The white-gray two-story house with a ft roof looks as if it has gotten much smaller.

  Our yard is outlined by rows of dark purple anemone flowers.

  A cy flowerpot of purplish-red blooms was pced on my room's window. One of my favorite flowers is fuchsia.

  The glorious red light of Sol washes over me. I spread my arms at the sky. Yes. So pretty. I avert my gaze away from the small red sun.

  I remove the straps and dismount.

  My arrival is announced by Ley's loud barking. Father sometimes calls her ''Void's Spawn,'' since she likes to bark at night. About a year or so they got her to chase rats. She looks like a bck sausage with legs. I like to pinch her cheeks.

  The dog's barking turns to high-pitched whining as she reaches me. Ley jumps about my feet, her tail a blur of motion. I rapidly pat her tummy with the tips of my slightly sore fingers.

  My mother is outside not long after the two-legged creature nded in our yard. My father follows closely behind, striding out briskly.

  Almost every time I visit, Mom trims my hair. Not today, though. Hebe is...decent at it but the scissors they gave us are simply subpar to my mother's hepatizon ones. And also, Mom says I shouldn't let other girls cut it. She can be smothering sometimes...and all the times.

  I tried letting Hebe work on my blunt bangs, and it was a disaster. Only Mom knows how to smoothly shorten my hair.

  My home is on the southern moss called Capitolinus Moss. Its affable location shortened my travel time. A bit.

  The rge raven that has brought me home before midday is an exceptionally fast Grey-made transport familiar, but it still took some time to reach my moss. For the first two years, when my visitations were more frequent, I was flown here by the assigned Academy soldier who controlled the selected mount with simple commands. This time there was no escort, and I had frustratingly no options for controlling the feathery beast. Grizzled Grey Breaker at the Academy that made it imprinted a command onto the Winged's mind, and since the beast had learned where my home was, it flew me here on its own. There are no reins to speak of.

  What's even more impressive is that it will start to fp its rge wings and croak annoyingly at the exact time of my purported departure. How the damned thing knows to measure the almost exact time passed is a mystery I was unable to solve.

  I'm allowed but a few measly hours with my parents before having to return, given that, I'm sure, the Academy would crumble to stony dust without me. They seem, and blessedly sound much the same as always. Amarium-breastpte-tight hugs exchanged, we move inside the house.

  The space is familiar and welcoming, yet feels smaller every time I come back.

  I take off my pink woolen hat and tuck it into my sleeve. I didn't need the hat, cold rarely bothers me, yet I wear it from time to time. Next, I uncsp my lion fibu and remove the red cloak, revealing Academy's phoenix insignia gracing my sleeves, just below my shoulder level.

  It is strange how even after a few years without sleeping in my bed—admittedly most of such night time was spent lying down awake or lying on the roof—there is still a strong yearning for me to stay with them.

  Their—our, I should say—kitchen is a pottery gathering of jugs, brown pots of all sizes, jars, ptes, and soup bowls; fresh vegetables in the corner, a three-handspan wide stonewood cutting board, iron pan, and other...kitchen things. Woven baskets are filled with seedless and next to tasteless artificial Violet-made vegetables of mostly dark purple and bck variety. There are a few ordinary periwinkle and vioceous lettuces as well as misty-gray leafed maroon radishes thrown in.

  About a dozen or so oranges filled a bowl to the right of the small oven of gray-white stone. Each orange was no bigger than a child's fist and had a pleasant smell and sweetness. At the lip of the oven, Mother left some shreds of orange rind, the kitchen air was rich with their aroma.

  Near the oven, the kitchen had a white-gray marble basin for cutlery, bowls, ptes, and such. The basin was built into the counter—a bronze spigot was above, on the wall. A clean brush and white cloth within easy reach, like always.

  Rich red linen vance decorated the kitchen window that was pced high up on the wall.

  Much of the earthenware is currently on the stonewood kitchen table, overflowing with goodies made in my honor.

  Despite my best efforts against it, my mom always has to make a small banquet for each of my comings here. The table has a bowl of rice, boiled eggs, some cloud-gray artificial oval-shaped vegetables I don't recognize, bran bread, wheat porridge with onions and beans to add fvor, and there are even some dried natural vegetables. The round bread is cut across four times, giving eight easily tearable pieces.

