“And she was pretty and her family was wealthy and for whatever reason, they let you move in on them like a tick on a hound. And then she threw you off and here you are, back here because you can’t think of any other place to go.”

  She spoke flatly, in a low voice, but without anger. It surprised her. She didn’t feel angry, just impatient for him to leave. Let him look around and see how humbly they lived and then be gone. She had to wake Gillam soon and give him some supper, or he’d not want to go to sleep until late. And she had planned to work on a quilt tonight, fine meticulous work after Gillam had gone to sleep. The last quilt she’d made carefully, she’d traded for a ham. This one, if she were fortunate, might get her a piglet. She wanted to sit by the fire tonight, hunched over her work, sewing carefully, and think about how she would build a pen for the pig and feed him garden waste and take him to the beach to scavenge. She wanted Pell to be gone. Once he’d been a future full of golden dreams and promises. Now he was a past that stung whenever she thought of him. She didn’t want to look at him and wonder how it might have gone if he’d truly been the man she’d thought he was. She wanted to be alone and dreaming about her own plans, the plans that she could make real.

  “All I wanted was a chance to do what I wanted to do, to do things I enjoyed doing. To make a try for the life I should have had before it was all ruined. Is that so much to ask?” He stopped talking abruptly, taking a sharp breath. Then he said, as if promising something to himself, “Things are going to be different.” He clipped his words off as if she were the one who had hurt him. He added firmly, “And now, we’re done talking about it.”

  His words struck her dumb. He spoke as if he had authority over her. A wave of dread rose up in her, followed by a pitiful hope that sickened her. She suddenly knew that he intended to stay. Right now. From now on.

  Why?

  Gillam stirred on the bed and opened his eyes. For a moment, his big dark eyes, so like his father’s, were full of dreams still. Then he blinked and focused his gaze on the stranger. “Mama?” he asked with some trepidation.

  “It’s all right, Gillam. I’m right here.”

  He crawled quickly across the bed to her, and she scooped him up in her arms. He hugged her tight around her neck, tucking his face into her shoulder.

  “And I’m here, too, boy.” Pell spoke with a heartiness that did not ring true to her. “Your papa. Come here and let me look at you.”

  In response, the boy tightened his grip on her neck. He didn’t look up at Pell. The man’s face darkened. “Give him time. He’s never seen you before. He doesn’t know you,” she pointed out.

  “I said we were done talking about that,” he replied abruptly. He came toward her. “Let me see the boy.”

  She didn’t think about it but backed away toward the door. “Give him some time to get used to your being here,” she countered. It wasn’t a direct refusal. Once she had adored Pell’s assertiveness and how he made decisions for them. It had seemed manly and sheltering. Now she found herself remembering how quickly he’d move to anger when his will was thwarted. Hilia’s advice to her suddenly came to mind. Run. Run to Hilia’s house. She shook her head to the stray thought. Gillam was heavy. If she tried to run, she’d be out of breath before she got to the top of the hill. And she didn’t want to give Pell any reason to run after her. She feared where that sort of confrontation might lead.

  “Let me see him.” He insisted as he advanced on her. His voice became contemptuous. “You’ve made him into a timid little mouse. When I was his age, I wasn’t afraid to stand and face a man and offer my hand. What sort of sniveling whelp are you raising under my name? What sort of a mama’s little titmouse is he?”

  She recognized the mockery in his voice as he aimed his words at Gillam. If he hoped to rouse the boy to defy him, he failed. Gillam only clutched more tightly at her neck. She held her ground until Pell was almost an arm’s length away and then, despite her resolve, backed up. “Let me calm him. You don’t want his first memory of you to be that you frightened him.”

  “First memory, last memory, what does it matter? Let’s see this boy that bears my name. Can he stand up to something that frightens him? Is there anything of me in him at all? Will. Look at me. Come to me. Right now.”

