Luck, fortune, or fate-call it what you will, sometimes it's all we have.

-Taelach Wisdom Granny Terry had lived a very long time. How long she couldn't say-old enough to be set in her ways but not so aged she couldn't bend a little every now and again. She was tiny, crouched in the awkward stoop that came from an overburdened back, and fiercely independent, having little use for those who had made her earlier life so complicated. She complained and swore insult when Danston presented her with Rankil but secretly thought it grand to have someone around.

"Well," she told Danston in her warbling croon, "if you have to push someone off on me I'm glad you had sense enough to make it Rankil. She's the only one of my family who doesn't whine and carry on about a little hard work. Never heard more than two words from her."

"Now, Granny Terry," Danston gave the old woman a childlike pat on the head. "Rankil is a hard worker. She should be a big help. You need someone about whether you'll say it or not."

Terry swatted his shin with her cane. "Don't lower me and don't tell me what I need, boy." She turned away and walked toward the nassies' sound and smell, chck-chcking a pleasant greeting to them. "Where is that girl? Come here, Rankil, and let me see you with these old hands of mine."

Danston nodded to his daughter then began to unload the pack animal. Rankil slid from her perch and minded the request, slouching so she wouldn't appear so tall. Terry expected a girl, not a skinny, half-grown Taelach. The old woman grinned up at her, reached a crooked finger to her face, and traced the line of her jaw. "Which one of your parents named you? There's not a thing in the world rank about you. You've grown into a fine young woman. And so tall! How old? Sixteen? Seventeen?"

Rankil ignored her father's hard stare. "I think I'm fifteen, if you please."

"Fifteen?" Granny Terry's toothless grin spread all the wider. "Never knew there was such size in the family, Danston. I believe she's as tall as you. Must come from Meelsa's side." She took Rankil by the arm and led her to the porch, registering the lack of skirt sounds in her grandchild's strides as they walked. "Bring in Rankil's things when you finish unloading that pack mount, boy. My granddaughter and I are going to get reacquainted."

As Danston watched them disappear into the house, his rage became overwhelming. He mumbled, spat and cursed, damning his white witch child and his decision to let her live. Why had he let Meelsa talk him into permitting a Taelach to care for Terry? And Rankil had such a smug look on her face when she'd spoke! Almost superior. She'd best behave if she knew what was good for her. Danston, brooding and still cursing, hung the meat quarter in the smoke shed and tossed the food stuffs onto the porch. He dropped Rankil's only other set of clothes into the dirt, stepping on them as he walked into the one-room house. His ill will rolled into repulsion with what he saw. Rankil sat pretty as you please at the same table as Granny Terry, munching a fresh-baked spice cake while she listened to one of the old woman's countless stories.

"I'm leaving." He cast his daughter a vicious stare that caused her to shrink back. She knew the look-her worst scars were hidden in it. "I need to speak to Rankil before I go."

When they stepped from the porch, Danston snatched her by the hair.

"She told me to sit there-" began Rankil.

"Listen here, you sorry, whitehaired beggar," he whispered. "I won't have you thinking you deserve the way Granny Terry treats you." His hand twisted tighter into her hair, bringing her to her knees. "She has no idea how worthless you are. You're to keep that in mind in everything you do." Rankil's spice cake soured as she stared up at him, but she knew better than to cry out. It might bring Granny Terry, and that would ruin everything.

"Yes, sir."

Danston bent down and placed his face against hers, their similar features lining in perfect symmetry. Though she seemed pale against his swarthy skin, their resemblance was undeniable. "You never know when I might show up to check on you. If I see you doing anything other than what you should, I'll drag you back home and give you to your uncle."

Rankil's reply cracked in her dry mouth. "Yes, sir."

He dragged a fistful of hair from her head as he released. "That's my girl," he said in a loud voice. "You be good. I'll be back in a half-cycle to check on you. Goodbye, Granny Terry."

"Goodbye, Danston." Terry appeared in the door with a bundle of spice cakes. "Take these with you and mind you don't eat them all on the way home."

