Page 126 of Stars in Umbra
When they pulled apart, he pressed the gift to his chest.
He clasped her hand, his eyes never leaving hers. ‘This is the most cherished gift I have ever received,’ he said. ‘And I have held weapons forged by the best munitions makers in the galaxy, and sniper rifles worth more than a star system. But this is the breath of a new life, made real, and it’s from you.’
Rina touched his cheek, her thumb brushing the stubble there.
‘Then take good care of it. Perhaps one day you can fire up a few glass creations of your own, and switch from ammunition and firearms to crystal and fine glassware.’
He smirked. ‘You’ll have to teach me how. Might need regular lessons. Frequent visits.’
She chuckled, already pulling off her gloves. ‘Sounds like a plan.’
22
When The Storms Quieten
MOLAN
Mo sat beneath the soft light of the kitchen eaves, his hands still damp from washing garden soil from his fingers.
A few hours earlier, Hanna co-opted him to pick sweet potatoes for their dinner, and he obliged, unable to resist her subtle smile and gentle ask.
Outside, the sky turned a deep violet, in a wild coloration that only followed a crisp autumn afternoon.
A fire crackled near the back porch, the scent of burning eucalyptus curling in through the half-open windows.
His body was still sore from his recent ordeal and the resulting operation, but the ache now felt almost welcome, a reminder that he was alive.
Hanna stood at the kitchen island in a flour-streaked apron, her voice lilting with a good humor. ‘Our little patch of land’s always run on sweat and hope,’ she said, her hands moving as she spoke, chopping and stirring. ‘We grow everything we can organically. Reth takes care of the horses. I manage the produce, vegetables, herbs, and eggs. We have citrus and stone fruit when they’re in season, and we keep a dairy cow for the milk and cheese. The sourdough we make with local wheat is from the old co-op mill down the valley, which still grinds by millstone.’
Mo listened, absorbing the cadence of her voice, which was soft and soothing.
It was more than just words; it was a way of being, a way of choosing to live with the earth. ‘Ma, don’t talk his ear off,’ Rina chided.
‘I like to hear it,’ Mo countered with a lopsided smile.
‘Then let me tell you about Rina as a child,’ Hanna laughed.
Ignoring her daughter’s protests, Hanna shared how Rina once buried her father’s boots because she didn’t want him leaving for a military post; how she convinced the neighbor’s alpacas to follow her home with a trail of carrots; how she used to fall asleep in the kitchen hammock with a book open over her chest.
Mo had never seen Rina laugh with such freedom, chuckling hard at her mother’s retelling.
The sound filled the room, a melody more beautiful than any song.
Dinner was a feast.
Slices of blistered, smoky pizza emerged from the outdoor brick oven, layered with goat’s cheese, roast garlic, and a drizzle of chili oil.
There were golden wedges of roasted sweet potato dusted with dukkah.
Also on offer were bowls of minted peas and buttery broad beans, as well as a warm salad of lentils and grilled onions.
Alongside were sourdough loaves and fresh butter.
A bottle of Reth’s cellar-aged Shiraz breathed between them, poured generously into rustic glasses.
In the corner, the old cast-iron stove pulsed gentle heat into the room, its lids rattling as more deliciousness slow-cooked inside.
The kitchen filled with the aroma of thyme, pepper, and earth.
