Cloven Hooves - Megan Lindholm


CLOVEN HOOVES

Megan Lindholm

Who also writes as

Robin Hobb


Copyright

HarperVoyager

an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 1993

Copyright © Megan Lindholm Ogden 1991

Cover design by Claire Ward © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2019

Cover illustration © Jackie Morris

Robin Hobb writing as Megan Lindholm asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the authors imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008287399

Ebook Edition © August 2019 ISBN: 9780008363956

Version: 2019-06-07

Praise

Hobb is one of the great modern fantasy writers As addictive as morphine

The Times

A little slice of heaven

The Guardian

The feelings of anguish, ambiguity, fear and failure [in her novels] are as familiar as those in a novel by Jonathan Franzen

Independent on Sunday

Hobb is always readable. But the elegant translucence of her prose is deceptive That is the ambition of high art. The novelists in any genre are rare who achieve it with Hobbs combination of accessibility and moral authority

Sunday Telegraph

A series that recalls HBOs Game of Thrones, and The Lord of the Rings

The Telegraph

In todays crowded fantasy market Robin Hobbs books are like diamonds in a sea of zircons

George R.R. Martin

Hobb is superb, spinning wonderful characters and plots from pure imagination

Conn Iggulden

Magic is the word. Absolutely riveting

Barbara Erskine

Hobb seamlessly blends intrigue, action and characters who feel so real that they become more than words on a page

SFX

Glorious and beautiful storytelling from Robin Hobb

SciFi Now

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Praise

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

About the Author

By Robin Hobb

About the Publisher

ONE

In Flight

11 March 1976

I turn away from staring out the window, lean over to check my child in the seat beside me. Theres nothing to see out there, anyway. Outside the oval airplane window, a night sky jets soundlessly by. Overcast covers all but a few stars. Nothing to keep my mind from chewing on itself. Inside is the sound of the engines, of the tiny seat fans whirring as they stir the stale air. Rows of red upholstered seat backs, backs of heads. Most of the overhead seat lights are off. Tiny airline blankets are tucked around the shoulders of some dozing passengers. Others read newspapers and magazines, smoke, or talk softly to seatmates. A few drink industriously. Nothing in here to keep my mind busy, either.

Teddy is asleep. He had asked for the window seat, and of course we had given it to him, even though we knew there would be little to see on this night flight from Fairbanks, Alaska, to the Sea-Tac Airport in Washington. Still, he got to watch the tower and runway lights vanish away beneath us, caught a brief glimpse of the lights of some little town down there a while later. Then he used the airplanes bathroom twice, giggled over finding the barf bag in the seat pocket, got a coloring book and crayons and plastic pilot wings from a stewardess, colored for a while, and got bored and wiggled for a while. And now, finally, he is asleep. I carefully move his copy of Sendaks Where the Wild Things Are because the corner of it is digging into his cheek. I give a sigh of relief that is partially anxiety. With Teddy dozing, there is nothing to distract me from my worrying. Except Tom. I turn my attention away from my five-year-old son and to my husband.

Who is also asleep in his seat on the other side of me.

Light hair is falling over his forehead. He breathes softly, evenly, at peace with the world and himself. I know I should let him rest. This is the horrible leave-Fairbanks-in-the-middle-of-the-night, -arrive-in-Seattle-too-early-to-be-awake flight. I should let him sleep, so he will be fresh and alert when his parents come to meet us at the airport. I shouldnt wake him just to talk to me and reassure me. I really should let him sleep.

But I touch his hair lightly back into place. He smiles, and without opening his eyes, his hand comes up to hold mine. For a time we are silent, shooting through the night. Strangers occupy other seats around us, and doze or smoke or read papers or sip drinks. But Tom and I are alone among them. It is something we have always been able to do, make a quiet, private space around ourselves, no matter what the circumstances.

Still worrying? he asks me softly. His eyes remain closed.

A little, I admit.

Silly. His hand squeezes mine briefly, then relaxes again. He sighs, shifts in his seat to face me. He leans his face against the seat back while he talks to me, as if we were in our bed at home, lying face-to-face, heads on pillows, talking. It makes me wish we were, that I could snug my body up against his and hold him while he talks. He speaks softly, his deep voice soothing as a bedtime story. Were going to have a good time. Well, you will, anyway. Ive got to fill in on the farm and in the shop until Bixs shoulder heals. Fields to plow, tractors to fix. But you and Teddy will have a great time. Teddys going to have the farm to run around on. Eggs to gather, chicks, ducklings, pigs, all that stuff. And my mom and sisters are going to love having you. Ever since I married you, Mom and Steffie have been dying to get their hands on you. Go shopping, introduce you around. Steffie had so many plans when I talked to her on the phone, I dont know how youll keep up with her. He smiles at the thought of his younger sister.

I edge closer in my seat, lean my head close to his. Thats just it. I dont know how Ill keep up with her, either. I think of Steffie as I last saw her, on a brief Christmas visit two years ago. She had been just out of high school that year. Shed come home from some party, into the living room of the farmhouse, dressed in a dark green velvet sheath and high black heels, begemmed at ear and throat and wrist. Like a magazine cover come to life, but rushing to hug us, to say she was so glad wed been able to fly down for Christmas. The memory reawakens in me the same twinge Id felt then: awe at her beauty, and a shiver of fear.

