Broken Antler Fen Good wives always know.

She wailed, and wailed, and mama met her, with her all familiar smell and all familiar touch. Rough, though Jassy knew no different. Knew not how she was handled less delicate than Diantha, less precious than Roswell.

The girl settled into the crook between mama and Diantha, if settled was an apt way to describe the squirm of her body as she sought to reverse the awakening of sight. She saw, no matter which way she turned, and her cries continued, despite mama's soft protests and her sister's shifting warmth.