Worlds on Fire: Dinner at the Aquillas

[x-molten.livejournal.com]

A quiet evening that takes a turn for the worse.

Amara closed the front door behind her with her hip, hands full of vegetables from the small garden she tended behind their house. She was humming to herself, a lullaby she had been singing for the children she babysat, as she dropped the vegetables onto the kitchen table. With the sun sinking low, and the air cooling, she guessed it to be about time for her father to arrive home. So she began preparing dinner, washing the vegetables in the sink and slicing them into bite-sized chunks.

The door opened again, and Amara heard a familiar deep chuckle. "Busy again, I see," her father said as he came into the kitchen. He looked tired and vaguely worried, but smiled at Amara, coming over to kiss her forehead before looking down at the vegetables she was cutting. "What will it be tonight?"

She beamed up at him and kissed his shoulder before returning to her work. "I was thinking a stew, despite the heat. I managed to snag a bit of beef from Jimena in exchange for watching her little ones as she did laundry." The rhythm of her chopping never ceased as she went from one carrot to the next. She pushed aside the diced rounds and set her knife down. "You look tired, Papa. You should rest. Dinner won't be done for another hour."

"I'm all right, Amara." He sat down on one of the kitchen stools he had made with his two hands, where he would be well out of her path back and forth to the stove. "I'd rather enjoy your company," he said, and his smile faded a little, some of the worry showing through more clearly as he watched her.

Amara made note of the worried look and let it go for the moment. In comfortable silence, she picked up her knife again and chopped the onions and celery, putting them and the carrots in a big stew pot already at a boil on the stove.

"Did you know Pablo's got a girlfriend? He's only seven, but Esme insists she's deeply in love with him, so she follows him around everywhere. Jimena thinks it's adorable, but it means that I had to watch an extra child this afternoon." The vegetables received a dash of salt and a couple pinches of herbs, also from her garden. Hooking the other stool, she sat down across from her father. "And if you don't want to tell me why you're worried, that's fine. But I wish you would."

"I'm not sure you'll like hearing it," he said with a sigh, his expression growing briefly bleak before he tried to force a smile. "There are... rumors, Amara."

"There are always rumors, Papa. But I'm not thinking you mean the every-day ones. What has you looking so frightened?" Amara took his hand and willed her face not to show the beginnings of fear. "I can handle it. I'm not a child."

"I've been hearing things. They," and the fearful derision in her father's voice was muted, but still very much present and told her very clearly who he was talking about, "are planning something. Something... very large."

Amara swallowed around the sudden lump in her throat. They had been responsible for her mother's death. Neither she nor her father could have ever proved it, but she knew it to be true. Her mother would never have left them willingly; she would not have disappeared in the night without a trace. And they had been far too smug the next morning.

"If they are planning something, then it cannot be good. Do you have any idea what it could be?" Amara's mind raced with possibilities, but no plans of action if any of the possibilities proved true.

"Some of them have been... watching young women." His voice faltered, and he squeezed Amara's hand suddenly. "Have you seen anyone showing interest in you? Watching you while you're with the children?"

Amara's face drained of color and she squeezed his hand back tightly. "I...I'm not sure. There are always people working the fields, but they all know me. It's natural that they would look up at me on occasion to make sure I was doing alright with the littles. Do you think they could be... watching me?" The fear in her voice was unmistakable and she fought down the urge to hide. She was in her house; she was safe.

"I don't know." But her father, her gruff, determined, competent father, suddenly looked terrified. "I don't know what to do, Amara." His grip was almost painfully tight. "I can't lose you too."

Amara shifted closer to him. "You won't lose me, Papa. I promise. I'll be careful. I'll stay by the house or Jimena's, and if I have to go somewhere, I'll take someone with me. I promise I won't be taken like Mama." Tears blurred her vision, but she blinked them away, mustering a slight smile. "It'll be okay."

"I wish there was a way to get you away from here." Frustration surfaced amid the fear, but he shook his head stubbornly, almost doggedly. "To someplace safe."

"But I want to stay here with you. Don't send me away." Amara couldn't have said where he would have sent her, or even how she would have got there, but the fear of being away from her father outweighed any fear she had of them. "I promise to stay safe."

"I can't think of a way to get you someplace safe, even if you'd go." His smile faltered. "You remind me so much of your mother. I blame your stubborn streak entirely on her."

"When you're surrounded by all of this," and she encompassed the entire valley with a wave of her free hand, "it's hard to think of a way out." She smiled at the memories of her mother's stubbornness, the way she would hold her arms akimbo, the way she set her jaw. "I can think of no worthier person to take after."

"She would be very proud of you." Her father rose - then, unexpectedly, pulled her to him for a brief, but fervent embrace. "Perhaps I will rest for a while before dinner," he said, wearing something closer to a more normal expression as he drew away. "As long as you're sure you don't need any help?"

She nudged him gently in the direction of his bedroom. "Go rest. The stew will take care of itself. Meat's mostly done, vegetables are in. I'll just grab a book and make sure nothing burns. I might even finish 'Moby Dick' tonight." All the fear she had earlier was chased away by the love she had for her father, and her mother. She moved to get her book, when she stopped and turned. "I love you, Papa."

"I love you too, Amara." He looked back more than once as he left the kitchen, as if reassuring himself that she was still there.

Amara watched him until he left, checked the stew, then picked up "Moby Dick" from the rocking chair seat and curled up in the chair, flipping to the end. She rocked idly as she read, unaware of the man who fled into the falling dusk, running toward the temple, to warn his brothers that someone was getting suspicious.