Why?

Because she was so beautiful, so perfect. The ugly little jealousy that beautiful women always awoke in me had stirred. That she was Toms own sister hadnt mattered. It wasnt a sexual kind of jealousy. It was the knowledge that I could never compete with women like that, that Id never learned to be elegant and feminine and charming and stunning and all those other adjectives that Steffie and Mother Maurie embodied so easily. Yet these were the type of women that Tom had around him when he was growing up. How could he have settled for a mouse like me? What if he woke up one day and realized hed been cheated?

I tune in suddenly that Tom is still talking. Steffie and Ellie love you. Mom and Dad think youre great. Of course, I think a lot of that is that they were amazed that any woman at all would have me. Probably secretly grateful you married me and whisked me off to Alaska and out of their hair.

He is teasing, of course. No one could ever wish to be rid of him. Tom is as perfect a product as Steffie is, tall and handsome and muscled, charming and kind and intelligent. Tom could have had his pick of women. I am still mystified that he chose me. But he did. And six years of marriage have taught me that I can believe in that miracle. So I can say to him, honestly, Im just afraid Ill do something wrong. Put my foot in my mouth, spill soup in my lap. Weve never stayed a month with them before, Tom. Thats a long time to live in someone elses house, see them every day. I dont know how Ill handle it.

He refuses to share my worry. Youll handle it just fine. Theyll love you just like I do. Besides, well be in the little guest house. Youll have time to yourself. I know you arent into socializing all the time. Theyll understand when you need to be alone.

He believes it. Theres no mistaking the calm assumption in his voice. I wish I could.

He senses my doubt. Look, Evelyn, itll be easy. Just let them make a fuss over you. Theyll love that. Go shopping. Get your hair done, buy some earrings, do, oh, I dont know, whatever it is that women do together. Youll have a great time.

I look down at my sedate black skirt that matches my sedate black jacket that covers my simple white blouse. I think of the jeans and sweatshirts and sneakers in my luggage. I try to imagine shopping with Steffie. Green velvet. Sparkling earrings. The images dont fit. Ill try, I say doubtfully.

I know. Youll do fine. He squeezes my hand again, leans back in his seat.

What about your dad? I say softly.

Tom grins suddenly. That old fart still got you buffaloed? Look, Evelyn, its a big front. Just stand up to him and give him the same shit right back. Hell only push you as far as you let him. I found that out a long time ago.

Thats easier said than done, I mutter disconsolately, remembering his fathers piercing black eyes and square jaw. Kinda skinny, aint she? hed remarked loudly to Tom the first time we were introduced. Id stood still, too stunned to speak, until Mother Maurie shook my hand merrily and said, Oh, dont mind him, hes just teasing. But I hadnt seen any laughter in his eyes. Only evaluation, like I was a heifer Tom had brought home for breeding stock. He scares me, I confess.

Tom laughs softly. Only because you let him. Hey, hes had to be that way to get where he is. If he hadnt been direct and assertive, and pushed people for all he could get out of them, hed still be plowing the back forty and trying to pay off the mortgages. He pushes. I know that. But its not like its just you. Hes like that to everyone, just to see how far theyll push. Draw a line. He sees the doubt in my face, offers an alternative. But there are other ways to get around him. Hell, look at Steffies way. Be Daddys little girl when hes looking, and do what you please later. He chuckles fondly at how well Steffie gets around their dad.

It is all so simple for him. Tom is like that. People are easy for him. He meets them, he sizes them up, he knows just how to handle them. And they always like him. Instantly, the first time they meet him. And they go on liking him, always. When we were in college, all the girls had crushes on him and all the guys thought he was a helluva friend. The freaks and the bikers, the druggies and the straights, the profs and the frat guys: theyd all liked him. He shifts gears effortlessly, is never out of place. I have always envied him that talent; he is able to be anything that anyone needs, as required.

And to me, he is everything. Husband, lover, best friend. There are very few people in my life, but I have never felt alone since Tom came to me, he fills all the niches for me. I look at him and a wave of tenderness breaks over me. After all he has done for me, surely I can do this simple thing for him. Live near his family for a month, make them like me, be pleasant to them. It wont be hard. Make Tom proud of me. In a way, it is a thing I owe them. And whenever things get hard, Ill just remind myself that these people are Toms family, that without them, he wouldnt exist.

For a moment, I flash back to the fact that without Tom, I wouldnt exist. Not as I am now. He had taken a horribly introverted, socially hostile girl and made her over into a competent woman who was satisfied with her life. I think of our little cabin and ten acres of woods, of my job at Annies Organic Foods and Teas. I have friends now, real friends, something Id never had when I was growing up. Annie and our regular customers, and Pete and Beth down the road, and Caleb our mail carrier and all the others that Tom had so effortlessly befriended for me. Id ridden into those friendships on his coattails, learned to socialize by watching him. I should be past all these stupid doubts, should set them aside with the old scalding memories of grade school and high school and all the failed efforts of those times.

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