  She had not seen the cat underfoot. He must have been right behind her. She didn’t feel her foot tread on him, but she must have, for suddenly, with a furious yowl and a spattering of hisses, the tomcat exploded from the floor. He leaped into the air between them and then clawed his way up Pell, literally running up his face and then leaping from his head into the low rafters. There he crouched, yowling and growling low as he lashed his abused tail back and forth.

  Pell held his scratched face with both hands and cursed shrilly through his fingers Obtusely, Gillam had popped up his head at the cat explosion and now giggled wildly at the big man squeaking through his peekaboo fingers. Rosemary’s breath caught and she choked back a fear-strangled giggle of her own. Pell dropped his hands from his face. “It’s not funny!” he roared at them both.

  Gillam turned astonished eyes on his mother. Rosemary managed to keep her expression calm. “See,” she told the child. “You don’t need to be afraid of Pell.”

  In response to her remark, the boy gazed at his father, staring intently at the long stripe of red that crossed the top of his cheek above his beard. Fear had left him to be replaced by fascination.

  “Where’d that damned beast come from?” Pell demanded. He dabbed at his face with his fingers, scowled at the blood, and then peered up into the dim space above the rafters. Marmalade had already vanished into the shadows. He was probably outside by now, having left via the eaves.

  “Hilia gave him to me. He keeps rats out of the cottage and away from the chicken yard.” She tried to keep her voice calm for Gillam’s sake. The boy was now peering at his father with curiosity. There was tension in his little body, and she knew from experience that he would either dissolve into wails or decide to explore the situation, depending on what happened in the next few moments. She desperately wanted him to stay calm.

  “Hilia? Hilia Borse? Everyone knows her family is Wit tainted. They do the beast magic in their home. They talk to animals. You let her put an animal into this house? Are you mad?”

  She bounced Gillam a time or two, then set him down on the taller stool at the table. There were only two places to sit; she wondered if Pell had noticed that. As if Pell were any other inconvenient visitor, she decided she would simply go on with her routine. She pulled the simmering pot of soup back from the fire and crouched down to ladle a portion into Gillam’s shallow bowl. “You know who Hilia is,” she said, trying not to sound confrontational. “She has been my best friend since we were girls.”

  “Yes, I know who she is! And I know what she is! Everyone in the village knows her family has the Wit. Her mother talks to sheep!”

  She sighed, blew on Gillam’s soup to cool it a bit, and then set it on the table. Gillam grinned happily. The stranger in the house was eclipsed by the prospect of hot food. The boy was always hungry. His constant hunger both pleased her and frightened her. He would eat and grow strong, as long as she had food to feed him. From the mantel shelf, she took down half a loaf of bread wrapped in a clean cloth. She broke off a piece for him and set it beside his bowl with a spoon. “Eat nicely,” she warned the boy.

  She marked how Pell was eyeing the food. She clenched her jaw. She wasn’t going to offer him any. Let him ask, if he had the nerve. She ignored his interest in the food as she filled her own bowl. “No one knows for certain the family is Witted,” she pointed out. “And if they are, well, no ill has ever come of them having that magic that I know. The wool from their flock is the best in Buck Duchy. They are respected in town. Hilia and her husband have always been kind to me. And Marmalade is my cat.”

  “And for all you know, he could be her Wit beast, spying on you from dawn to dusk. I wouldn’t allow a Wit beast in my house. Don’t you care about your own child? Don’t you fear he’ll be tainted with that magic?’

  She took her bowl, a spoon, and another piece of the bread to the table. She sat down with her back to him and stirred the soup thoughtfully. Potato and cabbage and onion. Sometimes she dreamed of meat. Rich brown broth with hunks of beef in it. Greasy pork cooked on skewers. Don’t think about what you don’t have. She spoke over her shoulder. “The Wit is not contagious. You are born with it or you don’t have it. I think if you could just go get that magic for yourself, a lot of people who look down on Witted ones would have gone out and done it by now. I think half the hatred of the Witted is jealousy, pure and simple.” She took a spoonful of her soup and a bite of her bread.

  Pell made a sound between derision and disbelief. “That’s what they’d have you believe,” he said in a thick voice. “But if you’d seen half of what I’ve seen, you’d know better.”

