Surely if there was one perfect example of an undefinable notion, it would be love. As I was growing up, love was a light in my parent's eyes when they looked at or spoke of one another. Two stools by a fire. Two rings of steel. An Oqura gem. When I got older, love was a drumming of the heart. An inability to do anything but sigh and gaze listlessly out of the window. Daydreams of dark barns, haystacks, and stolen kisses. Later, when I’d gotten old enough to take the washing down to the watering hole, I would listen to the washerwomen gossip as they scrubbed their knuckles raw over linen and complained about their husbands. Love was given a new aspect; one behind closed doors.

Though leagues and leagues apart, they were the same here. I’d been so shocked the first time I’d stayed around to do my washing that I had to douse myself in the cold water to get my color down. One woman, in particular, Shaela Èdjar, gave the most detailed accounts of she and her husband’s nightly ventures amongst the sheets, that made even some of the other married women blush.

“A regular beast, he is. If I can keep him awake long enough to get his claw out and sharpened. Mind you, he doesn’t catch much when he fishes neither. Bait’s too small both ways. But he keeps trying. Suppose that’s something, aye?”

“You can’t get a loaf of bread to rise, Shaela,” Egróe Neifth chided. “How do you expect to get your husband to?”

“Like you’re any better yourself,” another said. “Perhaps you’d ask him to give mine advice. Seems I can’t get him to keep his hands off me. You’d think he’s keeping an army in there, by the size of the tent he’s always got in his cloth. I’m so bruised and battered, I’m surprised I’m not passing blood.”

“Argall is a strong, healthy man. Though I’d never expect it from how little he speaks.”

“Oh, aye. ‘Tis always the quiet, serious ones you want to watch. The loud, crass ones are just talk.”

There was some secretive tittering

I worked silently and dedicatedly on the garment in my hands, wishing I’d taken a bucket of water back home, instead of staying by the well. The long, difficult walk would have been vastly preferable over this burn in my ears.

Despite my best efforts to remain invisible, one of the women caught my eye. She shuffled over and squatted next to me, peering eagerly at the white shift.

Mostly white.

“Take a bit of soap,” she offered, holding out a worn-down cake in the pudgy palm of her hand. I accepted it tentatively. “Won’t get that blood out if you don’t. Like some help?”

“No, thank you.” I tried to turn away from her as politely as I could, bunching up the cloth and working in the soap.

“There’s no need to be shy, dear. We’re all women.” She snatched it from me and uncrumpled it, stretching it out over her washboard and surveying the blot of rusty color. Her grey eyes widened, and then she elbowed me sharply in the ribs. “Lost your honor then, have you?” she asked me sternly, and I scrambled to think up a defense.

She chuckled. “I’m only jesting with you, dear. And don’t go saying it’s naught but your monthly. I’m a mother and a wife. I know the difference. Oh, don’t blush, love.”

I did blush. How could she even tell? Surely, she only pretended she could, to trick me into admitting what she wanted to hear.

I snatched my shift back, but the damage was done. We’d caught the attention of the other women. And of course, I knew some of them closely. I’d never been more mortified in my life.

Purity’s green eyes were wide as she listened in with rapt interest, lips puckered. Beside her, Verity pretended she couldn’t see my pleading expression and dumped her apron in her water bucket. She couldn’t hide the delight on her face.

“You’re one of the newer girls,” the older woman realized. “One of them from the ships. Oh! Of course, I should have guessed. You’re the one Taelon took in.”

“I like Taelon,” her friend said amiably. “He tended to my roof when my husband was ill in the winter, even though I had nothing for him in return. I’m not quite sure he knew what he was doing, but he did it all the same. At least it’s not raining buckets on my head any longer.”

“He’s very handsome. Even if he is Radkkan. He is Radkkan, isn't he?”

“I don’t suppose that’s any excuse,” another woman put in. I recognized her as the head-kerchief woman who’d offered Grieda one chicken for her cow the previous day. Her pale brown eyes were set too close together, I thought. Her chin was weak. And the upward tilt of her nose was irritating.

