Every year of my youth I would help with the harvest. Though the work was hard, the break from our routine came like a holiday to my sister and me. Our hands and arms pungent with the scent of the plucked oranges, a mid day meal in the pools of cool shade that were cast by the dusty pines. Olives from our own estate, fresh bread, wine from our own vines. My grandfather's wealth tangible, edible.
The peach gathering was women's work, my grandfather always maintained. Soft hands for the fruits' soft skins. All the women took part, rising early in the morning, breaking our fast together irrespective of rank or duty. Amongst our family it had become a celebration and a bringing together of women. We sang as we moved amongst the trees in the groves and gardens...
I can hear Amlarad behind me, breathing harder as we labour in the snow back towards the settlement. Quiet since his last, truncated words ... has he truly hunted me for leagues? The fine hair on the back of my neck lifts at the thought of prey and pursuit.
... Each of the peaches we picked we wrapped carefully and set aside, mindful of how easily the fuzzed flesh bruised. We handled them as little as possible - too much and the ripe skins would split, the tender flesh crush...
Thoughts of Amlarad. Thoughts of my Lord Steward. My mind wraps old memories around them as though they were peaches.
