"Mother," Embelsira interrupted furiously, "you go to bed!"
She did, hurriedly.
"Don't worry, Embelsira," Clarey said. "She will be weaving away for decades yet. Everybody says she's the best weaver in the district," he added, to change the subject.
"Yes," Embelsira said as they gathered all the oddments the guests had left, "she's been offered a lot of money to go work in Zrig. But she won't leave Katund; she was born here, and so were her parents."
"I do not blame her for wanting to stay," he said. "It's a very—homelike place."
She sighed. "To us it is, but I don't suppose someone who's city born and bred would feel the same way. I know you won't let yourself stay buried here forever, and what will I—what will Mother and I ever do without you?"
"It is—very kind of you to say so," he replied. "I am honored."
The girl—she was still young enough to be called a girl, though no longer in her first youth—looked up at him. Blue eyes could be pleasing in their way. "Why are you always so stiff, so cold?"
"I am not cold," he said honestly. "I am—afraid."
"There is nothing to be afraid of. You're safe, among friends, no matter what you may have done back where you came from."