Page 159 of Pocket Wife

“No single hand.”

The words settle into me.

Pi’rell memory taught that a homeworld lost became sacred through grief. Solaris Valley teaches something different. A home can be sacred before it is lost. Perhaps that is why it fought so hard to remain.

Lucy looks up at me. “You are quiet.”

“I am learning.”

“That is new for you.”

“Incorrect. I learn constantly.”

She smiles. “You argue constantly.”

“I have learned that too.”

Her smile widens, and the sight alters something in me no loss has managed to touch. Not erased grief. Not replaced the dead. But made room beside them.

Celia approaches with a cup of water and hands it to Lucy. “First cup.”

Lucy takes it, then looks at Nara.

Nara shakes her head. “He already drank.”

Samuel says, “Seed trays have enough.”

Celia lifts her chin. “Then drink, child. Some rules include you.”

Lucy looks startled by that.

I love Celia Marris in that moment with an unexpected and scholarly severity.

Lucy drinks.

Then she hands the cup to me.

I accept it with both hands.

The water is cool, metallic from old pipes, faintly sweet with minerals from stone that remembered more faithfully than law. I drink, and the valley watches without spectacle, without suspicion.

Not outsider.

Not owner.

Witness.

When I lower the cup, Lucy’s hand finds mine.

Alden opens the civic slate. “Emergency continuity panel proposes formal ratification tomorrow.”

Torren calls from the back, “After breakfast.”

Jessa adds, “After sleep.”

Celia says, “After both, because fools vote badly hungry.”

A ripple of laughter moves through the cistern field.