Waiting by Zdenka

Chapter 1

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Summer is ending, and still there is no word from the battle. The house has grown quieter; Rían no longer sings and barely speaks, seeming to draw into herself. Aerin rubs butter and flour together with her fingertips to make piecrust. If she makes Rían’s favorite pear tart, perhaps she can coax a brief smile.

The wind from the North begins to turn chill. Morwen stalks about the house, her expression forbidding and her tongue sharper. She ignores Aerin’s tentative suggestions that she sit and rest. A nourishing broth will be good for her and the child, Aerin thinks. She plucks sprigs of thyme for flavor and breathes in the fragrant scent.

Aerin is afraid. For her father, her cousins, her friends. Absurd, to think she could defend Dor-lómin with soup, or hold off Morgoth’s armies with piecrust. But if she kneads the bread, it keeps her hands from shaking.