“Really, what does your mother think of you?” she scolded. “Surely she raised you with some morals.”

The mentioning of my mother compelled me to answer, and I glowered at her. “Of course she did. But I don’t see I’ve done anything wrong.”

“There isn't a ring on your finger.” She sniffed. “Taking part in intimate relations before marriage is a sin. I don’t care if he forced you. I don’t care if he’s handsome. Men will always be men. But a young woman should be taught to have more sense.” She said this, like she expected all to agree, and smiled at me condescendingly. “No one wants a woman with loose morals.”

The woman beside me snorted. “I think you’ll be at a loss to find a woman that doesn’t portray loose morals while doing her washing, Gnese.”

Gnese carefully added a black dress to the growing pile in her basket and threw out her chin, proudly. “At home, girls are taught from birth to know their place.” She wrung out a kerchief, and then shook it out, splattering those of us closest to her with droplets of cold water. “I believe there is no better gift or virtue. They would never conduct themselves in such a way. They would certainly never become with child before marriage.”

“Yes, Gnese. I’m sure Kaneen women are the very picture of chaste, dutiful, and pure,” Bronagh said politely through pursed lips, her hand floating unconsciously out of her washtub and brushing over her abdomen.

“Is that why they turn out the largest number of spinsters, I wonder?” Verity asked daintily.

“Your three and thirtieth is soon in the coming, is it not Gnese? We’ll have to bake some treats to celebrate.”

A vibrant flush climbed up Gnese’s neck, reaching out from the stiff, high collar of her wimple and infecting her cheeks. She threw the rest of her laundry into her basket and stood up, glaring. “I suppose you small-island women are too simple to understand. But of course, it is not your fault. Whoreblood does get passed down from mother to daughter. Some sin lines are too deeply rooted, they can’t be broken even if you try.”

With one last scathing backward glance, she left us, strutting out of the cool shadows of the forest edge and back to the village.

“Uppity pigeon,” the plump woman said. She patted my shoulder. “Take no mind of the things she says. She’s likely only going at you because she had her net out for Taelon and he wasn’t receptive. She’ll be a virgin when she’s fifty.”

“There’s no shame in that,” Bronagh said sensibly.

“Perhaps it’s so. But there’s even less shame in not. Though . . .” She emptied her bucket over her washing and began kneading it over the flat stone before her. “You mind how you go. Many young girls think they can keep a man just by spreading her legs. But there’s more to it than that.”

“Aye,” Shaela cut in eagerly. “Just like all things, tending has got its tricks. Its charms. It's an art like any other. You don’t want just to be a sheath for him to stick his sword in.”

“If you aren’t careful, they’ll leave you for another after they’ve gotten their taste. Intrigue, that’s it. Don’t want to let them get bored.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” said Shaela stoutly. “I say if he can’t give as good as he gets, he’s got no place in my bed.”

“You would say that.” Egróe rolled her eyes.

Bronagh, finished with her washing, struggled to lift her heavy basket over her enlarged middle, and I saw an opportunity to escape.

“May I help you?”

“Oh! No, Ingrith. You must stay, and we’ll walk home together!” Verity exclaimed, nudging her sister.

“Yes, please!” The hungry eyes on the twins’ faces only hurried me to help Bronagh lift her basket.

“You needn’t, Ingrith. You already have your own washing to carry,” she said worriedly.

“I don’t mind. It’s only some clothes,” I pressed. I flung my shift, and the rest, sopping wet, into my own basket, then placed hers on top and hefted it all into my arms.

I was not born with a frail constitution. I certainly never thought of myself as delicate. I could lift and carry just about as well as any boy. But I had to admit I’d overestimated my capabilities when I’d only taken a few steps, and already my arms, laden down with two large baskets full of wet laundry, ached and strained in their sockets. But I was too proud to back down, so, clenching my jaw, I put one foot in front of the other, following Bronagh down the little path into the woods toward the apiary, and the little cottage beside; leaving behind my gossiping friends.

