Kira nodded. “You were firm. You insisted,” she reminded her mother.
“Still, they made me promise that you would not become a burden.” “I haven’t, have I?”
“Of course not. Your strong hands and wise head make up for the crippled leg.
You are a sturdy and reliable helper in the weaving shed; all the women who work there say so.
And one bent leg is of no importance when measured against your cleverness.
The stories you tell to the tykes, the pictures you create with words—and with thread!
The threading you do! It is unlike any threading the people have ever seen. Far beyond anything I could do!”
Her mother stopped. She laughed. “Enough. You mustn’t tease me into flattery.
Don’t forget that you are still a girl, and often willful, and just this morning, Kira, you forgot to tidy the cott even though you had promised.”
“I won’t forget tomorrow,” Kira said sleepily, snuggling against her mother on the raised sleeping mat.
She pushed her twisted leg into a more comfortable position for the night. “I promise.”
But now there was no one to help her. She had no family left, and she was not a particularly useful person in the village.
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