Hushna had called her a bastard.
Anala's gouge bit into the spinning wood, throwing off a satisfying spray of dust. She reveled in the spicy aroma, ignoring the faint twinge of guilt she felt at being reckless enough to breathe it in. The low chatter of metal against wood soothed her heart in a way nothing else could and she needed that. Besides, nobody would care if she got sihr sick, and anyway it took years to accumulate that much sihr in the blood. She took another careful pass at the wand on the lathe, thinning the shaft to the long, convex shape that best suited casting. It was a shape her mother had shown her years ago, and Anala took pride in finding that shape in every wand she turned. The act of creating that simple beauty was like enfolding herself in her mother's arms.
She missed hugging her mother.