“You’re terribly brave,” I huffed, as we found ourselves out of sight of the well. “Living in the forest.”

“Why?” Bronagh asked. “Oh, yes, I suppose you speak of the rumors of creatures in the trees.”

“You’ve never once seen one?”

“But I have. More than once.”

“And you’re not terrified?” I gasped, astonished. “Oh, I just know I would be. I’ve only heard one, and it sent a chill up my spine like you don’t know.”

“There’s nothing to be afraid of.” She plucked a leaf off one of the low-hanging branches bowing alongside our path. “They’re all peaceful creatures mostly. Lulodun just sleep for the main thing. Sometimes I’ll come across one standing between two trees, and you’d hardly tell them apart. Except for their hunched backs, and their strange faces. For a while, ‘twas only them I saw, now and again on the warm days.” Her eyebrows furrowed. “Though, now that I think of it, there have been some strange occurrences in this last month.

“Like what?” I asked, eyeing the shadows cautiously. Was that a large eye blinking, or just an extra bright patch of sunlight?

“Oddities. Bees hatched with six wings. Double yolks in eggs. And little green men.”

“Little green men?” I hefted the baskets higher into my arms and bit my tongue to keep from sighing in effort.

“Yes, that’s right. They only flashed before my eyes a moment so I couldn’t be sure I saw, but I’m confident in my sight. Faeri sorts.”

“I’ve never seen such things,” I said enviously. “Not even as a child.

“I’ve had the sight since as long as I can remember.” She twisted the leaf around her finger, securing it with a loose knotting of the stem. “You see, there’s some would say that my father was a changeling.”

“A changeling?”

“Yes. ‘Twas said he wasn’t right. Not normal.” Bronagh lowered her voice secretly. “He could climb trees faster than a squirrel. Plants came to life beneath his hands, and birds alighted on his fingers and sang to him. Sometimes, during harvests, he would be seen conversing with the air. My mother would ask him, “Who do you speak to?” and he would answer, ‘Why, the little green men! Look at them, gathered about us, like courtiers around a king and his queen.”

“My!” I whispered.

“Yes. But even so, they lived in great happiness, until the night I was born. I was told he took me into his arms and left the house. My grandfather hunted him down and found him on the poolside. You must know the one. Upon the cliff, in the trees there. The lake fed from nothing. We’d been warned that it was a gateway to the Otherrealm. Well, they argued. My father insisted he must bring me back to his kingdom; that I belonged there with him, and he could stay no longer. My grandfather wrested me from his arms, and in the fight, my father was lost in the water. He was never found and never returned. Of course, most who hear the tale say he was just mad and drowned. But I like to think, and so did my mother, that he is alive and well, in the world he belongs in.”

“I’ve never heard of the Otherrealm. Only the heavens. Are they perhaps one and the same?” I asked.

Bronagh shook her head. “The Otherrealm belongs to spirits. ‘Tis a great, vast place at the heart of the earth, full of Sunah’s life. There are many places all over the continent that act as doorways between. Sometimes a creature will find itself there, and then return, transformed. There’ve been many tales woven about them over the years. My favorite is the legend of the Selkies.”

How much further? I thought wearily. Not only did my arms ache, but now my legs, fingers, feet, and head did too. I shivered as the break in the trees above us closed, and we were doused in shadow. At least it was cool now.

Too cool. The sweat clinging to the back of my neck and beneath my dress chilled, and I thought almost longingly of the heated stones by the well. Even if the price was gossip.

“Do I bore you, Ingrith?” Bronagh asked quickly, glancing my way. “I am sorry.”

“No, no. Indeed, you’re giving me a welcome distraction.” I blew some damp hair out of my eyes. “Tell me about them. The Selkies.”

