In The Garden

Betty Adcock (1938-present)

One of the biggest struggles of being a homeschooling family in the country is finding other homeschoolers like you to spend time with. However, over the past few years, God has blessed us with a small group of friends that we really enjoy spending time with. One of the things that we do with out friends is Fine Arts Co-Op. A co-op is basically a group of people that meet at regular intervals (we meet every other Friday) and learn different subjects together. Our co-op is dedicated to the study of the fine arts (artist study, folk songs, poetry appreciation, nature study, and Shakespeare). Other co-ops study different things, but these are the subjects that we focus on.

I love all of the fine arts, and poetry is one of my favorite. Right now, we are studying the poet Betty Adcock. Betty Adcock, member of the Guggenheim Fellowship, was born in 1938, in Southeast Texas. She holds no degree, even though she attended three colleges, and she is the author of six poetry collections. Three of her most famous poetry collections are Nettles, Beholdings, and Slantwise. She has won several poetry awards, including two Pushcart Prizes, a Guggenheim Fellowship award, the North Carolina Award for Literature and the Sam Ragan award in Fine Arts. You can access her website here.  

One of our homework assignments was to write a poem in the style of Betty Adcock's poem Front Porch. We had to write it about a special place that meant something important to us. I chose the garden, a place that I have spent much of my time in ever since moving to Mineola. The garden is a beautiful, living place that brings us all together, and I really enjoyed writing about it.

In The Garden

This is the smell of plants,

a delicious, fresh, odor.

Tomato-laden branches droop.

Water amalgamates on the shiny eggplant,

and the smooth backs of bell peppers

shine in the sunlight.

 

For years this place has stood,

growing richer and fuller each season

as the fertilizer of leaves and humus enrich it.

It is a giving place- no one leaves empty-handed.

The vines of the squash shade the fruit

until you come to take it.

It gives its fruit, but also gives us shade.

It gives you responsibility- something to work for

even when you don’t want it.

As time goes on, the tomatoes grow ripe,

and rot on the branch, till they grow yellow again,

this time speckled with yellow and brown.

But next year, they will come again,

we’ll sow the same old plants, and some new ones,

and feel the finiteness of life. 

*All of these pictures were taken by me in our garden.*

Kingdom Pen Short Story Challenge

Hey everyone! Recently, I entered a short story written by myself into a Kingdom Pen Short Story Challenge. They gave us a picture and we wrote a short story (250-500 words) about it. This is my short story, I hope you enjoy it!

Here is the picture:

My short story

Deryn looked at the sky bleakly. He shut his eyes and bit his lip, thinking. The sharp taste of his blood jerked him back to awareness. It was all over. They had lost. A wave pitched over the edge of the Defiant and he shivered with the cold. The rain pounded into his clothes, soaking them.

 “Get to work pumping in the cabin, man!” screamed the wild-eyed mate.

“It’s no use,” said Deryn, quietly. “She’s forsaken us.”

These words had no impression on the mate, though. His scarred face only filled with a deep, cold anger, and he took out his pistol.

“Get to work, I said!”

Deryn brushed his greasy hair back and walked slowly to the hatch. It was open, and from the top, he could see the men screaming frantically and dumping buckets of water through the portholes. He climbed down the rotting rope ladder. The water was thigh-deep.

Bucket upon bucket he bailed, until suddenly, a queer thing happened. Deryn looked up, and a light shone through the hatchway. He heard a voice.

“Don’t give up, Deryn. You can only see the present, but there is a future waiting behind the bleak day. There is light.”

Deryn knew what he had to do. The war with the storm might be over, it might be lost, but he had to keep fighting. He would fight the sea storm to the death, for death was the only option. But still, he would fight it.

*                             *                                 *

In a tall, stone turret, a woman, robed in a crimson gown, gazed at a jar on a shelf. On the shelf, there was motley group of star charts, maps, and old, old books, dusty and crumbling. But in the jar, she gazed at a ship, battered and tossed by the winds, but no bigger than a toy. And as she gazed, the tears filled her eyes.

