“Knit one, purl one.” Anmurray was knitting the band of the back of her new school jumper, the eight ply wool the most uninteresting grey colour the uniform committee had been able to come up with. The twins, two years older than her, hadn’t grown this year, so they were knitting themselves fancy scarves in their school house colours. Mother was knitting something elegant in cashmere and Grandma was working on a thick, complicated jumper for Uncle Dave who needed keeping warm and always managed to kill three jumpers a year with disgusting things.
“There’s the Sago boys,” said Grandma calmly. “They’ll be the right age to be married by the time the twins are old enough to want husbands, and they’re twins too so that’s good. Though I’d have separate houses in their position.” Anmurray kept quiet because who you married was important, too much marrying out and the power diluted, but too much marrying in led to madness. “Anmurray, though, there’s no-one around here close to the right age unless one were to wish for a death or bigamy.”
Mother replied, “Lonnaron isn’t so far away these days. Or even Pughskie – we’ve not exchanged bloodlines with them for what, four or five generations?”
“You get that far away it starts getting hard to tell who’s one of us and who isn’t,” said Grandma. “The language and the power changes….”
“They still need to be fed,” said Mother, measuring her knitting against her arm, “be kept warm and clad. There’s more power in that than most give credit for.”
“True,” agreed Grandma. She held up her knitting, “This new wool does knit well; we’ll have to get more of it. I just hope Dave doesn’t get eaten again while he’s wearing this one.”