For Love of Mother-Not Read Online Free

onto the cot without waking him. Her hands pulled the thermal blanket up to his chin. It was programmed and would warm him quickly.
    She stood there awhile, amazed at how much pleasure could be gained from so simple an activity as watching a child sleep. Then, still wondering what had come over her, she left him and made her way across to her own room, slowly removing her clothes as she walked. Before long, the last light in the rear of the little shop winked out, joining its neighbors in nightfall. Then there was only the light wind and the hiss of moisture evaporating from warm walls to break the silence of the mist-shrouded dark.

2
    T he boy ate as if the previous night’s dinner had been no more substantial than a distant dream. She cooked him two full breakfasts and watched as he finished every bite. When the last pachnack was gone, and the final piece of bread wolfed down, she took him into the shop.
    He watched intently as she entered the combination to the metal shutters. As they rose, they admitted a world entirely different from the empty night. One moment he was staring at the dully reflective line of metal strips. The next brought home to him all the noise, the confusion, and bustle and sights and smells of the great Drallarian marketplace; they flooded the stall, overwhelming him with their diversity and brilliance. Mother Mastiff was not a late sleeper—which was good, for the crowd would rise in tandem with the hidden sun. Not that the marketplace was ever completely deserted. There were always a few merchants whose wares benefited from the mask of night.
    The boy could tell it was daytime because it had grown less dark. But the sun did not shine; it illuminated the raindrops. The morning had dawned warm, a good sign, and the moisture was still more mist than rain. A good day for business.
    Mother Mastiff showed the boy around the shop, describing various items and reciting their prices and the reasons behind such pricing. She hoped to someday entrust the operation of the business to him. That would be better than having to close up every time she needed to rest or travel elsewhere.The sooner he learned, the better, especially considering the way he ate.
    “I’ll do everything I can, Mother,” he assured her when she had concluded the brief tour.
    “I know ye will, boy.” She plopped down into her favorite chair, an overupholstered monstrosity covered with gemmac fur. The skins were worn down next to nothing, and the chair retained little value, but it was too comfortable for her to part with. She watched as the boy turned to stare at the passing crowd. How quiet he is, she thought. Quiet and intense. She let him study the passersby for a while before beckoning him closer.
    “We’ve overlooked several things in the rush of the night, boy. One in particular.”
    “What’s that?” he asked.
    “I can’t keep calling ye ‘boy.’ Have ye a name?”
    “They call me Flinx.”
    “Be that your last name or your first?”
    He shook his head slowly, his expression unhappy. “Mother, I don’t know. It’s what they called me.”
    “What ‘they’ called ye. Who be ‘they’? Your”—she hesitated—”mother? Your father?”
    Again, the slow sad shake of the head, red curls dancing. “I don’t have a mother or a father. It’s what the people called me.”
    “What people?”
    “The people who watched over me and the other children.”
    Now that was strange. She frowned. “Other children? Ye have brothers and sisters, then?”
    “I don’t”—he strained to remember—”I don’t
think
so. Maybe they were. I don’t know. They were just the other children. I remember them from the early time. It was a strange time.”
    “What was so strange about it?”
    “I was happy.”
    She nodded once, as though she understood. “So. Ye rememberan early time when you were happy and there were lots of other children living with you.”
    He nodded vigorously. “Boys and girls both. And we had