Walking slowly, she climbed down many flights of stairs to a green, foggy lawn. She made her way to where the water lapped against the shore, and she stepped into a small wooden boat. As she stood in the boat, she whispered a few words, and the boat began to move slowly, creeping into the mist.  

*                             *                                 *

The fight still raged. The water was waist-deep. Outside the hull of the ship, the wind battered and bruised the poor Defiant, whipping the waves around her. It was cruel.

Deryn wiped the sweat from his dripping forehead. Then he looked up. So did all the rest of the crew. There were shouts coming from the quarterdeck. These were not shouts of fear, but of hope. Deryn climbed onto the deck, where, sailing from the east, he saw the only thing that could have given his tired, bedraggled face hope.

“The White Lady of Keiran!”

Her golden hair trailed in the wind behind her as the crimson robed woman floated into view. And with her golden hair came a golden light. For with the lady of purity came the only thing that could save them- the light.

In that moment, Deryn knew that the war with this hideous, battering sea was not done for. And neither was he. They would fight, and they would triumph.

2nd Chapter of my Book

Hello everyone! Today I am posting the next chapter of my book, because one of my readers especially asked for it. I am so happy that you enjoyed the first chapter, Aidan, and I hope you like the 2nd one just as much!

(In case you have not read the first chapter, you can access it here  :)

Chapter 2

              Varya stepped into a spacious room, softly lighted by a few candles, and decorated with several bouquets of lilies, daffodils, and gladiolus blooms. Marble busts adorned the walls, and beautiful hand-cut mosaics on the floor reflected the light of the candles and covered the whole room in bright greens, blues, and purples. Varya gasped a little. She always did when she walked into Aelius and Brietta’s home. Though they were far from rich, the couple led a fairly bountiful life, and their greatest pleasure was sharing what they had with others.

              “Oh Varya, I am so glad that you decided to drop by! Me and Aelius have missed you so much.” Gradually, Varya was led through the atrium, down a narrow hall, and into a rectangular dining hall, where on the oaken table were set a variety of tempting foods. On it sat fresh fruit, roasted nuts, spit-cooked lamb, artisan bread, marinated olives and cheese, red wine, and nearly every food that Varya had ever seen or smelled. A faint steam rose from the piping hot bread as Varya and Brietta lay down on their cushions to eat their meal. Varya smiled and thanked her hostess for such a warm invitation,

              “I did not want to come, for fear that you would be surprised by such an unexpected visit, but Aelius insisted.”

              “You are welcome any time, dear, and after four years, you should know that! You know that I enjoy our visits just as much as you do.” Varya smiled,

              “Well, thank you just as well. I have not been out of the house in nearly two weeks, and have been quite sick for some companionship. Brecht has been sick, and has needed my care. Only today was he well enough for me to go to the market and buy food for the week.” As Varya told her friend of her many little troubles and trials, she began to relax, and after a quarter of an hour, she was quite at her ease.

              Varya told Brietta of her encounter with Aetius. Brietta’s face grew quite rigid as Varya told her the tale.

              “I do not understand, Brietta. Why am I so different? Why do the Romans hate us? Will I ever be like them? There are so many questions that I do not have answers to.” Sighing, Varya turned her head away as one silver tear dropped off her flushed cheek.

              Slowly, Brietta began. “Varya, I want to tell you a story.” Brietta leaned back, closing her eyes, and breathing deeply. Varya knew that she was thinking.