“Well—” Bronagh seemed happy to have someone to tell the tale to. Her cheeks dimpled gladly, and her eyes twinkled. I wished I had dimples. Or eyes, half as lovely as hers. “At first, it was thought they were only women. Seals who came ashore and shed their coats, becoming beautiful maidens. But there were men too. They were the earliest persons living on Seaggis. When settlers came, they found strange men and women. Soot black hair, wild dark eyes. They lived in peace with the newcomers for only a short time, before one night they all disappeared beneath the waves. Some had wives, husbands, and children left behind, but none ever came back. Though, occasionally, one would see them, sunning themselves on the rocks, pelts glistening, as they watched land life from afar.”

The light in her eyes dimmed to a sorrowful one. “I suppose, we aren’t meant to dwell together. ‘Tis unnatural, for us and the Otherrealm ones to mingle. ‘Tis why so few of us see them—” She froze, mouth forming a perfect circle as she gasped, and clutched my arm.

If I hadn’t stopped myself, I might have walked into it. The beast was tall. Twelve hands at least, with a long, flat face and two huge, dull, lidless eyes. Its back was hunched, shoulders bent from the weight of the knot resting upon them. It writhed, where the dappled sunlight hit it; amber and membraned where the wood drew away.

I couldn’t move. I could scarce breathe. The burden of the baskets all but fled from my mind. There was one long moment where we stared at each other, then it turned away and took one lumbering step across the path. I shivered as its shadow passed us over; unnaturally cool, and dark. It was gone in the amount of time it took me to blink.

“Sunah,” Bronagh breathed weakly. “I’ve never seen one awake before.”

“Did we really see it?” I asked, staring at the two bushes it had strode through. The leaves hadn’t even rustled. There wasn’t a piece of grass out of place. Nothing to suggest what we’d seen hadn’t been a figment of imagination. “Only, Taelon told me they exist, and you told me you’d seen them, but I don’t suppose I really believed it until now. Oh, my. Are we safe? Should we run?”

“We’re quite safe, I am certain.” But despite her confident words, her face was twisted in worry. “That was a young one. And it had living eggs upon its back. Nature is shifting.” She shook her head, and then her breath caught, and she gripped her belly, eyes squeezed shut, and lips taut.

“Are you ill?” I balanced her, hefting the baskets against my hip, and freeing an arm to draw around her shoulders.

“No, I’m quite well. It’s just the babe, is all. Kicking me.” She laughed lightheartedly, but I could see that concern was still deeply etched in the lines around her eyes. “Oh, I am a bit lightheaded.”

Luckily, the cottage was not far from there. I settled her inside quickly with a cup of cool water, and then at her behest, and assurance that all was well, took back to the path to make my own way home.

It was not all that late in the day. Afternoon was only just beginning to show signs of settling in. But with trees all around blotting out the sun, and my heart still leaping about from the shocking encounter, it seemed to grow darker every second. Halfway down, a twig snapping not far off broke my determination and had me gathering up my skirts, hitching my basket up my arm, and running like a hare the rest of the way, not once pausing for a breath; not until the forest was far behind me. For it seemed that the shadows did seem to reach out for my limbs, stretching further than common sense allowed, and the stickiness of something ‘different’ clung to me, like cobwebs, trembling and shivering, urging me back in. Back into the clutches of the little green men.

I was almost sure I heard laughter above me and snapped my head up as I pelted past the now deserted well, but it was only an old crow, sitting amongst the branches, cawing his woes for no one to care, one eye fixed on me, the other, the horizon.

I was jumpy all the rest of the afternoon, and into the evening. Taelon had made good on his promise to take Ulliam’s turn in the Feignt. I was alone in the house, listening to the creaks and whoosh of the wind as it blew in, preparing for our first summer storm. To ease my nerves, I picked through my things for a scrap of cloth that would make a nice blanket square and then hunted down a needle and some thread. But no matter how pretty and cheerful I tried to make it, I ended up unsatisfied and tore all my stitches out.

