Far as she was concerned, distinction was greater than being well liked. So long as no one dared name Flora Cecil weak or tone deaf, people were welcome to call her whatever they liked and she was not about to shrink herself for their benefit. Thus, she stared defiantly at Maria and shrugged with seeming nonchalance, daring the other woman to base a judgement on rumour or strength alone. “Apparently.”

Maria snorted noncommittally in response. The singer searched swarthy features for a reaction to her cantankerous reply but could read only unconcern. Yawning somewhat affectedly, the other girl collapsed onto her own mattress. “Light burn me, I am exhausted.”

It was Flora’s turn to grunt ambiguously. Imitating the other woman, she too sat back on her bed. With that, heavy silence settled uncomfortably between them; each obvious as she tried desperately in paying no attention to the other across their tiny room – and, at least for the Andoran’s part, she was unable to focus on anything else. Flora hazarded another attempt at conversation, retracting the bristles with which she had prickled defensively when Maria had entered. “Long day?”

“Brutal.” The woman sighed. “Though that is the standard fare for a Novice. It keeps us out of trouble – supposedly.” Hazel eyes twinkled as they found jade in the dim light; Flora gave a weak chuckle.

The tension broken, Maria abruptly stood and spun about. Feet from Flora, she twisted her arms behind dark curls and began grappling with the buttons of her dress. The singer’s eyes darted away hastily and heat rose to her cheeks. This involuntary response puzzled her; Maria still wore a shift, albeit a thin one, and it was not as if Flora had never been required to change in front of other women. Was it her proximity? The fact they were still strangers? That this girl seemed to have no shame in her own body?

Flora pushed these thoughts away and as her roommate folded the worn dress neatly onto its pile in the trunk, the Andoran mumbled vaguely about extinguishing their light. She received wordless acquiescence. Having blown out the candle, Flora quietly stepped out of her own dress; she remained hyper-vigilant, conscious that Maria had already lain down, eyelids dragged down by the day’s labour. As for the Andoran, nervous energy spun her mind in circles as she nestled into the straw mattress – sleep would be a long ways off.

“So, I hear you are a singer too.” The voice, husky with exhaustion, seemed almost disembodied now that darkness again engulfed their room.

“Mmhmm.” Flora did not feel the need to expand on her answer – not now, at least, while her new friend was half asleep.

“Any good?”

Though Maria could not see it, the Andoran grinned. “The best.”

“Nice to see you are a humble creature.”

“The humblest.”

That earned her an audible chuckle. Flora heard the other woman shift on her bed, no doubt finding it as impossible as she to find a comfortable nest in the lumps of straw. “Sing me a lullaby then, oh great minstrel.”

Always, when people had learned she was a singer, they would ask that question: sing me something. These strangers would then expect her to react with shyness or modesty and defer to a more appropriate setting. The Andoran never would though – she rarely needed a second invitation to sing. No matter the backdrop, or how public, Flora would happily burst into song. Was she making a spectacle of herself? Perhaps. However, the sensation of performing, that had been what she lived for.

Now, though Flora Cecil hesitated. It was only a moment but for the first time, the words “maybe another time” had risen to her tongue independent of the embarrassment she had sometimes caused her parents. One more step away from her past life and down the path towards being Aes Sedai. Not wanting to examine her feelings for the moment, the singer breathed deep.

“Shadows fall on a mirrored lake
The stars come out in the blue
And you my dear your slumber take
‘Til birds and bees and flowers awake
To drink the morning dew
Then the lark will waken you.”

Light, it had been too long since she had last sung properly. As she reached for the octave in lines two and five, they felt forced and shrill. Her voice warbled, lacking proper breath support. Flora sat up straighter, peeling her back from the wall. She stared out the window at the shrouded half moon, speaking to it. The singer breathed deeper, the muscles of her stomach constricting – up and in an inch, just as Jon Cecil had taught.

