Weyrbred children were not like Hold children, Menolly discovered: they were more active physically, possessed of insatiable curiosity for every detail she cared to tell them about fishing and sailing. It was only when she taught them to fashion tiny boats of sticks and wide root leaves and sent them off to sail the skiffs in the Weyr lake that she had any rest the first morning.

In the afternoon, she amused the younger ones by recounting how T’gran had rescued her. Thread was not as automatically horrifying to Weyr children as it would be to Holders, and they were far more interested in her running and rescue than in what she was running from. Unconsciously she fell into a rhyming pattern and caught herself up sharply just before she’d conceived a tune. The children didn’t seem to notice fortunately, and then it was time to peel tubers for the evening meal,

It was difficult to subdue that little tune as she worked. Really it had exactly the cadence of her running stride…

“Oh!”

“Did you cut yourself?” asked Sanra from the other side of the table.

“No,” replied Menolly, and she grinned with great good humor. She had just realized something very important. She wasn’t in the Sea Hold any longer. And no one here knew about her harpering. Likewise no one would know if it were her own songs she hummed when she felt like humming. So she began to hum her running song, and was doubly pleased with herself because the tune matched her paring strokes, too.

“It’s a relief to hear someone happy,” remarked Sanra, smiling encouragingly at Menolly.

Menolly realized then that she’d been vaguely aware all day of the fact that the atmosphere in the living cavern reminded her of those times when the fishing fleet was overdue in a storm and everyone was “waiting.” Mirrim was very worried about Brekke but she wouldn’t say why, and Menolly was reluctant to broach the girl’s sad reserve.

“I’m happy because my feet are healing,” she told Sanra and then hurried on, “but I wish someone would tell me what’s wrong with Brekke, I know Minim’s worried sick about her…”

Sanra stared at Menolly for a moment. “You mean, you haven’t heard about…” she lowered her voice and glanced about to make sure they weren’t overheard, “…about the queens?”

“No. No one tells girls anything in the Sea Hold.”

Sanra looked surprised but accepted the explanation. “Well, Brekke used to be at Southern, you did know that? Good. And when F’lar banished all the rebellious Oldtimers to Southern, the Southerners had to go somewhere. Tbor became Weyrleader at Fort Hold, Kylara…” and Sanra’s usually gentle voice became hard, “Kylara was Weyrwoman for Prideth, with Brekke and Wirenth…” Sanra was having enough trouble telling the tale so Menolly was very glad she hadn’t asked Mirrim. Wirenth rose to mate, but Kylara…” and the name was spoken with intense hatred, “Kylara hadn’t taken Prideth far enough away. She was close to mating, too, and when Wirenth flew the bronzes, she rose, and…”

There were tears in Sanra’s eyes, and she shook her head, unable to continue.

“Both queens…died?”

Sanra nodded.

“Brekke’s alive, though…Isn’t she?”

“Kylara lost her mind, and we’re desperately afraid that Brekke will lose hers…” Sanra mopped the tears from her face, sniffing back her sorrow.

“Poor Mirrim. And she’s been so good to me!”

Sanra sniffed again, this time from pique.

“Mirrim likes to think she’s got the cares of the Weyr on her shoulders.”

“Well, I’ve a lot more respect for her the way she keeps on going when she’s worried sick than if she crept off someplace and just felt sorry for herself.”

Sanra stared at Menolly. “No need to bristle at me, girl, and if you keep on stabbing your knife that way, you will cut yourself.”

“Will Brekke be all right?” asked Menolly after a few minutes’ strict attention to her peeling.

“We hope so,” but Sanra didn’t sound confident. “No, we do. You see, Ramoth’s clutch is about to hatch, and Lessa is certain that Brekke could Impress the queen. You see, she can speak to any of the dragons, the way Lessa can, and Grall and Berd are always with her…Here comes Mirrim.”

Menolly had to admit that Mirrim, who only numbered the same Turns as she did, did assume an officious manner. She could understand that an older woman like Sanra might not take kindly to it. Yet Menolly had no fault to find with Mirrim’s ministrations. And she let the girl bustle her off to her cubicle to change the bandages.

“You’ve been on them all day, and I want to be sure no dirt’s in the scabs,” she said, briskly.

Menolly obediently lay on her stomach in the bed and then tentatively suggested that perhaps tomorrow she could change her own bandages and save Mirrim some work.

“Don’t be silly. Feet are very awkward, but you’re not. You should just hear C’tarel complain. He got Threadscored during the last Fall. You’d think he was the only one ever in the world scored. And besides, Manora sad I was to take care of you. You’re easy, you don’t moan, groan, complain, and swear like C’tarel. Now, these are healing nicely. In spite of the way it might feel to you. Manora says that feet hurt worse than any part of your body, but hands. That’s why it seems much worse to you, I expect.”

Menolly had no argument and breathed a sigh of relief that the painful session was now over. “You taught the weyrlings how to make those little boats, didn’t you?” Menolly flipped over, startled, and wondering if she’d done wrong, but Mirrim was grinning.

“You should have seen the dragons snorting them about the lake.” Mirrim giggled. “Having the grandest time. I haven’t laughed so much in weeks. There you are!” And Mirrim bustled away on some other errand.

The following day Mirrim hovering beside her, Menolly walked slowly and not too painfully through the living cavern and into the main kitchen cavern for the first time.

“Ramoth’s eggs are just about to Hatch,” Mirrim told her as she placed Menolly at one of the worktables along the back side of the huge cave. “There’s nothing wrong with your hands, and we’ll need all the help we can get for the feast…”

“And maybe your Brekke will be better?”

“Oh, she’s got to be, Menolly, she’s got to be.” Mirrim scrubbed her hands together anxiously. “If she isn’t, I don’t know what will become of her and F’nor. He cares so much. Manora’s as worried about him as she is about Brekke…”

“It’ll all come right, Mirrim. I’m sure it will,” Menolly said, putting all the confidence she could muster into her voice.

“Oh, do you really think So?” Mirrim dropped her pose of bustling efficiency and was briefly a young, bewildered girl in need of reassurance.

“I most certainly do!” And Menolly was angry with Sanra’s unkind statements of the day before. “Why, when I thought I’d be scored to death, T’gran appeared. And when I thought they’d all be Threaded…” Menolly hastily shut her mouth, frantically trying to think of something to fill that gap. She’d almost told Mirrim about saving the fire lizards.

“They must belong to somebody,” a man said in a loud, frustrated tone of voice.

Two dragonriders entered the kitchen cavern, slapping dusty gloves against sandy boots and loosening their riding belts.

“They could be attracted by the ones we have, T’gellan.”

“Considering how badly we need the creatures…”

“In the egg…”

“It’s a raking nuisance to have a whole flaming fair that no one will claim!”

The next thing Menolly knew, Beauty appeared over her head, gave a terrified squawk and landed on Menolly’s thinly clad shoulder. Beauty wrapped her tail, choking tight, about Menolly’s neck and buried her face into her hair. Rocky and Diver seized the cloth of her shirt in their claws, struggling to burrow into her arms. The air was full of frightened fire lizards, diving at her; and Mirrim, who made no attempt to defend herself, stared with utter amazement at Menolly.