Finally, it was evening, and I thought I could wait no longer. I left the house and walked down the cliff path to the beach. The sky was a stormy grey, with a red, bulbous sun sitting half sunk in the sea. The wind tore at me, and I clutched my shawl tighter around my body, watching the cluster of small boats a way out, waiting for them to near. They arrived promptly, full of women, and a few older men, lugged down with baskets and baskets of shellfish.

Behind them, prancing out of the serf like wild stallions, came the young men. The waves rolled them out almost magically onto the shore, where they stood, shaking the water out of their hair, and laughing.

In the gathering night, wet through as they were, alight with the excitement of the coming storm, and the daringness of diving deep down into the water to gather oysters, clams, and such treasures as were to be found in the depths, they all looked dark and otherworldly. The sight thrilled my spine as I thought of Bronagh’s stories about the seal people and wondered if there was any truth in it.

I let myself admire their gleaming forms for a moment, streaming with water and danger. Then I looked for Taelon. I found him without even trying, my eyes well trained. He separated from the group as they moved further down the beach and darted over to the rocks where his tunic and coat lay pinned beneath a stone to stop them blowing away in his absence. I let him pull them on before approaching, and he flinched when he spun around and saw me, standing there watching him. Then his features softened as he recognized who I was.

“It was successful?”

“Oh, you know.” He shrugged cheerfully. “Enough.”

“Aren’t you cold?” I asked, wincing as a blast of wind hit me with the scent of salt, and warming seaweed. It churned my stomach.

“Not a bit. The water’s warm this season, before the fifteen days.” He shivered. “This wind is bitter though.” He added, “You didn’t have to come down. I hope you weren’t worried.”

“I was worried,” I said honestly. “You would be if roles were reversed. But that’s not why I came down. I wanted to see you. It’s lonely, all by myself, with all that space.”

“It is a small house, Ingrith,” he said, amused.

“It feels spacious enough, when alone,” I argued, clutching my shawl tighter.

“True enough.” He inclined his head. “I felt the same way after my brother left. We’ll just have to fill it with something, don’t you think?”

“Like what?”

He hummed in response and turned to survey the cliff.

“What’s in there, do you know?” I asked, looping my arm through his, and pointing at the treacherous, gnarly face, where it curved inward, a yawning, giant’s mouth full of sharp teeth.

“Rock, I imagine.”

“Yes. Rock. But behind that, there’s a cave.”

He raised his eyebrows. “How do you know?”

“I’ve done a bit of exploring when I’ve nothing else to do. It looks like there’s a cave, and it’s been filled in with boulders. What’s hiding there, do you think?”

“I really cannot say I know,” he said truthfully. “I have never been there myself.”

“Shameful,” I teased. “After living here all these years I have not?”

“It is dangerous when the tides come in. Many have been killed down here.” He unhooked our arms and took my hand, fingers slotting perfectly between my own. “Let’s go home, Ingrith.”

As we walked, I wondered if I should tell him about my near collision with one of his mysterious tree tappers. I decided I wouldn’t. Not unless it came up some other way. What good would it do? None, I was sure. It would only concern him. So, I pent it all up inside, determined to forget about it, and as he went to change, I came back to my quilt square, sewing by the lingering glints of sun for as long as they lasted, and then still until my eyes strained, before lighting one of the candles.

“What are you doing?” Taelon asked me, abandoning whatever he had been doing at the table and coming up to peer over my shoulder.

“A quilt square, for Bronagh. She asked it of me. Oh!” I let it drop to my lap, horrified with myself. “I haven’t given a single thought to something to eat. You must be starving.”

“No, really, I am not. I never am after a Feignt. I suppose I’ve been filled up with water.” He laid a hand on my shoulder. “Do not get up, Ingrith. It is beautiful, what you are making.”

“Do you really think so? Crows aren’t too grim?”

“Not at all. They are very elegant.”