“The blue of the night is in your eyes
The gold of dawn in your hair
Your voice is soft as the breeze which sighs
The smile that comes with glad surprise
And lights your face so fair
Spreads sunshine everywhere.

Seagulls fly toward the darkening west
The moon hangs low in the sky
And you my dear must go to rest
So safe and warm in your little nest
While mother watches nigh
And she sings you a lullaby.”

Her last note faded to stillness. Flora sank back into the wall behind her, listening to Maria’s breathing – the only sound that remained. By the depth and length of her respiration, the singer assumed she had actually sung the woman to sleep. With the absence of distraction, her mind again swirled through uncertain possibilities of a future here in the Tower. If she was apparently so strong in the One Power, did that mean learning to channel would be easy? From what little information the Andoran had gleaned, the fact that she was a “wilder” meant the process might be more difficult – what exactly was a “block”?

“Good night, my little siren.” Breathy with sleep, the voice appeared from nowhere in the silence and startled Flora.

“What?” The singer was unfamiliar with the endearment.

Maria inhaled deeply and rolled over. “Tomorrow, I’m too tired to explain tonight.”

Disappointment; Flora would have happily continued their conversation to keep her anxiety at bay. “Alright.”

Again, quietus overcame her roommate, abandoning the red-haired woman to an uneasy reverie. Happily, at least one bright point had presented itself: Flora found she rather liked the waggish woman sleeping across from her. The singer pulled soft linen over herself, burrowing in the mattress for relative comfort. Amidst the chaos of her thoughts, at last a small glimmer of anticipation shone. With some margin of confidence, she delicately placed another foot towards her new fate.


“To a Little Child”, Clara Edwards.

Flora wasn’t sure what she had thought her first day as a Novice would be like – but it wasn’t this. Entering her room, she slammed the door and sank back against it screwing her face in a vain attempt to fight back sobs. Waves of emotion crashed over her, buckling trembling knees: disappointment, anger, frustration, self-loathing, hatred, and jealousy. Turning her forehead against rough wood, she slammed a clenched fist against the door’s unyielding strength, thankful for the pain that pushed back uncontrolled feeling. Flora’s left hand ran its fingers over the knuckles of her throbbing right as hysteria slowly ebbed.

Furiously, the singer rubbed moisture from her cheeks. She should be stronger than this – better than this weak resentment. The Accepted Lirieven had told her it was not uncommon for girls who had begun channelling before arriving at the Great Tower to find touching saidar difficult their first attempt. They had spent hours with their eyes closed while the older woman recited meditation and metaphor all to no avail; not once did Flora experience more than a growing sense of failure. Light, what was all the strength in the world worth if she could not perform the most basic of tasks?

Thinking she had her composure in check, Flora collapsed on the less-than-cozy bed. Moments later, she buried her face in the feather pillow and sobbed against it. What in the bloody Pit of Doom was wrong with her? The red-haired woman bit down on soft fabric, stifling a lachrymal howl. Every muscle strained, rigid against the pressure of her misery. Long minutes stretched on in pathetic blubbering as grief was slowly replaced by exhaustion.

Red light from the setting sun filled the room through its small window but Flora shut out the sky’s warm oranges, yellows, and reds, letting burning tears dry on white linen. She turned over, drained, and wished for sleep to take her quickly.

The door rattled.

Maria burst into the room and flopped onto her own bed without glancing over. “How was your day?”

When Flora did not answer, the other woman finally looked over. She quickly took in the Andoran’s appearance. Bright green eyes now dim and red-rimmed as they stared off blankly, despair etched in the listless lie of her body, sorrow all-too-obvious in the faint tremble of a lip – at least this was how the young woman envisioned her pitiful state. Flora could not bear the sight of contempt or sympathy from swarthy features and turned her gaze to the wall.

“That bad?”

The singer sniffed. “Yeah.”

Flora heard her roommate moving about the room, shifting books on their shelf; she chanced a peek over her shoulder. From behind meticulously straightened covers, Maria pulled a half-empty bottle of brown liquid. Pulling out the cork with a loud popping noise, she proffered it to the singer.

