"That seems awfully warm for summer, Celisae."

Of course, my mother is the one to voice what everyone else thought yesterday. Except when she says it, expressions missing from her face, it sounds more like a reprimand than any of the curious or judgemental stares I received. I almost expect her to follow up with, "you'll catch a cold" or some other excuse to justify doing things her way. In this case, heatstroke is probably a more apt consequence.

I allow the outer robe to drop to the floor. "I brought my raeriel." To solidify it, I pull out my raeriel. Mother's eyes twitch at the corners, and she stretches out her hands. I dutifully give her the wooden instrument.

Mother's hands run over the rough wood with a whisper-light touch. Longing tugs in her eyes. She plucks each of the four strings, her brow lifting at the out of tune pitches. Her fingers close around the pegs at the end of the fingerboard, though when she attempts to turn them, they don't budge. White pulls across her knuckles, and she adjusts the angle of pressure, but her hand releases in defeat after a few seconds.

"Here, I—"

Mother abandons trying to tune my raeriel, and I clamp my mouth shut. Her hand shifts to the fingerboard, where her crooked fingers shadow a sequence of notes. I know it well; it comes from one of the sunlight songs. It's a fast section where your fingers dance a series of alternating arpeggios between two strings, creeping higher and higher up the instrument. I must admit, it's pretty fun once I got the hang of it.

Her index finger lands on a note, and her pinky, most likely on instinct, reaches across two strings for the next one. Except she can't. The fingerpad of her pinky is splayed away from the instrument, unable to press down on the string. Mother's hand falls from the instrument.

"What shall we work on?" she asks.

I swallow. "Didn't you have any, uh, ideas?" After all, she's the one who wanted me to bring my raeriel.

"What will benefit you most?" she asks again. "A specific technique, a certain song..." She pauses, though I can tell more churns in her mind, wanting to spill free. She's hinting at something. After this many years, I can often tell. The question is what it is.

I glance back at my bag on the ground. The sunlight remains inside. I never removed it after I returned to the tribe. My attention went to fulfilling another order of fabric, then to sneaking out during the third meal. As a result, the meat and corn cake I saved for Mother are still warm.

"How about the spinning songs?" I suggest. "I have some sunlight with me right now."

A glimmer shines in Mother's eyes. "Really?"

I nod, removing the wooden box along with the white cloth of food. "Here, I also brought you some food." My gaze falls on the water basin at her side. "I can refill your water while you eat, then we can start on the sunlight—"

"No," Mother cuts off. "Let's start with your lesson."

I look between the two containers I hold in my palms. "But it's still warm."

"It doesn't matter. We don't want to run out of time."

Reluctantly, I place the cloth on the ground.

"Here, come fetch your raeriel," Mother says. "I'll take the simmenberry box." I trade her, one form of wood for another, and quickly twist the pegs to turn the instrument.

Light pours from Mother's hands. I nearly remind her to not stare so intently at it, like it's showing her the mysteries of the universe, to protect her eyesight. I bite my tongue at the last moment, though, thinking it's better to not correct my mother.

She sticks a shaky finger on the box's side. Once it stabilizes against the wood, she makes a scooping motion along the edge. The light rises into the air, scattering gold across the dim cave and into the dusk descending outside.

"What is the difference between the collecting song and the spinning song?" Mother asks.

"The energy level," I say on instinct. "When collecting, we are using the raeriel's energy to drag the light together. When spinning, we coax it into thread."

"And what is the most important thing to remember while spinning?"

"To maintain circular, fluidic momentum to keep the light suspended."

Mother nods. "Sing the opening refrain."

I pick the first spinning song that comes to mind. I hum the opening melody for her. "Ta-dee, da, ta-dee-da-dee, da."

"No," Mother says, shaking her head. "More emphasis on the long notes. Ta-deee, daaa, ta-deee-da-deee, daaa."

I nod, squelching the frustration brimming on my skin before it manifests. I've played these songs many times, especially the ones for sunlight. Years of practice have solidified that I know what I'm doing. My fingers itch to silence Mother with the spinning melody.

This is her lesson, I remind myself. Let her do what she wants. I take a slow breath to gather my patience.

"Remember to sustain the notes long enough while playing. Hold them for the full beats that you're supposed to. Short changing notes never goes well, as is the case for any shortcuts."

"Yes, Mother." Despite my efforts, my voice carries a slight edge. Mother pauses, eyes appraising me from head to toe. I want to curl into myself, until I'm as small and tightly wound as the ball of sunlight.

"Begin," she says after a minute of silence.

I feel an urge to prove myself now. An invisible pressure weighs against my shoulders, tightens my fingers and wrists, sends nervous tremors in my chest. I wipe my palms against my tunic, trying to erase the moist sheen that coats it. My hands still feel sticky as I raise them to my instrument. I slide my hand back and forth against the wood a few times to loosen it.

Air fills my lungs, and on the exhale, I imagine the tension melting from my body. I count off in my head, feeling the rhythm, before setting my bow on the string.

One-two-three, one-two-three.

Music pours from the instrument, silky smooth and sweet. It isn't lively like the collecting songs. Instead, it exudes the happiness felt on a daily level, perhaps the anticipation one feels building before a big holiday, or a general contentment felt while surrounded by family and friends.

Cheerful notes ease light from the floating golden knot. The strands wriggle into the air, curling into a circle. My fingers tap out fluid triplets on the string. It's almost a lullabye the way the bow sings. I keep the bow moving at all times, keep the energy gliding across the entire stick and between string crossings. The rhythmic pulse flows in my veins.