  And to top it all off, a forearm-tall gss pitcher filled almost to the brim with sweet diluted grape juice alongside some cinnamon.

  Mortarium, possibly Mom's favorite kitchen tool, is filled with a spread made of white cheese with ground garlic and thyme mixed in, linseed oil drizzled on top. The mortarium has a small opening near the top to allow the outflow of liquids—exquisitely made to portray the mouth of a lion.

  Worst of all, they've sughtered and plucked one of the egg-ying chickens from near the outside shed. Like a crown jewel, pced on a ptter in the middle of the table, the roasted and basted chicken is served with sapa. The honey-based sauce has a rich syrupy dark amber color to it. I told my mother many times to not treat me like I'm a visiting senator. My every word bounces off her as if I'm speaking to a wall. To. A. Wall.

  I do not wish to think how much hex all this had cost them. Before, we had some arguments about it, and aurichalcum-precious time was spent arguing.

  Still there. On one end of the kitchen table, I can see a small groove that I carved years back.

  For some time, the sounds of eating is all that can be heard. In the Hall, on the rare days when they serve roasted meats, the canteen gets unusually quiet. Everyone just gobbles their food and no one really talks. I've read that that's how you know if an inn serves good food or stale garbage. When mouths prefer to chew rather than do gossip.

  My mother can't seem to stop staring at the right side of my face. I can feel her ogling eyes on my cheek. Out of all days it had to be now.

  A few reddish spots ravage my cheek. Yesterday, without thinking I scratched one of them and felt the sharp kiss of a wasp.

  But the worst thing is she can't seem to shut up about it. ''You need to dip clean cloth with spirits and rub it. Then put some cream. I could try and send you some chamomile cream with castor oil.''

  ''It will pass!'' I excim angrily. She always has to find a fw to nag about. Her cold eyes gre at me, no doubt pnning the next criticism.

  Father clears his throat. ''So, how are your studies going, overall?'' It was a stupid question, but a welcome distraction I suppose. He knows the physical side of my studies can't be a bother, and I also already mentioned to them that cerebral obstacles are an easy slice, not a problem at all.

  Especially considering I can rarely fall asleep and therefore have near endless time to study. A problem, if I can call it that, that has somehow gotten worse over the st few days. ''Well,'' I look at my mother, ''I'm thinking about improving my grades in running, spear and discus throwing, wrestling, and every other useless thing we are taught there!'' I slightly raised my voice after every few words.

  Ow!

  She clipped me on the head with her knuckles. ''Do not speak to me like that, girl.'' Her glower still manages to get to me and I look away.

  My father releases a heavy sigh. ''They are feeding you well. Every time we see each other you are taller.'' During the time of plenty, in the first year, when my visitations were more numerous, Father lost some weight and gained shadows below the eyes. I'm gd to see this has gradually changed, due to what I have no doubt were vigorous efforts from my mom to make him eat more. He knows my pain.

  ''Are you sure?'' My mom examines me with more scrutiny than any grandmaster ever could. ''She seems a little pale.'' Perhaps the Academy's decision to reduce student visits home has some merit to it. ''Do they truly feed you well? You must take some supplies with you. I have stored---''

  I move my cheek away from her left hand and try to talk calmly. ''Mom, I've told you many times, they feed us as if...as if we were portly priests of Acrona.'' In the temples of the Second Daughter, many worshipers often leave offerings of food, and those well-off even give some wine at her altar. These offerings mysteriously disappear by the next day.

  She cps me on the head again. If she hits me one more time I will break the kitchen table. ''Do not bsphemy, Anaya.'' Mom gets up to prepare my emergency supplies so I don't starve to death, and as I bze at her and prepare to follow, Father wishes to bring peace to the realm.

  He suddenly gets up. ''Anna come, I wish to show you something.''

  His workshop is much as I remember, tidy and clean. He once told me, ''If you work in a mess you will produce a mess.''

  Mom always berated how I should be as tidy as him. Every single time she entered my room there would be some compint concerning its alleged, as she would put it, ''topsy-turvy'' state. I'm really not that messy.

  His warm brown eyes study my face intently, a wistful gaze heightens the tiny wrinkles around them.

  Some see crystalcrafters as greedy knaves. Father is no such thing. He always treated people the way they treat him. Anyone wanting to call my father deceitful or greedy should look at their own reflection first.