“Oosquai.” Maria said grinning, apparently quite pleased with herself. “I snatched it from the kitchen when I was scrubbing pots – payment for my labour. Somewhere in the Tower, there is a Green missing their nightcap.”

Sitting up, Flora took the bottle with a weak smile. The Andoran brought it to her lips and swallowed a mouthful that she immediately regretted. Blood and ashes, the stuff burned! It was all she could do to keep the vile liquid down. The face she pulled earned a good laugh from her cohabitant.

“Not used to strong liquor?”

Coughing, the red-haired woman finally managed to reply. “That is not liquor, that is bull urine aged thirty years in a latrine!”

Maria snorted. “That is actually a fairly accurate description. The Aiel swear by it though and nothing helps you forget a long day faster.”

“True enough.” Flora risked another sip, grimacing. She passed the bottle back, returning to their conversation from the night before. “So, what is a siren?”

The other woman took a draught and nearly choked. “Light, I think my throat just disintegrated.” She wiped the back of a hand across her mouth and plopped down beside Flora on the bed. “Sirens are an old Sea Folk myth: beautiful women that would lure ships onto the rocks with their enchanted melodies. An old Atha’an Miere bloke swears he saw one near Windbiter’s Finger – but he was drunk as a Tinker on Bel Tine at the time.” Flora smiled, appreciating the comparison.

“Actually…” Maria popped up suddenly, practically hitting the red-haired woman with her bottle as she shoved it at Flora. The singer eyed her friend quizzically as she absent-mindedly gulped another mouthful of the Aiel drink, paying dearly for her inattention. However despite its horrid taste, events of the day, while not forgotten, no longer dominated the forefront of her brain.

Rustling carefully through her trunk, Maria searched fervently for something buried beneath white shifts and dresses. Eventually, she carefully extricated a large leather folder, porting it lovingly back to her seat. With gentle care, she leafed through the papers it contained before painstakingly removing one, roughly two hands by three. “This is my music.” With a pleased grin, she laid the sheet out on her lap for Flora to see.

It was a watercolour painting of an old man with dark skin; faded tattoos covered his arms and shirtless, sunken chest. His legs, covered by bright green breeches, dangled over the side of a pier as he held tight to a bottle of clear liquid. Laughing, he bared the few teeth that remained in his mouth while bright brown eyes twinkled even on paper. Flora was astonished how the painting captured his every wrinkle, every detail of each tattoo, every seeming facet of his being all in washed out blacks, brown, and blues.

“Light!” The Andoran found herself short of breath. “Did you paint this? This is… incredible!”

Maria beamed. “Yeah. This is the man who told me about the sirens. If you look closely,” the darker woman leaned close and traced one of the man’s many decorations – Flora felt her cheeks warm with the woman’s proximity but was too intent on the painting to consider her reaction – “you can actually see a siren there on his right arm. The face is not as proportional as I would like…”

“The painting is beautiful.” Flora cut off the other woman before she could nitpick her work – an inclination the singer understood all too well as a tactic to lower one’s expectations of others’ praise or else demonstrate modesty. Automatically, the red-haired woman laid a familiar hand on her friend’s arm, blushing after realizing she had done so. Flora took a hasty sip of oosquai and offered the bottle back to her companion. Their eyes locked a moment and the Andoran thought she noted a hint of rouge in the other woman’s face; Maria quickly dropped the gaze and busied herself delicately sliding her artwork back into its portfolio.

The singer imperceptibly shook her head – blood and ashes, this foul stuff was strong. Was the swarthy woman avoiding eye contact as she busied herself with fastidiously rearranging her trunk? Or was Flora’s drunken mind confusing her perception?

She could not stand the awkward silence. “Are you… Or were… Were one of your parents Sea Folk, then?” she asked hesitantly, not wishing to offend yet interested in her roommate’s colouring.

