Page 11 of Dream Weaver
“Can I help in some way?” I finally ventured.
“Yes. Go away.”
“Would love to,” I muttered.
“What’s stopping you?”
“Besides your stellar company?”
She shot me a dirty look and went back to the sledgehammer, tossing it from hand to hand and twirling it a few times. Either she was checking its balance or making sure I kept my distance.
I did, a safe six feet away.
Finally, she strapped on a leather apron and heated up the forge in her area of the workshop. I came up beside her, waiting. The coals turned the color of brick, then orange. Abby shoved the sledgehammer under them and waited some more.
It all reminded me of working with my uncle Rory. Patience was a virtue, and mine was severely tested.
Then again, anything Rory made lasted generations.
Also, Uncle Rory was about my size. Maybe even bigger. Abby only came to about the height of my shoulders, with the lean, tight build of a gymnast. It was hard to picture her hugging fans or smiling for cameras, though.
“So, what do you want me to do?” I asked, going forrespectful apprentice.
“Get out of the way.”
She yanked the sledgehammer out of the forge, kicking up a shower of embers.
I motioned between us. “I am out of the way.”
“You’re in my light,” she grumbled, positioning the sledgehammer over the anvil.
Herlight, notthelight.
It reminded me of that phase my eldest sister had gone through as a teenager. My existence had been the bane of hers.
Helen is nice to us now,my bear pointed out.
Yes, but what a miserable three years that had been.
“How’s that?” I shuffled back a little.
“Still too close.” Abby gave the anvil a warm-up hit, exactly where my shadow fell. Then,bang! Bang! Bang!She started walloping away at red-hot iron.
Yeah, I got that message too.
Chapter Four
COOPER
You can learn something from any person,my uncle Rory liked to say.So, over the next few hours, I did my best to watch Abby in that spirit. She was good — very good — with efficient and accurate hammer blows that pounded the sledgehammer into submission. Wisps of hair escaped her ponytail, and sweat glistened over her tattoos, making them flicker like real flames.
When she paused for a sip of water, my hopes rose. Surely her arm was tired from all that hammering. Surely she would accept help now.
But, no. She only stopped long enough to root through a drawer, pushing scraps of colored paper aside until she found a crayon. Yes, a crayon. She slammed the drawer shut then made a few marks on the steel.
I stepped closer. “I’m here to help, you know.”
“I don’t need help.”
