Alyson frowned. “Are you sick?”
“No.”
“Did Walter scold you?”
Amelia almost laughed. “A little.”
Alyson nodded with deep understanding. “He scolds everyone. Once he scolded the rain.”
“That sounds like Walter.”
“He said it came at the wrong time.”
“Did the rain improve?”
“No.” Alyson came closer and held out the bread. “You can have my crust.”
And there it was again. The cost.
Amelia crouched. She took the crust as if it were treasure. It was hard and a little damp at one end.
“Thank you.”
Alyson studied her face with a seriousness far too old for six.
“Lord Thomas says when people are sad, you give them bread if you don’t know what else to do.”
A crack opened in Amelia’s chest.
“Does he?”
“Aye. Hob says ale is better, but Edith says Hob is why ale cannot be trusted.”
Amelia laughed then, a real laugh and a broken one. “Edith is usually right.”
Alyson leaned forward and touched one of Amelia’s escaped curls. “You can sit with me after dinner.”
“I’d like that.”
“Lord Thomas too?”
The question was innocent.
Amelia looked down at the crust in her hand. “Maybe not tonight.”
Alyson’s face fell. “Is he cross?”
“No.” Amelia brushed jam from the child’s cheek with her thumb. “No, he’s not cross. I just have things to do.”
That wasn’t exactly a lie. She had the hardest thing in the world to do.
Alyson accepted this with the flexible suspicion of children and went skipping back toward the passage, calling for Wat before she’d even reached the door.
Amelia stood slowly. Through the window, narrow and wavy with old glass, she could see a piece of the yard. The day had brightened, pale sun touching the wet stones. Men moved with sacks near the storehouse. A girl carried a basket of apples toward the kitchens. Smoke lifted from the bakehouse. Life. Work. Winter coming.
Then Thomas crossed the yard. He was speaking with Hob, his dark head bent, one hand resting on the hilt at his hip. He wore a plain blue tunic, the sleeves pushed up as usual, showing the strong forearms that had once made Amelia lose her train of thought in the lists like an absolute idiot. His hair was wind-ruffled. The scar along his jaw caught the light when he turned.
As if he sensed her looking, he paused. His gaze lifted toward the stillroom window. He couldn’t see her clearly. Surely he could not. The glass was too thick, too warped, the interior too shadowed.