“Light, no.” Maria laughed, easing the Andoran’s concern that she had upset her and dissipating the mist – which Flora was surer now that she had invented. “I wish. No, I came here from Ebou Dar.”

Taking the bottle and another sip, Maria dropped onto her own bed opposite. She pushed dark curls to the side, tracing a finger along her neck and highlighting a faint scar. “About a year ago, my parents shipped me off to the Grey Tower after I got in one too many duels and nearly left all my blood on the streets of the Rahad. The Wise Woman couldn’t heal me completely since I had bled so much. She left me with this, hoping it would serve as a warning against future foolishness.” The woman chuckled, seemingly unconcerned by her brush with death. “Not particularly effective. It is the Dark One’s own luck that I still breathe.”

She braved another arduous swig and passed over the alcohol. “I was the youngest five children and by the time I was born, the rest of the family was so busy with their own lives they hardly took notice of me. So, I ran off to the Rahad or docks every chance I had – the only time mum and da paid me any attention was when they were dragging their sloshed merchant-spawn back across the river by her ears. I swear they’re only half-attached to my head anymore.” The Altaran rubbed at them for effect, sharing a twin smirk with Flora. “And now here I am, trying desperately to cause as much trouble in Novice White.”

“What about you, my little siren; was yours the perfect little family portrait?”

Flora’s grin faded to a sad smile. “It was actually.” The singer forced back another swig. The weight of her anxieties had lifted, leaving her free to worry only about the moment at hand – not trapped in her past nor frozen by the prospect of a hazy future. The drink did not alleviate, though, the ache she felt speaking of her family, if anything the liquor made that pain more real. “It was just my brother, my parents, and I. We would travel from place to place, singing and telling stories. My father adored me and even though my brother was something of a scoundrel, he was the only person I could really call a friend. Honestly, it was perfect – or at least the only life I ever knew. I was happy, at least.”

Tears welled in her eyes but Flora was already intoxicated to a point that she no longer felt ashamed of them. “Then we arrived in Caemlyn. Everything was going so well and people were saying how impressed they were with my voice. I was playing at a festival outside the city when lightning came out of nowhere, crashing down feet from where I was in the middle of a crowd. People were staring at me all funny-like and I had no idea what had happened – I got scared and ran. All of a sudden an Aes Sedai was telling me I was going to the Grey Tower and that I had to say goodbye to my family. And so, I ended up here.” The singer finished with an equivocal shrug; she had left out her own hysterics and reluctance but that was her story in a nutshell.

Again silence fell between them. At least Maria did not try to offer comfort or sympathy. The Andoran had no interest in easing her disquiet, she wanted to dwell in melancholic longing for what was now beyond her grasp; it helped her ignore the situation she had found herself in – the disappointment and self-loathing that had already attached themselves to her progress here. Flora swished the dregs of what little alcohol remained, surprised by how much they had consumed. Then again, as the red-haired woman took another sip, the nauseating taste had faded. When was the last time she had gotten this drunk? Passing it back to the Altaran, Maria emptied the bottle in one final gulp.

The woman stood unsteadily, “Have to hide the evidence.” Was it only now that she realized how Maria was slurring her words? Flora had drunk nearly as much and the singer could only imagine what she had sounded like bemoaning her past life. The red-haired woman laughed, if only to encourage Maria’s good spirits – and contented inebriation. Light, what she would give not to spend half her life an inmate of her own thoughts; Maria seemed so easily able to live in the moment, unaffected by worry for things that had not yet happened nor was she enslaved to the past.

When the bottle was tucked back away in its cache, the darker woman collapsed back onto her bed. “When did it get so dark?” she peered through the shadows that had filled their room without either woman noticing. Maria giggled. “Light bless the Aiel, I am blasted!”

“Noticing this now?”

“Any particular reason your “s’s” are twice the length they need to be?”

Flora grinned. She felt sudden warmth toward the other woman wash over her – no doubt due in large part to the drinking. “Thank you.”

