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“Does he know about the baby?”
Their daughter’s eyes were wide and dark as she eyed the backyard with a mix of concern and trepidation. Phee kept chopping the tubers for dinner.
“Probably. Your papa’s pretty observant.” When he wanted to be, she thought but didn’t say.
“So he won’t scare it away?”
“It’s a hatchling, honey, it’s not gonna be able to run off.”
“But it might try!” Helena stood on her tiptoes, staring out the kitchen window. Tech was working on one of the weather censors he’d installed on the retaining wall; it was an experimental unit, he said, and thus prone to erratic measurements. Or, it would be, until he could sort out the upgrades he was hoping to make.
Helena bit her lip. “I’m gonna go make sure he knows.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay. But then you come back in here and help with dinner.”
Helena sprinted for the back door. “I will.”
“No running in the house!”
She slowed down just as she reached the door, calling, “Sorry!” over her shoulder as she pushed through it.
Out in the yard, their already-too-tall daughter bounded up to Tech. Though Phee couldn’t hear what they were saying, she saw the way Tech’s posture changed, his brows knitting. Then he set down his tools and allowed Helena to lead him to the old baragad tree that occupied one corner of the small yard, its heavy, moss- and lichen-laden prop roots forming a small sanctuary for countless birds. Somewhere in that tangle of plant life, a weaver-shrike had made its nest, assembling leaves with moss and hair and arachnid silks into an alcove and tucking its precious single egg within. They raised only one hatchling at a time.
All of which Phee knew from her years on the island, and had related to Helena when their daughter first found the nest. Helena was now telling Tech, pointing into the recesses of the baragad’s roots; he peered, prosthetic eyes glinting as they adjusted for the dark recesses.
Who would she tell next? Djoura, who was napping in the back room? Omega, hard at work on rebuilding the remains of the Marauder into something serviceable? Crosshair, who listened to anything the girls had to say, no matter how mundane or inane it might be? Phee’s money was on Omega, but Helena never ceased to surprise her. It could easily be Wrecker.
Phee smiled to herself, resumed chopping the vegetables for dinner.