  On the table in the corner, there is a white woolen cloth covering something.

  He slowly removes it, and the painstaking details of his work leave me speechless. ''I know the Academy wouldn't allow you to bring it with you. I wished to gift this to you for your fifteenth spring, but near the end of Garn, it was nowhere near finished. With you rarely coming home this is a rare opportunity to give it to you. Consider it a massively deyed birthday present.''

  I can't stop gawping at the rearing horse carved out of Crimson. The crystal he made this from must have been the size of a fist. The destrier's mane and tail have just now stopped dancing in the wind. The plinth is made to look into swirling clouds.

  He even charged the crystal recently, the vortexing red light inside making it as if the horse has a blood flow. As I look more closely I notice that he even managed to vividly portray the rearing horse's contracted muscles.

  I have to look away and blink away the red haze in my eyes.

  ''Do you like it?'' Father asks.

  ''It is one of the most beautiful things I ever saw. Father, you have outdone yourself.'' I move to embrace him.

  ''I don't want you to go, Anna,'' he whispers sadly.

  I can smell the faintest hints from Mom's attar of roses on him. It is often overpowering on her and some must have gotten on him somehow. ''I'm well. Academy takes good care of us.''

  With great reluctance he lets me go. ''It will always wait for you in your room. I will feed it light every few days.'' He pces his hands on my shoulders, looking deeply into my eyes. ''I don't care if Theia herself strikes down The Breaker Academy,'' he whispers, ''you come back to us, girl.'' He regards the small shining sculpture that might at any moment come to life. ''Whatever happens, its shine will always wait for you.''

  Before we move to leave he pulls out a stonewood merels board from the top shelf, above his cutting and polishing tools. ''Time for a game?''

  ''We have time for one,'' I say.

  We py a little further from the piece of art he made for me, standing next to his main work table.

  The board has emblematic inys of triquetra dominating the surface with a matrix of twenty-four evenly spaced and roundly carved dents for the pieces.

  It is a simple game. We each get nine of the pieces and pce them in empty spots with a satisfying click. I always let the old man go first although I don't even know why we bother pying since the outcome is so often the same. It makes me sad how our movement is rushed as if the board might burst into fmes at any moment.

  In the beginning, he beat me every time but it is pointless now.

  At regur intervals, bck and white pieces are removed from the board while each of us constantly tries to get three in a row. We have both mastered the game and this one, like most others, ends in a draw.

  ''You could've let me win.''

  ''If I've always let you win then you wouldn't have become so good at it. Let us go before your mother accuses me of stealing you all to myself.''

  My time to go is soon and we move into the kitchen where my mom has prepared a moss-worth of supplies. Will all that fit into the old satchel she made for me? The giant raven outside surely won't appreciate the extra weight.

  ''Stay here, Anna. I wish to speak to your father.'' That probably means I'm going to be the topic.

  I simply nod and sit at the kitchen table, pretending I can't hear them while they move to conspire in the next room.

  ''...she gets her dirty tongue and impulse towards bsphemy from you, John.''

  ''You were eavesdropping.''

  ''And you were scaring her. Like she is going off to some war.''

  ''You heard what they say of that pce. They treat children as recruits, future soldiers to be sent Void knows where.''

  For a moment Mom pauses. ''Must you always speak like that? Despite your best efforts, we are exalted by all our neighbors because of the honor of our daughter attending the Academy.''

  ''Fuck blessings and honors. A child should grow up with its parents.''

  He lowers his voice even more. ''Her posture is different and she even moves differently.''

  ''Oh Goddess, her back is finally straighter, after all those books you fed her gave her a hunch. How simply abominable.'' Even in whisper, my mother's voice is sharp like a bde of hepatizon.

  Strange, I keep forgetting: I don't have to listen to them squabbling.

  I quickly rip out the remaining chicken drumstick and go to the door. I open them quietly. Of course you're here, my little rat. Leaning over, I give Ley the drumstick. She takes it gently and then scampers away to some hidden spot.

  Soon my satchel will be overflowing with linen-wrapped food, soon the raven will call for me.

  I sm the back of my head against the now closed door, exhale deeply, and slide slowly down to crouch here for a bit.

  Just for a bit.