Yvgenie by C.J. Cherryh Read Free Book Online

work magic very seldom might only mean that she very rarely let anyone know she was doing it.
    So Ilyana wrote small stupid things in the book, like: I should help mother more; I shouldn't upset her—instead of the thoughts that were really on her mind, such as: What if he's harmful? What if he came and hurt my family? Could I possibly be mistaken about him?
    But then she thought—I've known him all my life. Surely I'd have understood by now whether he's good or bad, and he's never hurt anything. If he's a rusalka or anything of the kind, it can't be true that all of them kill things. The leshys haven't been here for years—but uncle sees them. He walks with them in the woods. They would surely have warned us. Babi at least would have objected.
    She filled a desultory quarter of a page with dull, dutiful considerations of why her mother had to be strict with her.
    She thought that that would placate her mother if her mother was secretly reading her book.
    Her mother was grinding herbs today, making the medicines for downriver, and when Ilyana finished her notes, she ground and measured and mixed until her arms ached, while her mother lectured her on why one should never use magic for housework, and told her how a wizard had to lead a thoroughly disciplined life. Her mother was very much on discipline, and Ilyana earnestly tried to listen, hoping for something new that wo uld make the other things make sense—or only to hear something in a new way, as her uncle was wont to say, if her growing up were truly getting somewhere of a sudden.
    But there was nothing but the same old lecture. Her mother said, for the hundredth time at least, ‘ You don't want to fall into careless habits. Magic can't be a substitute for good work. Or ingenuity. Or caution. You can't want everything perfect. You make it perfect. Patience and discipline. ’
    It did not seem to her that her mother's patience was all that long; and as for discipline, it all seemed to be hers in th is house.
    Hut she most earnestly tried not to think that.
    In the late afternoon her father came riding in with uncle S a sha, and she felt cheated, because being out on the trail all day on Patches would have been ever so much nicer than grinding herbs. And she had not found her friend in the illuming—about which she was not thinking, so she went bac k in the house and pounded herbs with a mallet until her mother came inside and complained about the racket.
    '' Honestly,'' her mother said, ‘ if you wanted to ride you should have gone riding. Temper is not what I want to see from you. Not under this roof, not elsewhere. God, Ilyana, w hat ever is the matter with you lately? ’
    '' Nothing,'' she said. And avoided looking at her mother.
    ‘ Ilyana, ’ her mother said, ‘ all your father has to do is love you. And I'm always the one who has to scold you. It's my responsibility. I have t o talk to you in ways you under stand. I'm trying to do better with you than I had when I was a child. Don't sulk. It's not becoming. ’
    ‘ I'm not sulking. ’
    ‘ I know a sulk, young woman. Don't lie, either. ’
    ‘ Yes, mother. ’ She wanted to pound the board to splinters. But she would never get out of the house today if she did that. ‘ I try.'' Dammit, she was going to cry. She wanted not to do that, and that helped, and it stopped. ‘ I'm tired. My arms ache. ’
    Her mother came over to her, patted her on the shoulder and said, ‘ Ilyana, listen to me. Be wise. Be sensible. That's all I want you to do. ’
    ‘ Yes, mother. ’
    Her mother sighed and brought ajar for the spice to go in. ‘ Let's clean this up, ’ she said. ‘ Time we started supper. There'll be yesterday's bread. Running a house doesn't happen while you walk in the woods, Ilyana. There's wood to be cut, there's a garden to be weeded, there's bread to be baked—the god knows your uncle Sasha is a dear, but he doesn't run a house, he lives in one. He lets the clutter pile up because he knows