All of us paused with surprise, even Helena lifted her head a little.
“You cannot be serious,” breathed Quinn. “She is barely sixteen.”
River nodded. “Which means she probably got with child at fifteen.”
“How do you know this?” Mischa said.
“I spoke with Bronwyn a few nights past,” River explained. “The girl was sleeping. And Bronwyn is not her mother. She is her grandmother.”
“That certainly makes more sense,” I said.
Our voices were hushed, the pink of the sun’s waning casting little light through the lone window in the loft. The horses nickered below us.
“Bronwyn’s daughter got herself with child by a miner who came to the city on holiday, but left without giving her his true name,” River went on. “So she had Eefa without knowing who her man really was. And the daughter died of a winter chill shortly after the birth. And Bronwyn’s husband died that winter of the same chill. So Bronwyn has raised Eefa all on her own for all this time. And ran their hatchery, raised the chickens and sold the eggs all by herself. Twas a rough life for both of them.”
“And now this,” I sighed, waving a hand vaguely around us.
“And who is the father of Eefa’s child?” asked Mischa.
River shrugged. “The girl will not say.”
16. Paste
“Edie,” came a voice from the first floor of the barn.
I looked over the edge of the hayloft to see Thatcher standing in the middle of the floor, stalls on either side. There was a pack of some kind on his back. Alric stood behind him, looking not up at us but to his left at the horse nearest him.
It occurred to me that Alric had told Thatcher my name and that Thatcher must have noticed the other women referred to me as Edie and not Edith.
Thatcher made a beckoning movement with his hand, indicating I should come down the loft ladder, his face friendly.
I looked at Quinn, River and Mischa, all of them looking back at me, suspicion on their faces. Helena seemed to not notice the men.
“Do not go down on your own,” said Mischa.
“I am not in danger,” I said.
“They are our captors!”
“Trust me,” I said and began to climb down the ladder, my flat summer boots allowing for scant footing on the wooden rungs. I went carefully. When my feet were steady on the dirt floor, I faced the two men and approached.
Thatcher slung the sack on his shoulder down to the ground. He reached into the space under his breastplate, next to the right arm’s opening and pulled out a tiny stoppered bottle and a cheap, tin spoon. There was a brown sludge inside the bottle. When I was close enough, he handed both to me.
“It’s a paste. For—” he hesitated. “For Helena. The woman said she needs to eat the whole bottle’s worth.”
“Oh,” I said, my voice shaky. “Thank you. I cannot thank you enough.” I clutched the bottle and spoon to my chest.
“It’s the least we could do,” Thatcher said, a darkness to his expression.
Alric finally looked away from the horse and at me over Thatcher’s shoulder.
“And we’ve clothes for you,” Thatcher said, gesturing to the pack on the floor.
“You found us clothes?”
“This is a big farm,” he responded. “Many are in employ here. Some of the women here agreed to sell us their old garb for coin. There’s nine dresses in there. Nothing pretty, I’m afraid.” He smiled at me. “But it is clean.”
“This is a great kindness,” I said. “Thank you.”
