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"Solace is hardly a city," Flint scoffed, then rose to the
challenge. "I've been milking cows since before you even
knew what one was, baby brother." Hitching up his leather
pantlegs, he lowered himself onto a three-legged wooden
stool next to a brown-spotted cow.
"Make sure your hands aren't cold. Daisyeye hates that -
won't give you a drop," warned Ruberik.
Flint just glared at him, then rubbed his hands together fu-
riously. He reached out quickly and began tugging; in sec-
onds, he had milk streaming into the pail. Daisyeye chewed
contentedly.
"Not bad," Ruberik said, nodding as he looked over Flint's
shoulder, "for a woodcarver."
Flint ignored the jibe, handing his brother the full pail of
creamy milk. "You know," he said, wiping his damp hands
on his vest, "I'd forgotten how much the smell of a barn re-
minds me of Father." He inhaled deeply, and his mind wan-
dered back to other mornings, when he had been dragged
from his warm bed at the crack of dawn to work in this
place. He had hated it at the time....
"You're lucky to have any memories of him," Ruberik said
enviously. "He died before I was really of any use to him
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