Gradually, each beam pulls taut against the rising music. I dig my bow into the string to reach greater depths of tone and sound. I've practiced this technique for years. One of the most difficult parts of the spinning songs is to apply more pressure to the string without the notes becoming scratchy. Mother made me hone this technique, to place all my emotion into the bow, let the moment drag out the core sound. At the same time, I must widen the bow's sweep, increase my elbow's fluidic range of motion as it tilts up and down.

The technique works. The insistent jubilance radiating through the room is too contagious to ignore. Light rays stretch thinner and thinner in the air, doubling, tripling over as they continue to expand. I work my way higher up the raeriel, though the high-pitch never loses its volume or sweetness.

The triplets melt into long, vibrating notes. I push the tempo slightly to increase the song's agency. Finally, the sunlight gives up all resistance, and in a burst, stretch one last inch into hairline strands. The gold drops from the air, coating the ground in coils of thread.

I linger on the final note, allowing my vibrato to taper first, then the bow to lift from the string. The echo dissolves last, and only then does pride begin to swell in my chest. That's by far the best I've ever played the spinning song. And the more enticing the song, the higher the quality. Usually, the sunlight thread is coarser and duller, which is fine if I'm weaving it into the lining of robes. In fact, it's probably better that the thread is less metallic to reduce the chance of it being noticed.

But this time, based on how thin, smooth, and shiny, I'm sure that I achieved an ultra fine grade. I slot my raeriel slots in between my hip and my arm, finding my mother's eyes. She only blinks at the thread, brushing her fingers over it.

"Mother," I whisper, hoping to catch her attention.

She picks up a handful in her palms, either knowingly or absent-minded. The strands glide over her palms into a golden pool on the ground. I swallow, unable to tear my gaze from her, just like the sun has enraptured hers.

"I spun the thread," I try again.

The silence ticks by, so tangible, it's like each second is brushing past me as it leaves the cave.

"It's warm," she murmurs.

I remember the food still tucked in my bag. I retrieve it and approach my mother, setting it beside her. She doesn't move toward it.

I clear my throat before it swells shut. "Do you want me to replenish your water?" I reach out, gathering a bundle of thread into my palm. They nearly slip back to the ground, but I catch them with my other hand. It feels wrong to apply too much force to it, so I twirl it into a loose coil.

That snaps Mother from her reverie. She looks up at me, a hollowness behind her brown eyes.

"It's been so long since I've seen the sun."

My peripheral zooms in on the last traces of daylight on the cave's doorstep. She sees the sun everyday. The moment I think it, I realize that Mother hasn't truly felt direct sun on her skin in years. She may see its effect — the brightening of the alcove or the shadows cast on the bushes guarding it — but it's not the same as stepping out in the open, basking in the full heat of sunlight.

Mother is tethered to these stone walls, whether she likes it or not, whether it's healthy or not. I wonder if she'd even be able to walk after years of sitting and crawling around this dinging place. Her muscles are weak, her bones frail.

I place the threads I gathered inside my bag. I feel two opposing urges, one to stash the remaining precious threads away before any harm comes to them, the other to allow Mother a few more moments with the sun.

The second wins.

"I'm collecting your water," I say, picking up the empty basin. "I'll only be a moment."

Mother traces a finger along the stone, nudging the rest of the sunlight into a pile. I head for the stream. Water droplets land on my arm when I dip the bowl into it, neither warm nor cold. I search the rocks by the riverbank, even the ones protruding from the rippling blue, but I see no more references to Geanna, to my mother. Not even if the stone covered in the "salt" symbol remains. The hooded figure must've removed it from here.

But why? I suppose it served its purpose — to intimidate me. But why not leave it up as a reminder, a warning?

I shrug away my thoughts and return to Mother. I have more important concerns than analyzing the odd behavior of my blackmailer.

Mother holds the remaining light in her hands, dangling like tassels. Her normally dark skin has a pink tinge. Once I've set the basin down, I kneel beside her, cupping my hands to receive the rest of my thread. For a moment, I worry she might not hand it over. But she gives me the pile after a minute's hesitation.

Heat settles into my palms, heavy but not unbearable at first. It continues to bear into me, though, sizzling more and more until I nearly yelp in shock. I race to the other side of the room and drop the bundle inside my bag before it burns away the top layer of my skin.

No wonder Mother's hands were red. She probably held it far longer than I had.

"Are you okay?" I ask. I return to her side, glancing over her still open palms. Raw, angry skin stares back, seeming to defy my attempts to make sure she isn't hurt.

"You need the gloves," Mother says. Her eyes drift to her minor burns. "Sunlight in such quantities yields unimaginable heat."

"I'll bring the ika silk next time," I promise. "Let me get some water for your hands."

Mother's fingers tighten into fists. "No. I'm fine."

"I don't want you to be hurt. We need to make sure that any damage heals properly."

"I've been damaged for years." Her gaze does not waver from her crooked joints and knuckles.

I sigh. My back falls against the cave wall, and I slide to the ground. Back at the tribe, the healer, Kletasuah has veraloe, a desert balm that soothes burns. Perhaps I can get some for Mother. I open my mouth to reassure Mother that I'll get her some ointment, but clamp it shut. She'll probably just insist that she's fine, that by the time I get it, her hands will have healed.

Worse, she'll tell me to not make promises I can't keep.

I'll prove her wrong.

"I'll return in three moon's time," I say. By then, I will have finished the parcel for Nal m'se and will have hopefully found some spider silk. "Is that alright?"

Mother nods. At long last, she reaches for the food I placed beside her. She takes a bite of the corn cake first, then the stewed meat.

"Hmph," she grunts. "I'll have to eat it warm next time." Her brown eyes meet mine, a twinkle of amusement negating the gruff expression hardened on her face. "The rabbit is tougher than wood."

I stifle a giggle. "Next time."

She shakes her head, her braid swishing behind her back. "No. Next time I should show you my recipe."