“I keep seeing them everywhere, and nothing else I’ve tried has worked. That lazy fellow has been sitting for me so I can capture his likeness.” I glanced up at His Lordship, roosting contentedly in the rafters, and held the cloth up to the flickering candlelight to compare them. “I do hope it’s beautiful. I treasured the blanket my mother made from her friends’ squares when I was a child. Each one depicted something wondrous. It was like lying in bed, wrapped up in stories.”

“I never had one,” Taelon said, sitting on the window seat beside me, to watch as I sewed. “Nor did my brother, or my sister.” His lips shadowed a wry smile. “Too pagan for my mother.”

“Quilt squares . . . pagan?”

“Well, they’re not Belnacathic, so to her logic, they must be.”

“How strange.”

“She is,” he agreed morosely.

“I am sorry you didn’t have one.” I smoothed down my work, wishing I had some finer thread to work with. “Mine was one of my dearest treasures. There was one, in particular, my mother’s own, that she stitched out of a piece of real green velvet. There was a little lamb grazing on it, a sun in the sky, and a creek. I would run my fingers over it every chance I had, and you know, it really was as soft as I imagined such a fine thing would be. It was made late,” I added. “After I was born. So, I had at least five years to wonder about it.”

“My father’s trade is in cloth,” Taelon said. “I’ve felt velvet many times. And silk. I never wore it, though. Mother wouldn’t have allowed such a vanity.” He looked mournful again and gazed out of the window. “I do not suppose we have any of that here.”

I patted his hand. “I’m not dissatisfied, Taelon. After all, if one could come across something like it every day, it would lose all the magic and intrigue, wouldn’t it?”

“Maybe. But, if you are ever unhappy, Ingrith, you will tell me, won’t you?”

“I’ve not been unhappy one moment with you.” I finished threading in the crow’s glittering eye, and, biting off my thread, chose a strand of white and began stitching a crescent moon. “What of you, are you unhappy?”

“No,” he said, very seriously. “No, I–I don’t think I’ve ever been less unhappy.”

I grinned, unable to contain the sunshine that spread through my body at this confession. “Then I suppose all is well.”

“It must be.”

I turned my head hopefully so that he could kiss me and was disappointed when his lips only came shy of a brush over mine. His long eyelashes fluttered against his cheeks, and my heart throbbed as he remained there. So close and yet so far.

“Are you finished?” he asked, the soft, low timbre of his voice falling even softer, and lower. My skin tingled as his hand brushed over my fingers, holding tight to the embroidered square, and threaded needle.

“Nearly.”

“May I tempt you away?”

“Perhaps you might. If you offer a suitable incentive.”

I could have believed, long ago, when love and physical intimacy were nothing but a vague idea in my mind; gossip, crude remarks, odd sounds in the middle of the night, that one would grow tired of it after a time. The kisses would grow ordinary, the stimulating sensations dispelled. The anticipation of growing closer, and closer, and the deep satisfaction when you found you’d reached the boundary, gone. Disillusioned. But it never did. It remained. Grew. Spread. It was a thrill like no other, to have it embossed upon my body, engraved on my skin, that Taelon loved me. Loved me like being close was not near enough. Loved me like he must become a part of me. To have me take him in and use him to make my heart beat. To become, not two people, but one, broken in half and finally put together again. I never did feel so whole as when he filled the empty space within me, and when he was no longer there, even if he lay beside me, or held me in his arms, it was not the same. I yearned to have him back where he belonged and to stay there forever.

Through the fragile gates we’d passed beneath; before love, love, and everything within, a tender thread had been spun and knotted to my breastbone, and the other end to his. It would stretch to accommodate our distance, but I felt it, the real, physical pull of it, and the discomfort growing on pain when he was too far from me, and the thread stretched too thin. It might have been invisible to my eyes, but I knew it was there, and an illogical fear festered in the pit of my stomach when I thought of that gentle thread being ripped from me.

I felt Taelon’s warm breath against my collar bone; consistent, rhythmic. I would think he was sleeping, but knew he was awake. His presence was steady, in my hands, all mine.