Danston pointed for Rankil to clear her eyes and collect her belongings then he took the lead reins of the pack mount before straddling his own. "Is there anything you need me to do?"

"Go home," said Terry. "You're interrupting my day." She touched her granddaughter's cuff. "I've some darning for you."

Confident of his authority, Danston rode away. He was soon a black smudge against the cresting sun, Rankil's fears decreasing with every fading click of his nassies' iron-shod hooves. When she was certain he was gone, she stared out over the hillside for a bit then turned back to the house. Granny Terry sat in her rocker, patching her worn apron. She turned toward Rankil and patted the hassock by her feet.

"Sit with me, child."

Rankil obeyed, dropping her things by the hassock and reaching for the sewing basket, only to be gently swatted away. "I'd rather talk." Terry set the apron to the side and ran her hand over Rankil's face, pausing at her frowning eyes. "Such a brave young girl and so polite. I don't see how Danston can see fit to be so mean to you."

Rankil stared at her then jerked back. No matter what Granny Terry said she couldn't reveal the truth. "I get what I deserve."

Terry sniffed and brushed the hair from Rankil's face, prompting her to pull back again. "Don't defend him. I know how the family treats you. One of their own! You and Archell both. The two brightest, beaten because you're different."

Rankil's expression grew panicked. "No, ma'am, I'm not diff-"

"Stars, girl." Granny Terry took Rankil's hands in her own and began to stroke the palm, regarding the calluses and scars one by one, allowing there were far too many for such a tender age. "There's nothing wrong with being different. Imagine how boring life would be if we were all the same. Being different is what makes you special. Archell's songs can light the gloomiest of days, and your spirit is like none I've ever known. You're a fighter, a skill I am afraid you've need of." Rankil tried to back away, but Granny Terry held her firm, with strength surprising for one so frail. "I may be blind, but I can see. I knew you were special the first time you crawled into my lap as a babe." Her unseeing eyes regarded Rankil with a curious expression. "What you are is nothing to be ashamed of, Rankil, and nothing worth being flogged over."

"I-"

"You what? You thought I didn't know? That this blind old woman doesn't know a Taelach from an Autlach? Would you have me treat you like they do for it?"

Rankil looked toward the door. Terry knew. This changed everything. "I'd know my place."

Granny Terry's sightless eyes stared so hard that Rankil stopped. "Have they run you that far into the ground?" She made a gentle sound with her tongue in way of sympathy. "Ah, but they have, haven't they?" Then, in one fluid movement, Terry pulled Rankil into her lap and began to rock. "I used to do this when you were little, every time I visited at the New Pass feast. Do you remember?"

Rankil stiffened and pushed away, retaking her seat on the hassock. "No, I don't." And she remembered Meelsa's late attempt at nurturing.

"Well, I did, Rankil, and I tried to talk them into letting me take you then." Granny Terry's foot tapped with the chair's rhythm. "Even then they worked you far too hard."

Rankil said nothing.

"I think," continued Terry, "that you're in need of a bit of mothering. I may be old, but I can teach you more than them who dare call themselves your parents. You need me, child, and I you. You're safe, Rankil. No one will harm you here."

"Safe?"

"Safe to be yourself. To be who you are."

Rankil sniffed and looked at the ground. "I'm nobody."

Terry shook her head. "I know otherwise and in time, I hope you'll come to know differently, too. Now, would you do me a favor?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Go to the large chest in the corner and bring me the measure guides and ribbon-tied pack from the bottom."

Rankil sprinted to the chest and returned quickly. "Here, ma'am."

"Open the pack, child, and tell me what you find."

The ribbon unraveled when Rankil pulled on it and the wrapping cloth fell away in ceremonious fashion. "Cloth, ma'am. Am I to sew you a dress?" She stared at the velvet folds, awed by the material's simple elegance.

"Does the weave suit you?"