              “Many years ago, when I was just a girl, no more than eight years old, my family sailed from the coast of northern Gaul. My father had been given the position of a centurion of the first cohort. He was posted here on the wall. He was a proud man, my father. He always performed to the highest standard, even when no one was looking. He took his greatest pride in being a Roman citizen. Through his citizenship, my father had the right to vote for consuls and other government positions, he had the right to stand for public office, he had the right to defend himself in a court trial, he had the right to be married, to hold land and property. It meant everything to him. Though we were Roman citizens by birth, moving to Britain seemed to change that. We became “inferior” citizens. My father was broken. He seemed to find his only identity in being a Roman citizen, and when that right was devalued, he gave up his honor. He led his century into battle with the Danish Vikings who had landed their ships on the coast of Northumbria. Crying that, if death was the only thing that could bring him to honor with the Romans, he would find it, my father burst through the ranks of the enemy, bright sword in hand, slim bow at side. I never saw my father again.”

              When Brietta turned to face Varya, her eyes were misty, and she looked far away. Varya put her hand on Brietta’s shoulder. With a small start, Brietta looked up.

              “All I mean to say is that you can never put your identity in a place or group. Do not worry about the questions that now plague you. Someday, they will be answered, but for now, all you need to think about is who you are as a person, and who you want to become.”

              Smiling, Brietta stood up and took Varya’s hand. “May I show you the gardens? I have recently planted some hibiscus trees, and you may take some of the blooms home to make tea, if you wish.” Hand in hand, they walked to the garden, where Varya relished in small, bright flowers, tall and sweeping elms, and waxy-leaved, red berried bushes.

              Brietta’s garden had always been a place of beauty and wonder to Varya. The tall, elegantly sculpted figures, the crystal fountains, the trailing vines- they all contributed to its beauty. Elms and oaks that were hundreds of years old and baby peonies, barely bigger than Varya’s hand had the same effect- they all left her with a wonderful sense of peace that she could find nowhere else.

              About five minutes later, Varya heard several people shouting from inside the house, and the deep voice of Aelius ring out through the hall.” Varya!”

              Varya stood stiffly, her face growing slowly whiter, and her hands trembling. Aelius dashed out of the house and into the garden, panting, just a few seconds later.

              “Varya! Brecht, he’s very ill. I took him to a military clinic, but I’m afraid that he will not make it. I am so sorry. Hurry, and I will take you to see him.”

              Varya walked slowly towards Aelius, feeling faint, and let him lead her to the front of the house, where he lifted her onto a tall, black horse, and then swung his leg over the horse, and, after whispering to her to hold on tightly, shouted to Brietta, who had followed them, that he would be back within the hour.

Jabbing the horse furiously, Aelius sped the horse over the cobbled streets, down a side road, and down the street. Varya clung to him with petrified fingers. She felt the horse’s muscular body running beneath her. She felt him suddenly halt as Aelius called out to him. She slipped off the slick saddle as Aelius held the horse. Handing the hose to a stable worker, Aelius led Varya into the medic’s office, and down a few halls.

As Varya walked, she thought about Brecht. What would become of her without him? Though Varya knew that she could survive without Brecht, she was not so sure that she would want to. For as long as she could remember, Brecht had always been there beside her to support her, he had always given her a reason to wake up at dawn and do backbreaking work in the hot summer sun and freezing winter winds that blew across the wall. He had been someone for her to love, even when no one was there to love her.

              Varya stepped into a cold, damp room that had a small window, a table, and a bed that held a shaking and wrinkled old man.

              “Brecht!” Varya’s senses became alive again. She ran to the bed and crouched beside it, stroking the old man’s forehead.

              “Varya,” the old man croaked. “I am glad you are here.” Varya smiled through the tears that came streaming down her face and dripping into her lap. Turning to Aelius, he spoke quietly “Thank you.” Aelius bowed his head softly, and stepped out of the room quietly.

              “Varya,” Brecht began, but he was stopped by a violent fit of coughing.

              “Don’t speak, dear.” Said Varya softly. Brecht was one of the few people, if not the only one, to whom Varya showed her tender and compassionate side.