  She had to turn to look back at him. That was when she discovered that he had taken the remaining chunk of the loaf and was dipping it into the soup pot and eating it. She knew a flash of anger. She put her eyes back on her food and forced herself to eat. Gillam had been watching his father and now he dipped his bread in his soup and took an exploratory bite of it. She looked back at Pell and managed to say calmly, “What you’re eating? That was to be Gillam’s breakfast tomorrow.”

  “This?” He was incredulous. “You should be feeding him meat by now. Meat and eggs and hot porridge for breakfast. Not soup. No wonder he’s so timid.”

  “I feed him what I have,” she retorted. The implied criticism stung. She had worried, often enough, that Gillam was not as well fed as other children. She had compared his size and his alertness to other boys of his age and told herself that he did not suffer in that comparison. But there had been times when he had asked for “more” and there was no more to give him. “Soon enough, the chickens will start to lay, and then he can have eggs. And after Tessie drops her calf, I hope there will be milk for him as well.” She finished her food; it had not taken her long to eat it. If not for Pell, she might have allowed herself and Gillam another break of the bread.

  But Pell was wiping out her pot with the last crust of her bread. She would have to make Gillam hearth cakes in the morning if he was to have anything to eat. When Pell set the pot down, she asked him directly. “What do you want? Why are you here?”

  He looked surprised. “I told you. I’ve come home. My grandfather left me this house.”

  She stared at him silently. She wouldn’t ask him if he meant to stay, because then he might think she wanted him to. Instead, she said bluntly, “No, Pell. Your grandfather left his house to Gillam, not you. It’s our home, not yours. There’s no room in my life for you, Pell. You shamed me and you abandoned your son. I don’t love you and I don’t want you here.”

  She’d expected at least one flicker of hurt at her words. She didn’t want to admit to herself how much satisfaction that would have given her. Instead, he just set his jaw. After a moment he said, “Well, none of that has anything to do with the fact that you’re living in my son’s house. I’ve as much a right to be here as you do. I’m back, and that’s that.” He thudded the empty pot back onto the table. “I thought you might be smart enough to make the best of it. I thought I should give you another chance to do that. To be fair.”

  Fair? She tried to shape her thoughts about Pell around that word. He waited for her to say something. No words came to her and despite how tight her throat went, she refused to cry. She would not weep over this. Weeping, she knew, solved nothing. She looked at Gillam. He was regarding his father with a small scowl. He thrust his jaw out, and Pell suddenly laughed. She looked back at him incredulously.

  “Look at him. He looks just like my little brother when he got angry.” He sobered suddenly. “I never expected him to look so much like my family.”

  “Everyone says he looks more like you than he does me,” she admitted stiffly. Then she asked, “Why wouldn’t you expect your son to look like you?”

  “Well,” he said and shrugged one shoulder. “There was talk, you know. Back then. That perhaps he wasn’t mine.”

  She stared at him, cold rushing through her. “Talk? There was never any talk. Everyone knew he was yours.” She dragged in an outraged breath. “Who ever said he wasn’t? Because that person was a liar!”

  “Don’t shout! It was a long time ago, and it scarcely matters now. He looks like me, so that’s done with, eh?”

  “You just said that because perhaps you hoped it was true. But there was never any talk, Pell. You were my first and if you must know, my only. I’ve never been with another man than you, before or since. He’s yours. There was never any talk otherwise.”

  “Have it your way, if it matters to you so much. Yes. He’s mine.”

  And when he claimed the boy, she could have bitten the tongue out of her own mouth. Why had she said that, why had she herself admitted what she wished were not true? Pell was watching her face, smiling slightly, knowing well he’d won. She looked away from him.