Rankil shrank back, her fingers loosening from the fabric she normally wouldn't dared touched. Tessa had a dress of a similar, though not as luxurious, fabric and had once smacked Rankil for touching the hemline. "Oh, no, ma'am, I couldn't! If Danston found out I had such a thing he'd-"

"This is your home now!" The old woman's face drew with frustration. "And I won't have a young person from my house romping about in rags. Worn things are fine for when you're mucking the barn, but the rest of the time"-Terry smiled at her- "I want you smartly dressed. Now hold up the fabric so I can check your length." Rankil held the cloth to her front. It was the perfect shade to complement her pale complexion, the color of trees in high summer, dark and shimmering with morning dew. "Don't worry about your growth." Granny Terry drew the cloth across Rankil's chest. "We can make seams and hems that can be let out as you need them. My, but you're all leg. Now, let me have the measures so I can size your top."

"But, ma'am," whispered Rankil in fear of speaking out of turn. "You can size from the clothes Meelsa sent me with."

"Those clothes are stretched in the belly. They must have been Sallnox's. They'll never fit you right. And they didn't send you with any proper boots either, did they?"

"No, ma'am." Rankil blushed.

"Stars," Terry could feel the heat burning the young girl's cheeks. "What's wrong now? That I noticed or the fact you've never had any?"

"Both, ma'am," she squeaked.

"Quit calling me ma'am. I'm your Grandmother Terry, Granny Terry."

"Yes, ma-yes, Granny Terry."

"Better. The boots are just one of your needs." Terry motioned for Rankil to bend close. "I believe, young lady," she said between feels of Rankil's matted hair, "that you could use a bath and a good cut."

"I try to keep it braided back from my face."

"You've managed a braid of sorts, but your hair is split. I'll need to cut off most of it to get above the breaks."

Rankil gulped. What would happen when her father returned? "Cut my hair? Danston would never let me have short hair! It's not proper."

"Taelachs sometimes do."

The remark confused one unfamiliar with Taelach customs and demanded clarity. Rankil sat on the hassock and looked inquiringly at her grandmother. "You know about the Taelach, Granny Terry?"

Granny Terry's sightless eyes gave her a long, considering stare, first alarmed and then angered. "Nobody ever told you about you own kind?"

"Only Archell, and it wasn't much. He was afraid I would run away." Rankil pulled a handful of snap beans from the sling-full Terry had picked early that morning and began breaking them into edible portions. She had best keep busy lest Terry lose her indulgent mood. "Granny Terry?"

"Yes?"

"You've seen Taelachs before?"

"A few, though not in many passes and never under pleasant conditions. But they're around. They keep to themselves most of the time. Can't say as I blame them, either." Terry brought a cook pot to the table, placed Rankil's beans in it, then took a seat next to Rankil who stared in wonderment as her grandmother began to help. "Now, you know there are men and there are women. You have enough brothers to know that, don't you?"

"Yes." Rankil slowed her work to listen.

"All right, Taelachs are all women. I've heard they pair off just the same as Autlach married couples, but-" Terry's mouth thinned as she considered the best manner to explain. "I don't quite understand it myself, but that's the way things work for them."

"If there's not men then who tells them what to do?"

"Taelachs do it all for themselves," Terry said, with a hint of envy in her voice.

"For themselves?" Rankil delighted at the idea of autonomy. "But Archell said there were short-haired ones with women and children in their arms."

Granny tossed a handful of broken beans in the pot. "Well," she shrugged. "Like I said, some do wear their hair short, broadbacks I believe."

Rankil's confusion ran deeper than her voice could ever register. "But there aren't any Taelach men?"

"Some say broadbacks are somewhere in between, but I don't think it's true. They're just strong-strong women and tall, too, usually a little taller than the long-haired Taelachs, but then again most Taelachs are taller than Autlachs."

Like me, thought Rankil.

"Broadbacks are fighters, warriors even, but they're definitely women." Terry filled the pot with water to keep the beans fresh. "Like I said, Taelachs keep to themselves. I wish I could tell you more. Just keep your eyes open. They do come around on occasion."

