The Left-Handed God by I. J. Parker

stay away so long?”
    He said nothing.
    She brushed away the tears and hid her anxiety in reproof. “Why didn’t you write? There’s nothing wrong with your right arm or hand, is there?” She touched the hand and searched his face anxiously.
    He croaked, “I-I c-could n-not.”
    Her happiness to have him back overcame everything else. “Never mind. You’re here now. No need to stammer apologies. Mama and I will soon get you well again. You’re so thin. Are you really in great pain?”
    He was in pain but shook his head and looked down. “I-I’m s-s-sorry b-but I s-seem t-to have l-lost m-my s-speech.”
    She hugged him. “I know. It’s all a little too much. You’ve been hurt and heaven knows how many horrors you’ve seen. Come into the kitchen and sit down. I’ll put on some soup and then get Mama. She has one of her headaches.”
    He shook his head but followed her to the kitchen where she made him sit in their mother’s high-backed settle and then stirred the coals on the hearth. She put the spider over the fire with a pot of potato-and-carrot soup. Volteur jumped down from the top of the cupboard and came to inspect Franz. Franz leaned down to stroke the cat, and Augusta was filled with a dizzying happiness as she gathered earthenware bowls and set out a loaf of bread, butter, and cheese. All would finally be well.
    “There. We still have some of the cake Herr Seutter brought, but I think I’d better get Mama first.” She took a few steps toward the door, then turned. “Oh, Franz, I have so much to tell you. I’ve missed you so.”
    The cat jumped on her brother’s lap and settled down, purring loudly. “W-wait, Aug-gusta,” he said, making an effort to speak slowly. “Y-you d-don’t unders-s-tand.” He gestured to his mouth. “Th-this isn’t g-g-going aw-way, I’m af-fraid. I-I’m a usel-less c-cripple and a f-freak.” He raised his hands from the cat’s back and covered his face. A hoarse sob racked him, and he doubled over. Volteur hissed and jumped from his lap a moment before Augusta flung her arms about her brother.
    “Oh, Franz, don’t. It will be all right. We’ll make it all right. You’ll see. You just need a little time to rest and get your strength back. You’re home now. Mama and I will look after you.”
    “Augusta?”
    Their mother’s voice came from the hallway. An expression of fear passed over her brother’s pale face. He pushed her away.
    “Where are you, girl? People are looking this way. I can see them from the window. Has something happened?” Frau von Langsdorff reached the door of the kitchen and gasped.
    Augusta stood up with a vague notion of shielding her brother. But of course that was impossible. Frau von Langsdorff shrieked.
    “Franz? Is that Franz? Let me see him. Let me see my son, my beloved child, my life!”
    She rushed forward, pushing Augusta aside, and flung herself on Franz.
    The scene which followed was certainly affecting to their mother, but Franz looked positively terrified. When the torrent of endearments, questions, protestations, hugs, kisses, wails, and laughter began to abate, Augusta interrupted, “Mama, you must give Franz time. He’s very tired, and hungry, too, I shouldn’t wonder. And stop pulling him about so. You’re hurting his leg.”
    Frau von Langsdorff desisted long enough to say, “His leg? Oh, dear. Yes. Why didn’t you tell us you were coming home? There’s nothing in the house. Augusta, run over to Herr Seutter and tell him the good news and beg a few things from his kitchen.”
    “Mama, we have taken enough from Herr Seutter. We have soup, and I’ll slice some fresh bread. We have butter and cheese. And cake for dessert. It will do for now. As soon as Franz is resting, I’ll go to the market and buy a chicken for a real feast tomorrow. And you can bake one of your raisin cakes Franz is so fond of.” She busied herself, stoking the fire again and stirring the soup. A savory smell filled the kitchen, and