              Brecht leaned upon his shoulder gently, and from his tunic he pulled a small, leathern pouch. The pouch was simple and unadorned, excepting a dragon’s head that was painted in green and gold paint upon the pouch. The paint was rubbing off, but the dragon was still clear. Brecht handed the pouch to Varya. It was very old, Varya could tell that much, though that was almost all.

              “Open it,” gasped the dying man. With shaking hands, Varya unclasped the bronze clip. She emptied the pouch into her cold hand. Into it fell a small, round, copper object. Though the disk was made of copper, it had long ago been oxidized, and it was now a greenish-blue color. Varya picked up the token gingerly, and held it into the light. On it was engraved in bas relief a small green dragon, almost exactly the same as the one on the pouch, with wings outspread and fire pouring from its mouth. Varya felt that the dragon was somewhat familiar, like she had seen if before, but she couldn’t say where or when. Inside the pouch there were also a few coins and a small piece of parchment. The parchment was scribbled all over with small runes that she could not read, and at the bottom was drawn the same dragon that adorned the pouch and the token. “What does it mean, Brecht?” asked Varya confusedly, forgetting that she was speaking to a dying grandfather and not a healthy one.

              Brecht took her trembling, white hands, still holding the pouch, and clasped them in his rough, calloused ones. Half coughing and half speaking he managed to sputter out a few, broken words. “They are the heirlooms of our people.” More coughing. “The token, it is-“ but here Brecht clutched at his throat, spluttering and gasping. His eyes grew wide, and then, he was still. His stiffened muscles did not move. Sobbing bitter tears of grief, Varya bent over Brecht, laying her head on his chest and feeling desolate.

              A half hour later, Varya stepped into the damp hall of the army clinic. Aelius was leaning against the wall, hand on chin, and deep in thought. At Varya’s arrival, he stood up quickly. “I’m so sorry”.

              Together, they walked out of the hospital and to the stamping, snorting horse. They mounted it silently and, as Aelius nudged the horse gently, he told Varya “I can take you home, but you know that you are more than welcome to stay with me and Brietta as long as you wish. Varya was grateful for the kind man’s offer, but she wanted to be alone, if only for a few hours. Complying with her wishes, Aelius turned the horse eastward. He dropped Varya off at the small, dingy hut that now belonged to her, and, after checking to make sure that she was all right, he left her by herself.

Bitterly cold rain began to sprinkle as soon as Aelius left, and before long, the sky seemed to weep with Varya as she thought of her late grandfather. Wiping her tears away, Varya stood up and walked inside. The dirty hut was dark, so, striking a match on her boot, Varya lit a short stump of a candle, and, lifting it timidly, peered about the room.

The little house was not large, with only leaning four walls and a leaky roof to boast. However, Varya had made little touches to the inside that made it seem quaint. For example, the pretty little vase with wilted wildflowers inside it that she had picked only the day before graced what would otherwise be a very dull and unappealing table. The bed, though shabby and covered in threadbare blankets, was neatly made and folded at the top. Though there had previously been two occupants, the room had only one bed. During Brecht’s lifetime, Varya had been more than happy to sleep on the floor, provided that her dear grandfather was comfortable.

Thinking of this, Varya forced back her tears once more, and walked to the far corner of the room. In it, there was a small cupboard with a door on only one hinge. She carefully opened the door and found the satchel that she had taken to the market. In it were all her groceries from the day. She closed the cupboard door softly, turning with a little sigh. She sat down on the bed. It creaked beneath her, and the thin blankets felt rough on her pale skin.

As she sat down, Varya realized that she still had the little leather pouch that Brecht had given her. She had tied it loosely to the rope belt across her waist. Slowly, she undid the leather thongs on it, and took another look at its contents. They confused her. She understood the few coins well enough, but what was written on the parchment, and what was the coin with the dragon? It fit perfectly in her palm, and was slightly heavy. Perhaps it had something to do with her fathers, and her father’s fathers. Ever since hearing Brietta’s story, Varya had longed to know her father, her mother, her story. Where had she come from? Who was her family? Did she, in fact, have any family? So many unanswered questions. Brecht had been so close to telling her. If only he had held out for a few more moments. If only she had been there earlier. She should never have gone to Aelius and Brietta’s.