“The fifteen days will begin soon,” I whispered to him, turning my head to look out of the window, where, through the glass pane, I could see the sky glowing a deep, vinous red. In the morning the sun would rise, and then fall, less and less each day until at last on the fifteenth it would remain high and bright for twenty-four hours, only to at last sink into the ocean and give us our dark nights once again.

He hummed in confirmation.

“They’re by far preferable over the fifteen nights. We already must endure long winters. Why must we endure fifteen days and nights of darkness on top of it all? Though I suppose they must have their uses.”

I ran my fingers lightly up the base of his spine to the arch of his neck and felt his breath hitch. I was deeply flattered, and tried it again, even slower, enjoying the helpless tremble that shivered through him. I slid my hands over his shoulders, my fingertips brushing feather-light against his smooth chest, and then down, dancing over the rippled planes along his stomach. Then further still, lower, and lower into darkness. Taelon grasped my wrists, saying my name pleadingly.

I could feel the heat running like a fever through his flesh: waves, slower, and then faster. I could feel every hard, lean muscle of his body, and inhaled a shaky gasp of air as I sensed his hand come to rest, warm and gentle against my thigh, a careful plea for admittance. I flattened my back against the sheets and uncrossed my legs, unhinging the doors and spreading them wide open for him to enter, and he did, gratefully. A lone, stiff stranger eager to explore the warm inner halls and secret passages of a welcoming stronghold.

I rolled my hips upward to meet his, impatiently at first, until we found a common rhythm, and I settled into it, comfortably, with a sigh of delight. Until need made our movements erratic. Frantic. There was all the time in the world, but none of it was for us. I was filled with the most wonderful, desperate blunt ache, that throbbed and begged to be fed. I fed it, again and again until a flood of relief had my limbs going limp, and I slipped below the surface. Water rushed in my eyes, my mouth, and my ears. I clung to the man above me, a life raft amidst a torrent of the indescribable; bloodless fingers knotted tight in his hair. I lifted my head briefly above the waves, only to have it dragged under once again, into a place of white, and ringing in my ears he found his own relief, and together we drifted ashore in a tangled mess to wash up on the soft, warm sands of rational thought and consciousness.

Already I missed the deep, consuming pleasure of submergence, and lay there, clinging to the slowly fading echoes of waves lapping at my feet and rolling up to the top of my head, and then down again, wishing they would stay and not leave me alone and dry as I knew they must.

“Taelon,” I said when I could, voice rough from saltwater and cries to be saved. “You must tell me honestly. Do I please you?” It was very important to me that I did. For much would be lost in the way of my enjoyment in the lack of his own.

Instead of an answer, he laughed, a shaky, quivering laugh, and I’d never heard so much mirth in his voice ever before.

I let that be answer enough. For I knew if he’d asked me the same, I would find myself without a single one of the precious words my mother had put into my head.

Sometime in the night, near the pause before the beginning of dawn, I awoke from a curious dream. I was Grieda’s Heifer, peacefully chewing on a patch of lush green grass, while a young white calf suckled at and whined for my udder.

“I am not yet a milk cow, silly thing,” I tried to scold, but I had no speech, and she blinked large, pretty blue eyes, framed with golden lashes, before renewing her attempts.

I was brought out of sleep with a jolt of pleasure, and a sound of annoyance left my throat as I felt Taelon’s lips remove themselves from the rippled nub of my breast. But I forgave him when they took my lips as a replacement.

“Taelon,” I said, laughing. “You’ve not had enough of me yet?”

“I don’t believe I will ever have enough of you, Ingrith,” he answered me, and then seemed to grow bashful from his own daring and buried his head into my shoulder. “Do you mind, terribly?”

“Not in the slightest. Though I do have something I would ask of you, now it’s come to mind.”

He lifted his head, and I brushed aside a few mussed strands of hair tumbling senselessly into his eyes.

“Tell me.”

