“‘Your light will guide us home,'” Bael Flinthammer read. “’We’ll be back. Not even –‘”
She tore off the purple and gold wrapping and pulled out a small white figurine free.
“It’s a walrus person!” she squealed. “Made of … bone?”
“Ivory,” Bael said, squinting at the note included with the letter. “The tuskarr carve their discarded tusks into art, Mom says. Neat.”
Marisi marched the squat figure up and down the chair and the boy sitting in it.
“Are they coming home?” she said quietly, not meeting Bael’s eyes. “Are they going to die, too?”
Bael lifted up the folded-up letter, letting his Uncle Ely, returning to the room with mugs of mornbrew, take it from him.
“Nay, they’ll be fine,” Bael said, hoping he sounded more confident than he felt. “They’ve been in all sorts of danger before.
“As long as they’re together, there’s nothing to worry about.”