Wiping away a tear, Varya laid down on the bed, sighing. She was tired. The day had been long, and the stress of it had taken a heavy toll on her. Thunder rolled and boomed in the distance, but Varya did not hear it. In complete resignation to the utter fatigue, she fell into a long, deep sleep, filled with the groans of Brecht and a river of icy-cold tears. 

First Chapter of My Book

Hi everyone! I have recently begun to write a book about a girl living on Hadrian's Wall during the time of  Roman Britain, and I have decided to post the first chapter here. The rest of the chapters will be available on publication. Any comments and/or suggestions would be more than welcome! Thanks!


Chapter 1

Varya stepped out onto the narrow stone steps. She pulled her loose stola over her head and began to walk down the mossy street to the market. It was quiet on the road, but only because there were not many houses on the dingy alley. As she briskly walked, Varya passed an old man crouched by the road, nodding his head back and forth to the rhythm of a beaten and scratched lute, that looked like it had seen better years. At the merging of a road running horizontally to her, Varya was nearly run over by a troop of Roman soldiers, passing through town. “On their way to the wall, no doubt.” thought Varya. Their horse-hair plumes fluttered gently on the breeze. When the cohort passed, Varya scurried along the stone alley to where it met with a larger road, took a left onto that road, and walked along it until she reached the market.

              Varya loved going to the market. The smells rising from the bread, cheese, and wine vendors excited her, and she wished she could buy from them all. However, her small income, mainly derived from odd jobs, was barely enough to support her and grandfather, Brecht. Brecht had taken care of Varya for as long as she could remember, which was a long time. Varya was only sixteen years old, but she felt much older. For as long as she had lived with Brecht, Varya had been forced to support them both, as Brecht was too old to do much work. From simple jobs, like running errands for rich ladies at the market for an extra sestertius, to picking grapes for hours on end at local wineries, Varya had done it all. Today, though, she was not at the market to find an odd job, she was there to buy groceries that would hopefully sustain her and Brecht through the week.

              After taking a good look at the different booths, Varya made her way to a small table that was littered with jars and casks of olive oil. She smiled up at the man behind it. “Varya!” He said cheerfully. “It is so good to see you. Brietta has been asking about you. How are you?”

“I am well, Aelius” answered Varya simply, “just very tired. Brecht has been sick lately, and I have not been able to get out of the house for almost a fortnight.” She smiled. “I need one bottle of oil, please.”

“Take it,” the kindly man said, it will do some good for your troubled grandfather. And do not even think about paying,” he said with a smile, as Varya held out two smudged denarii. Varya laughed gently, her face full of gratitude

“Thank you!” she said “I think it may.” With a small spring in her step, Varya walked away from her friend, and looked for her next stop.

Slowly, uncertainly, she walked up to a small booth that was overflowing with the scent of freshly-baked bread. She took out a sestertius and handed it to the woman. “Two loaves of bread, please,” she said. The woman took the coin, inspected it carefully, and, deciding that Varya was not trying to cheat her, pocketed the money and handed over two warm loaves. Varya smiled “Thank you!”, but the woman did not seem to hear her, and she turned her back.

              But Varya was used to being ignored, years of living in the slums of Roman Britain and scanning the wall for spare change dropped heedlessly by drunken soldiers had earned her that, and it had ceased to bother her many years ago. So, she simply slipped her two loaves into a leather satchel that rested on her shoulder, along with the oil, and made her way across a few rows of vendors.

