Morrachane shook her head. “I could not leave the business for so long.”

“But Ben’s here,” Nia pointed out. “And even if you don’t visit them, he can still marry again. He’s not that old.”

Morrachane smiled and cupped Nia’s cheek in one hand. “You are a good girl, Niamara Bancanor, and you know your family duty. Vrohain knows I have presented that son of mine with perfectly eligible females, but will he do as he ought?” She folded her lips, her pale-green eyes flashing. “I don’t understand how I could have failed with him, but I did.”

Daja clenched her hands under the table. She was determined not to say that it was hardly a surprise if Ben didn’t follow his mother’s wishes, not when Morrachane had yet to speak well of him. “I imagine he’ll remarry when he gets to it,” she said when she got her temper under control. “He seems rather busy keeping the city from burning up.”

“That is his excuse,” Morrachane said. “He has a gift for making others think well of him. The truth is that he would rather idle with the city’s riffraff than serve his family.” She looked at Nia, who read the old-style writing on one page, her lips moving silently. Her face, as hard as iron when she discussed her son, relaxed. “Would you like me to have copies of this made for you and Jory?” she asked Nia. “It’s no trouble, and I’d like you to have them. Though chances are your hands will be so rough from hammering and sawing that you won’t be able to make lace!”

Nia smiled; Daja bristled at the hint of criticism. “I’ll just do like Mama does, to keep her work neat,” Nia assured the old woman. “I’ll make a pair of thin linen gloves.”

“Now there’s an idea,” Morrachane said with approval. “Your mother does have lovely hands.”

“She puts lotion on them and wears the gloves to keep the lotion on her skin longer,” explained Nia. “I’ve been thinking about trying that anyway. And then I could make lace without damaging the threads.”

“So clever!” Morrachane said with approval. She hugged Nia gently around the shoulders. “I’m glad to see that banging away with rough tools hasn’t made you forget womanly interests.”

“Oh, look at this one!” Nia said, her eyes wide. “Aunt Morrachane, what is this?” She traced a pattern in old lace, her finger not quite touching it.

So her rough mage’s fingers didn’t touch Morrachane’s precious legacy, thought Daja, cross.

“Well, those are flames or waves, depending on how you look at them,” Morrachane answered Nia. “My mother-in-law thought they were supposed to show both sides of womanhood, passion and the ability to flow around obstacles.”

Daja had heard enough-did the woman do anything but carp? She got to her feet. “I hope you’ll forgive me,” she told Morrachane. “There isn’t much light, and I need to practice my skating.”

Morrachane nodded. Her pale-green eyes did not move from Nia’s face.

“Remember, slow is better,” Nia said absently, turning another page.

Daja grinned despite her anger with Morrachane. “I have three friends who would tell you I have slowness down to an art,” she assured Nia and left the kitchen.

In the slush room she donned coat, scarves, gloves, and even a wool cap so she wouldn’t be tempted to use her magic to warm herself. Picking up her skates, she went down to the basin.

“Doesn’t do his duty,” she growled as she buckled her left skate. “Idles with riffraff. Bangs away with rough tools. That woman’s mouth is so sour she could pickle lemons in it!” She yanked the straps on her right skate so hard they pinched her foot even through her boot. Cursing in Tradertalk, she loosened the strap. “How someone like Ben came from that bitter old shoe of a female… “

She stood and thrust herself away from the bench. Unfortunately she did so a little too hard. Across the basin she shot, right into its snowy sides. She pushed herself out of the snow, her face hot with embarrassment. No one was present to witness her humiliation, but she still said aloud, “I meant to do that.”

It was like meditation, she realized as she steadied herself on the ice once more. She couldn’t think about anything but skating when she skated. She closed her eyes and took deep breaths, thrusting Morrachane from her mind. When her thoughts were filled only with skating, she began again.

Nia joined her after a while. Morrachane had gone home. “You don’t like her, do you?” Nia called from the bench.

Daja was practicing turns. “I don’t need to like her.”

“I feel bad. She’s so dreadful to everyone else, and so kind to Jory and me.” Nia stood and glided across the ice.

“That’s what Jory said,” admitted Daja.

“I don’t understand it,” Nia told her, going into a tight, quick spin. As she slowed she added, “I used to think all the stories about her were just lies from jealous people. Then-then I saw her thrash a beggar with her driver’s carriage whip one day. How can she be so loving to us, and so horrible to the rest of the world? What would make a person grow up that way?”

“I don’t know,” replied Daja. “I’ve never seen anyone like her. My Aunt Hulweme was mean to everyone, no exceptions. Great navigator, but a dreadful person. I’m just glad Ben isn’t like his mother.”

“The whole city’s glad,” Nia assured her. She grabbed Daja’s hands. “Come on. Let’s go try the ice in the canal.”