  “I’m tired,” he said. The bed was only three steps away in the little house. He sat down on the edge of it and bent over to tug off his fine boots. He set them side by side and followed them with his thick wool socks. Next he dragged off his shirt and dropped it on the floor. His trousers followed it. He stood, almost inviting her to look at him. He’d always been proud of his body. He was lean and muscled still, but no longer boyish. She hadn’t wanted to see him; his mean little smile showed that he knew she had looked at him. Naked, he rucked his way into her clean bed and drew the covers up nearly over his head. “Brr. Blankets are chilly.” He laughed a small laugh. “I could use some company under here to warm me.”

  “You won’t get any.”

  “As you will, Rosie. And you will when you will, and it will be soon enough for me.”

  “I won’t.”

  “We’ll see,” he said and yawned as if bored. Then he was still.

  She stared at him. There was only one bed. Since Gillam had been born, they had shared it. “He go my bed,” Gillam exclaimed between wonder and dismay.

  “Yes he did,” she confirmed for him. She pulled her gaze away from the sight. “Finish your food, Gillam.”

  She doubted that Pell was really asleep. Could he have been that relaxed about all of this? She doubted it. If she had been alone, she would have hit him with the pan and told him to get out of her house. No, she realized. If she were alone, she would have left here long ago. The only reason she had stayed was that her child needed a roof over his head and regular meals on the table. He still did. And that, she told herself, was the only reason she wasn’t confronting Pell now. She didn’t wish to frighten Gillam.

  Or provoke Pell.

  She did not want him to stay. She was clear with herself on that. It was too late for the old dreams that had once sustained her. He’d hurt her too badly, humiliated her too deeply. She could never feel about him as she once had. Never.

  She tried to go about her evening tasks as if Pell did not exist. She tidied away the dishes and brushed off the table. She gave Gillam a tin cup, three broken buttons, an empty spool, and a spoon to play with and set out her sewing on the table. She faced a real challenge with this quilt. She had no rags of her own to quilt from, but her friends saved her the pieces of cloth that they judged too small or oddly colored to work into their own piecework. She worked painstakingly with scissors and pins. She did not have many pins, and sometimes had to resort to a quick loop of thread to hold a bit in place. And she dared not sew any of it permanently until she had enough bits to make an entire quilt top, for who knew what colors and textures might come her way the next time she went begging for fabric scraps? She was glad to lose herself in the detailed work, glad to push her present problem out of her mind.

  Gillam was content at her feet, and she was so engrossed in her work that she didn’t notice when he disappeared. When her eyes grew weary with squinting through the dimness, she rolled up her work and looked about for her son. She caught her breath at what she saw. With the pragmatism of small children, he had put himself to bed, on his side of the bed where he always slept. He was a smaller lump under the covers next to Pell.

  That forced her to confront her next decision. Did she sleep on the hard flagged floor, as a message to Pell that she’d rather be cold than sleep beside him? If she claimed a spot in the bed, would he understand she wasn’t surrendering territory, or would it make him think she would willingly come back to his bed? She did her nightly chores as she pondered it. Was she a coward? Should she have flown at him, kicking and scratching and screaming the moment he showed up? She felt her pulse quicken with enthusiasm at the idea, and as quickly she refused it. He would have been delighted. They had quarreled once, violently, before she was pregnant with Gillam. He had slapped her, hard, to “bring her to her senses” as he put it then. And then apologized so abjectly and made love to her so earnestly that she’d accepted his behavior. Stupid girl. What if she’d run away from him then? What if he’d never got her with child, never lived with her, never left her, never returned? What life would she have now? Would she be like Hilia, with a husband and a home and a legitimate baby in her arms? Would she be in safe harbor? Useless to wonder.

  She built up the fire for the night after she put her sewing away. As she went to pull in the latchstring to secure the cottage for the night, she wondered what she feared out there. Her worst fear was already inside the door and in her bed. She blew out her candle and undressed under her worn flannel nightgown. Then she crept in beside Gillam, balancing almost on the edge of the bed. The blanket didn’t quite cover her. She tugged a bit more of it free, and then lost it when Marmalade thudded into place between her and Gillam. He settled in, surrounded by warmth, and began his loud purr. She stroked him. “Go to sleep now,” she told him, and he gently bit her hand to say that she had petted him enough.