              About a half hour later of buying, bartering, and negotiating, Varya turned her steps homeward with two loaves of bread, a jar of olive oil, some red wine, and a block of country cheese in her satchel. As she walked home, Varya saw a roman Caupona on the side of the main road, and she realized how tired she was, after all her shopping. The little courtyard of the dark inn seemed so inviting. Sighing, she leaned against one of the graffitied walls, under a straggly elm, hoping to get a little rest after her strenuous morning. Closing her eyes, she took a bite out of one of the loaves of bread, and slowly she savored the mouthful, knowing well that she might not get another for some time. The sun shone brightly upon the little resting area, warming the slightly chilly air. The sun did not shine often on the wall, and when it did, it was only for a few moments. For a little while, Varya sat so, thinking about her grandfather and her home. All of a sudden, she felt her satchel rudely snatched from her arm. With fingers used to things slipping through them, she deftly grabbed the satchel before it slipped off her arm, and, with a cry of surprise, she yanked it back. The satchel was restored to her, but the abrupt jerk had bounced the other loaf of bread out of the satchel. A tall, dirty man reached down and snatched it up. Suddenly, Varya found herself cornered by two men, dressed in black togas, one holding her bread, and the other walking slowly up to her. In suppressed tones he spoke “Give us the bag, and you go free; resist us and…” he held up a bright pugio, a small sharp dagger, glittering in the sun “we will use persuasion.” He chuckled deeply. Varya steadied herself,

“Get away Aetius,” she growled, “just because you are Roman does not mean that you have the right to oppress the Britons! Your name and character have been defaced by your actions here at the wall. Leave me alone!”

“My name?” asked the man, almost in surprise. “My name? Oh, but that is too much coming from you!” He laughed spitefully, “You cannot say that my name has been defaced when your own name cannot stand for itself. I know you ‘Varya’. What kind of a name is that? It is no Briton name, nor is it a Roman name. It comes from no one knows where, and means nothing. You mean nothing. Everything about you is so foreign; from the way you talk, to your bright scarlet hair. You do not belong here, and not even your Roman clothes can hide that.” Knowing that he had hit her weakest spot, Aetius stood back and admired his work. Tears filled Varya’s deep grey eyes, as she stumbled backwards. The pouch dropped from her shoulder. Grinning, Aetius picked up the satchel, and started to retreat. At that moment, though, Varya saw a flash of steel and, wondering what it was, did not try to oppose him. As Aetius turned his back, he met face-to-face with Aelius, Varya’s friend from the oil stand.  

“Aelius!” Shouted Varya. He brandished a heavy axe, and, swinging it a hair’s breadth away from the face of Aetius, spoke in a strong voice,

“Hand over the bag, Aetius.” Trembling, Aetius dropped the bag on the stone floor.

“You have no right to do this!” shouted Aetius.

“You have no right to do this. I have not read anywhere in the Roman law that harassing young girls for their food is legal.” Replied Aelius calmly. However, he tightened his grip on the axe. “Leave, Aetius. Next time, my axe will not miss you.” Slowly, Aetius retreated.

“Come on Gnaeus, let’s get out of here,” he murmured. Both the scoundrels slowly slunk away, as Aelius called out

“And don’t bother her again, or you will have me to face!” At that moment, Aelius turned and hurled the pugio with deadly force at Aelius’s heart. Quickly, Aelius flung himself and Varya to the ground, and, escaping the path of the knife, picked it up, sheathed it, and said coldly,

“Leave now, Aetius, or you will regret meddling with me.” Seeing his error, Aetius turned and fled as fast as he could away from the Caupona, with Gnaeus close behind him. Aelius faced Varya. He saw the fear in her eyes and, smiling, walked to her side and pulled her gently to her feet. “Varya, are you all right? I- I saw Aetius walk this way and point at you. I thought perhaps you might need me.” Varya nodded. “Why did you stop here, Varya? You know that the Cauponae are not safe places for unprotected travelers. They are a breeding-ground for thieves and criminals.”

 “I know,” she managed to gasp out. “I am sorry, Aelius. I was just so tired, and I hadn’t seen anyone, I had just stopped for a moment, oh Aelius!” She burst into tears as she buried her head in his arms.