“For the alcohol?” The Altaran eyed her quizzically. “I can swipe more tomorrow, I have extra dishes all week. One of the Accepted apparently did not appreciate my enthusiasm during her class – thought I was being sardonic.”

Having no wish to explain how the evening had freed her from the confines of a whirling mind, Flora simply smiled and shrugged in response to her roommate’s question. “Now why would the Accepted have thought that?” she added with a laugh.

“Because the woman was a self-righteous bitch with a horrible squeaky voice – and because I was mocking her mercilessly while her back was turned.”

The Andoran snorted. “Of course you did.”

“Of course I did what?” Maria replied in mock outrage. “You have only known me one day!”

The singer snorted, parrying drolly. “And you keep such an aura of mystery around yourself.”

“Well, we cannot all brood all the time; someone has to drag out the conversation lest we all communicate by gesture and monosyllable.” She yawned. “On that note, I think we should try and get some sleep – another joyous day tomorrow, you know.”

Flora sighed. “Oh, I know.” – and she was not looking forward to it.

As she had the night before, the singer waited for Maria to change before changing herself and crawling beneath the covers. Oosquai lent happy weight to her eyelids and the Andoran found herself alone with her thoughts barely a quarter-hour before sleep delivered her from their captivity.

The faintest whiff of canicular* eddy breathed through pearly leaves, wafting the sweet scent of lilac blossoms that swayed gently overhead. Errant cirrus marred an azure sky where the sun glowed warmly over outstretched flowers. Glorious summer air embraced the garden, soothing flora and fauna alike to contented mid-afternoon rest. Even birds had ceased their music and only cicadas dared whisper above enveloping stillness that hung over this secluded corner of the Grey Tower.

Two girls sprawled surreptitiously beneath gently waving branches. The first asleep with dark hair spread across her companion’s lap while the second, a red-haired girl who sat with legs outstretched, intently studied the bed of flowers opposite, green eyes cataloguing delicate poppies, creeping clematis, and bursting peonies. Anna Cecil had adored flowers – thus, her daughter’s name – and though the woman had little in common with a girl who was every inch the child of her gleeman father, this small piece of herself she had imparted to Flora who melted contentedly into the garden’s beauty.

Maria Cavardossa shifted slightly in sleep, nestling against the white folds of her friend’s skirt. Timid fingers brushed chestnut locks from swarthy skin as a faint sigh escaped the slumbering Altaran. Flora smiled, returning to the surrounding plant life as her attention shifted to a bed of brilliant foliage sheltered beneath the thick crown of a silver linden. Striped jack-in-the-pulpits and bright astilbe peeked out above colourful hostas and heucherae, interrupted occasionally by the delicate fronds of exotic ferns.

However, not even trellises heavy with various species of roses could hold back Flora’s eyelids as the soft breeze caressed suntanned skin, easing her with a sense of peace that felt alien in the beautifully isolating fortress that was the Grey Tower. In this moment she could forget the frustration plaguing her progress with saidar and the crippling self-loathing that accompanied it – the roiling anxiety she had been unable to shake and her inability to feel right in the one thing she loved above all else: singing.

But in this moment – this singularly serene, perfect moment – all that slipped away.

Lids shut against long-forgotten reality, the singer lifted her face to summer sun and softly whispered the melody that had been her childhood lullaby.

“The soothing breezes are awakened,
They whisper and weave day and night,
They work to all ends.
Oh fresh scent, oh new sound!
Now poor heart, be not fearful!
Now must all, all change.
The world becomes nicer with every day,
One knows not, what yet will be,
The flowers will not end;
It flowers the farthest, deepest valley:
Now, poor heart, forget the pain!
Now must all, all change.”

Light, that feeling – that release! She could breathe again for the first time in months! Since the events of Caemlyn, no smile could touch Flora’s grief-tight eyes but now a grin clung to every muscle of her face; she could not have wiped it away had she wanted to. Basking in her current contentment, the singer laid back into the lawn beneath the sheltering tree.