“I put in an offer for Grieda’s heifer. I suggested she keep it, and I would milk her, and we would split whatever goods I collect. She told me she would consider it, but I’m not sure she’ll see it as the best bargain over all the others.”

I’d forgotten all about my attempt to make Grieda an offer until the dream brought it back. I squirmed at the thought of using Taelon’s credit with her as high ground, but I was more determined than ever for my plan to come to fruition.

“You would have me sway her in your favor?” he guessed, lips quirking in amusement.

“Not so. She’s fond of you. Very fond of you. I’d only ask that you put in an encouraging word for my sake. That is all. I know it would be of equal benefit to all of us. I could have a way to help you in getting what we need when we need it. And in the winter, both of our families shall have milk and butter and cream. And I shall have something to keep me occupied when I am alone.” I stroked back another curl of hair as he gazed at me with heavy-lidded eyes. “I am not an idle person. I must have something to do. So, would you?”

“Of course I shall.” He pressed a kiss to the corner of my mouth. “If that is what you wish for. But I don’t think you’ll need me. She likes you.”

“I hope you are right.” I sank down into his embrace, knowing I should attempt sleep. But I was haunted by the beautiful little white calf in my dream. The way her blue eyes blinked sorrow at me, and the unease that filled my body when her soft mouth finally closed over my flesh.

The next afternoon, Taelon returned to the house looking pleased with himself.

“I was right,” he said gleefully. “Before I even said a thing, she told me, ‘Tell Ingrith I accept her proposal. Get her to walk over this evening. We’ll discuss the terms.’ What do you think?”

“Oh!” I clapped my hands together, my heart soaring. “She agreed? Oh, how wonderful!”

“Are you happy?” he asked, hopefully.

“Wonderfully.” I grinned from ear to ear. “And thank you.”

“I haven’t done anything,” he said stubbornly. “You owe her agreeing to your own merit.”

“But you would do something,” I insisted. “If you’d needed to. And that means more than all of it put together.”

That night I returned from Grieda’s, light-spirited despite the heavy bucket weighing down my arms. I let it sit in the cool pantry overnight, covered. The next morning there was a heavy layer of thick cream sitting on the surface. I ladled it carefully into a round pot and stoppered it tightly, so that even when I shook it with all my might, not a drop spilled.

I’d been surprised when Grieda had offered me a chance to milk her dairy cow while we waited for the heifer to take the fancy of one of her two bulls.

The cow was an older dear, but her milk was still fresh and sweet. When I beheld the soft, white cream lying in drifts in the pot, I was filled with memories of home and my mother. Of the first time she’d taught me to whip the cream, and how I’d shook it for so long it became butter instead.

I was hit with a need to bring those memories closer. To taste them. Hold them in my hands.

I hung a cooking pot over the fire, full of pig fat, and into it, I dumped three round handfuls of dough. I watched, heart in my throat as they bobbed and shivered, prodding them every now and then with a stirring stick. Then, at last, they rolled over to put on display their perfect, round, golden brown bellies, like kittens on a sun-warmed windowsill.

When the cakes were done, and cooled, I carefully cut into and hollowed out a little trove, and then smoothed some of the precious honey against the inner walls, until they gleamed. My hands shook when I piled in the cream, and at last, held the finished product in the palm of my hand. Mother’s cream cake was the last bit of home I had taken with me from Saje. I knew I could never make them as she did. I knew I would disappoint myself. But I couldn’t stop hoping.

I’d let this one cook for too long on one side. It lacked the delightful flakiness of my mother’s. The honey was sweet, and the cream was soft and rich. My tongue enjoyed the pastry, but it was not my mother’s. It would never be my mother’s. It could taste nearly the same, but no matter what I did it would never taste like home. Like her love. Like my family.

And yet, maybe that was a good thing.

I wrapped the rest of the little cream cakes and stored them away, for others to enjoy.

Perhaps I would have to be satisfied with my old memories staying where they were. I could not bring them back. Not even if I could summon my family here in the house with me. Those precious memories were for the past.

But I could make new ones.