Rankil's face brightened at the prospect of seeing one of her own. "They do?" She marveled at how easy their conversation flowed. It felt like talking to Archell when no one else was around. "How do you know?"

Terry set the cutting board on the table and handed Rankil a large slicing knife. "There are round roots in the bottom of the sling. Let's cut them to dry. We'll let them cure today then spread them on the porch tomorrow morning. It gets full sun and will keep them out of the dirt." She took a second knife and began to separate the long white tubers into paper-thin slices. Dried, round root made for hearty winter eating and proved excellent in stew. "Now, to answer your question. How do you think I've gotten along by myself all this time, blind as I am?"

"Danston called you stubborn." Rankil's slices were thin but not as even as her steady-handed elder's.

"Yes." Terry smiled. "I am stubborn, but, whatever your father thinks about me, I've needed help since long before you came. Know who's been helping me?"

Rankil startled and the knife slipped from her hand, just missing her fingertip. "But you said you hadn't seen a Taelach in a long while."

Terry pointed to her shrunken orbits. "No, I haven't seen them, but they've been helping me. They leave spices and fresh meat from time to time. That's where I got the cloth. They left it for me as a thank you for some cakes I gave them a while back."

They sliced all the roots and stacked them on the cutting board. Rankil's young mind danced with excitement while they worked. "How often do they visit?"

"Oh," said Granny in an almost teasing fashion, "they ring the smoker shed bell once or twice a moon cycle. That should be any day now." Terry crinkled her nose. "Sure you don't want a bath?"

Rankil's tattered appearance had never been bothersome until now, but then again, she'd never known any other way to be. "Yes. Yes, Granny Terry, I think I do." She took a soapstone and rag Terry offered and rushed for the creek below the house.

The water pool was tepid in the summer heat, and Rankil stripped and waded in, scrubbing from top to bottom, her toes giving an occasional kick to ward off the curious fish. She'd never been given the opportunity to take a real bath and enjoyed the thorough soak, playing among flowering water grasses, floating about in her clean state until her fingers shriveled. Finally swayed by Granny Terry's calls to have her hair trimmed, she emerged from the pool, shook off the worst of the water, and walked back to the house with her clothing in hand. Granny pushed her into a chair so she could loosen the dripping braid Rankil had been unable to remove.

"This is impossible," said Terry between tugs on the messed plait. "It's so matted it'll never come undone. I'm going to have to cut above it, shorter than I wanted." She drew her sharpest knife and held Rankil's head firm. "Don't move. I want the cut to be even."

Rankil winced as Terry removed the braid at the base of her neck. The lifted weight felt strange. Terry trimmed around the sides of her face and ears, using her hands to judge the length. After a few more quick strokes of the blade she stepped back and produced a palm-sized reflecting board from her pocket, which she held out for Rankil's use.

"Take a look."

"No, ma'am."

Terry sat next to her. "Why not?"

"Danston told me never to look cause I'm so ugly I'd break a board."

"Now, Rankil." The old woman was once again angry. Rankil flinched at her tone. "I'm not mad with you. I'm furious with them for leading you to believe such a thing. How could you know you might break it if you never try?"

"Boards are hard to come by."

Now the old woman seemed mad at her, too. "Think, girl, can I really make use of one?"

Rankil peered at Terry's face. "I guess not," she whispered.

"Then what does it matter if it breaks? Look!" Terry forced Rankil's face to the reflector. Rankil opened one eye. Nothing shattered or cracked, so she ventured to open the other.

Terry placed the board fully in her hands. "Tell me what you see."

"I ... I see ... I see so much, Granny Terry, so very much." Rankil watched the bitter twist of her mouth flatten then curl into a small smile. "I see sky-colored eyes that are shaped like Meelsa's dark ones and the little hump that's in Danston's nose-his pointy chin, too. Why did they call me ugly when I look so much like them?"

"They put down what they didn't understand. Tell me what else you see."

Rankil moved the reflector about until she had viewed her entire head. "My ears stick out like Sallnox's, and I have Tessa's skinny neck."