“I heard them,” said Aelius slowly. “It is not true, don’t believe him. Varya,” he looked straight into her eyes “you are not what they say you are. You are who you choose to be. Do not forget that.” Varya smiled, and thanked her old friend warmly. She picked up her satchel and restored its spilt contents. “Would you care to join me and Brietta for dinner?” Asked Aelius thoughtfully.

“I am afraid that I can’t” replied Varya disappointedly, “Brecht is sick. He needs my care, and I have not been able to check on him all morning. I have no idea how he is doing.”

“That is too bad,” said Aelius, frowning. “Brietta and I have missed you of late.” Turning, he leaned against the wall, and wondered at the dedication that the young girl held for her invalid grandfather. Varya turned to leave. “Wait,” Aelius said quickly “I just thought of something. I will go check on Brecht, and you can head over to my house. Brietta is home, and she will be more than happy to see you. Here, I will take your bag.” Varya smiled. How she wished she could go!

Varya had met Aelius and Brietta nearly three years ago, when she had been scavenging for food along their street. They had taken her in, clothed her in clean garments, and given her a hot meal, along with food for Brecht. Since then, they had been the best of friends to Varya, and could never forget their kindness. They were almost as dear to her as Brecht.

“Thank you, Aelius, but I think that I ought to go back. After all, what if Brecht is worse, and he needs attention? He might need me.”

“Please go, Varya. I can handle Brecht, and if he is not well, I will make sure to alert you. Please?”

“I suppose,” said Varya, half reluctantly, half gladly. “Just make sure that you tell me if Brecht’s sickness is worse. Will Brietta be troubled by such unexpected company?”

“Not at all,” smiled Aelius, “she has been eager to see you for weeks. And I will make sure to take care of Brecht. Now go, before we meet any more… unsavory characters.” Smiling, Varya and Aelius parted, each going their own way.

Varya stumbled down the alley, still looking and feeling a little shaken. She turned into a back road and walked uphill for about an actus, to Aelius and Brietta’s home. As she walked, Varya thought about what Aetius had said. She was different, there was no disputing that. While most of Roman Britain boasted fair and light hair, hers was coarse and bright red. Her eyes, unlike Roman Britons’ sky-blue eyes, were light grey, a color rarely found in Britain. Besides that, her name was foreign. Most Roman Briton names were quite similar, like Marius, Aurelius, or Junia, but hers was so different. No one had been able to piece out where it had originated. What did it mean?

And Brecht. Who was he? Though he had always shown the kind care and tenderness of a grandfather, he had never actually said the fact outright. Where had he come from, and how did he become her caretaker?

Never had Varya felt so alone, so confused before in her life. The encounter with Aetius had brought up questions that, until then, she had been too afraid to ask herself. She had always doubted herself, skulking in the shadows, trying to become a part of a world that could not possibly accept her. Sometimes she wanted to cry when she saw the young Roman Briton children playing and dancing together freely. They lived a life that she would never know. Accepted and acknowledged freely by the people of the wall, they truly belonged somewhere. They would never be shut out and ignored, they would never have to work just to be accepted, like she did.

It was not her own fault, either. Even if she was Briton, she probably would have struggled with some of the same problems, as Romans were considered the “elite” citizens, enjoying favors and respect that Britons (as well as the beggars and rabble) were deprived of. Still, it hurt.

As these thoughts coursed through her mind, Varya continued to walk uphill, until she finally reached Aelius’s home. His house was a small, but neat and clean, villa. There were several apple and fig trees growing in the front yard, and a few small elderberry bushes bordered the house, no doubt planted by the beauty-seeking eye of Brietta, Varya thought. Varya walked down the cobblestoned path to the front door. She knocked gently, and was received by Brietta

“Oh, darling, Aelius and I have yearned to see you for so long! It has been too long, too long my dear.”

“Yes, Brietta, it has been too long.”