“So that is what you actually sound like then? When you are really singing, I mean.” Maria stirred, voice husky with sleep but did not lift her head from its current pillow.

“Sorry, did I wake you?” Flora lifted her head to study the Altaran who had not yet opened her eyes.

“There are worse sounds to be awoken by.” The comment was punctuated by a yawn as Maria shifted to her side, blinking sleep from hazel eyes.

Flora smiled a little wider. “True enough.”

“Humble as ever.”

“Humility is for lesser beings.”

“Aes Sedai already, I see.”

The singer’s smile slipped slightly and she sighed as reality threatened her current mood. “Can we…” she faltered, dropping her head back to the grass, hoping her friend would not see the usual pain and anxiety returning. “Can we just forget where we are for the time being?”

Maria paused a moment. “Of course.”

Silence hung between them as they lay together in the grass and as Flora’s fleeting sense of peace was slowly eaten away by encroaching anxiety and self-loathing, she became intimately aware of the weight of Maria’s head on her thighs. The Andoran sat up, hoping the garden they were supposed to be weeding would again provide distraction from her ennui.

“I can feel you brooding again.”

Flora sighed, unable to form any quick retort to deflect the Altaran’s concern for her depression. Instead, she attempted to change the conversation. “We should get back to work soon, before the Accepted returns to check in on our progress.”

Her suggestion was met with a snort. “Corrine is meant to be here supervising us; instead, I happen to know she is holed up with some Drin she hopes to Bond once they are both raised. She will not return for at least an hour and cannot punish us for shoddy work, considering she will be in far more trouble if I let slip to the Mistress of Novices as to her whereabouts when she was supposed to be supervising lazy, untrustworthy Novices.”

“And how do you know all this?” Flora asked incredulously.

“The woman needs to learn to whisper properly while gossiping with her friends.” Maria responded smugly.

“Light, remind me to stay in your good graces.”

“You have one of the few names that is not on my list.”

“Why am I not surprised?”

“Because I am a generally likeable person who gets along well with everyone?” It was the singer’s turn to snort. “Fine, if you will not be supportive, at least sing me back to sleep.”

“Fine. Give me a moment to come up with something.”

The Altaran nestled herself back into Flora’s skirts as the singer sat a moment, wracking her brain for a song. Green eyes fell on the red poppies dancing across for her and she smiled.

“They are poppies, those round,
Red-blooming, healthy ones
That bloom and bake in the summer
And are always in a cheery mood,
Good and happy as a king,
Their souls never tired of dancing;
They weep beneath their smiles
And seem born only to tease the cornflowers;
Yet nevertheless,
The softest, best hearts often hide
Among the climbing ivy of jests;
God knows one would wish to
Suffocate them with kisses
Were one not so afraid
That, embracing the hoyden,
She would spring up into a full blaze
And go up in flames.”

“Well, that was less melancholic than usual. I like it.”

Flora snorted. “I figured you might, it reminded me of you.”

“Does that make you the cornflower then?” The other women grinned, hazel eyes lit with their usual mischief.

“Hardly. I am the siren, remember?”

“Ah yes, the poppy and the siren then. Not really a pair, are they?”

“Just shut up and go back to your nap.”

“Alright, then. And you?”

“One of us should stay awake to watch out for the Accepted – or any passing Aes Sedai for that matter. You may enjoy scrubbing pots every night but I would prefer to spend my evenings on my own time.”

“The perfect Novice.”

“Hardly; just not the worst Novice is anyone’s recent memory.”

“I take that as a compliment.”

“I am sure you do.”


*canicular: of or related to the rising of the Dog Star, from which comes the expression “the dog days of summer”

“Frülingsglaube” (Spring Faith). Johann Ludwig Uhland. Translated from German.

“Mohnblumen” (Poppies). Felix Ludwig Julius Dahn. Translated from German by Emily Ezust.