“Nettie is fine, Bast,” she said indulgently. More than a few of the townfolk considered Bast somewhat simple in the head, a fact that Bast didn’t mind in the least.
“Nettie,” Bast said, smiling his most ingratiating smile.
There was a pause, and she leaned against the doorframe. A little girl peeked out from around the woman’s faded blue skirt, nothing more than a pair of serious dark eyes.
Bast smiled at the girl, who disappeared back behind her mother.
Nettie looked at Bast expectantly. Finally she prompted, “You were wondering …”
“Oh, yes,” Bast said. “I was wondering if your husband happened to be about.”
“I’m afraid not,” she said. “Jessom’s off checking his traps.”
“Ah,” Bast said, disappointed. “Will he be back anytime soon? I’d be happy to wait …”
She shook her head. “I’m sorry. He’ll do his lines then spend the night skinning and drying up in his shack.” She nodded vaguely toward the northern hills.
“Ah,” Bast said again.
Nestled snugly in her mother’s arm, the baby drew a deep breath, then sighed it out blissfully, going quiet and limp. Nettie looked down, then up at Bast, holding a finger to her lips.
Bast nodded and stepped back from the doorway, watching as Nettie stepped inside, deftly detached the sleeping baby from her nipple with her free hand, then carefully tucked the child into a small wooden cradle on the floor. The dark-eyed girl emerged from behind her mother and went to peer down at the baby.
“Call me if she starts to fuss,” Nettie said softly. The little girl nodded seriously, sat down on a nearby chair, and began to gently rock the cradle with her foot.
Nettie stepped outside, closing the door behind her. She walked the few steps necessary to join Bast, rearranging her bodice unself-consciously. In the sunlight Bast noticed her high cheekbones and generous mouth. Even so, she was more tired than pretty, her dark eyes heavy with worry.
The tall woman crossed her arms over her chest. “What’s the trouble, then?” she asked wearily.
Bast looked confused. “No trouble,” he said. “I was wondering if your husband had any work.”
Nettie uncrossed her arms, looking surprised. “Oh.”
“There isn’t much for me to do at the inn,” Bast said a little sheepishly. “I thought your husband might need an extra hand.”
Nettie looked around, eyes brushing over the old barn. Her mouth tugging down at the corners. “He traps and hunts for the most part these days,” she said. “Keeps him busy, but not so much that he’d need help, I imagine.” She looked back to Bast. “At least he’s never made mention of wanting any.”
“How about yourself?” Bast asked, giving his most charming smile. “Is there anything around the place you could use a hand with?”
Nettie smiled at Bast indulgently. It was only a small smile, but it stripped ten years and half a world of worry off her face, making her practically shine with loveliness. “There isn’t much to do,” she said apologetically. “Only three goats, and my boy minds them.”
“Firewood?” Bast asked. “I’m not afraid to work up a sweat. And it has to be hard getting by with your gentleman gone for days on end …” He grinned at her hopefully.
“And we just haven’t got the money for help, I’m afraid,” Nettie said.
“I just want some carrots,” Bast said.
Nettie looked at him for a minute, then burst out laughing. “Carrots,” she said, rubbing at her face. “How many carrots?”
“Maybe … six?” Bast asked, not sounding very sure of his answer at all.
She laughed again, shaking her head a little. “Okay. You can split some wood.” She pointed to the chopping block that stood in back of the house. “I’ll come get you when you’ve done six carrots’ worth.”
Bast set to work eagerly, and soon the yard was full of the crisp, healthy sound of splitting wood. The sun was still strong in the sky, and after just a few minutes Bast was covered in a sheen of sweat. He carelessly peeled away his shirt and hung it on the nearby garden fence.
There was something different about the way he split the wood. Nothing dramatic. In fact he split wood the same way everyone did: you set the log upright, you swing the axe, you split the wood. There isn’t much room to extemporize.
But still, there was a difference in the way he did it. When he set the log upright, he moved intently. Then he would stand for a tiny moment, perfectly still. Then came the swing. It was a fluid thing. The placement of his feet, the play of the long muscles in his arms …
There was nothing exaggerated. Nothing like a flourish. Even so, when he brought the axe up and over in a perfect arc, there was a grace to it. The sharp cough the wood made as it split, the sudden way the halves went tumbling to the ground. He made it all look somehow … well … dashing.
He worked a hard half hour, at which time Nettie came out of the house, carrying a glass of water and a handful of fat carrots with the loose greens still attached. “I’m sure that’s at least six carrots’ worth of work,” she said, smiling at him.
Bast took the glass of water, drank half of it, then bent over and poured the rest over his head. He shook himself off a bit, then stood back up, his dark hair curling and clinging to his face. “Are you sure there’s nothing else you could use a hand with?” he asked, giving her an easy grin. His eyes were dark and smiling and bluer than the sky.
Nettie shook her head. Her hair was out of her braid now, and when she looked down, the loose curls of it fell partly across her face. “I can’t think of anything,” she said.
“I’m a dab hand with honey too,” Bast said, hoisting the axe to rest against his naked shoulder.
She looked a little puzzled at that until Bast nodded toward the wooden hives scattered through the overgrown field. “Oh,” she said, as if remembering a half-forgotten dream. “I used to do candles and honey. But we lost a few hives to that bad winter three years back. Then one to nits. Then there was that wet spring and three more went down with the chalk before we even knew.” She shrugged. “Early this summer we sold one to the Hestles so we’d have money for the levy …”
She shook her head again, as if she’d been daydreaming. She shrugged and turned back to look at Bast. “Do you know about bees?”
“A fair bit,” Bast said softly. “They aren’t hard to handle. They just need patience and gentleness.” He casually swung the axe so it stuck in the nearby stump. “They’re the same as everything else, really. They just want to know they’re safe.”
Nettie was looking out at the field, nodding along with Bast’s words unconsciously. “There’s only the two left,” she said. “Enough for a few candles. A little honey. Not much. Hardly worth the bother, really.”
“Oh come now,” Bast said gently. “A little sweetness is all any of us have sometimes. It’s always worth it. Even if it takes some work.”
Nettie turned to look at him. She met his eyes now. Not speaking, but not looking away either. Her eyes were like an open door.
Bast smiled, gentle and patient, his voice was warm and sweet as honey. He held out his hand. “Come with me,” he said. “I have something to show you.”
The sun was starting to sink toward the western trees by the time Bast returned to the lightning tree. He was limping slightly, and he had dirt in his hair, but he seemed to be in good spirits.
There were two children at the bottom of the hill, sitting on the greystone and swinging their feet as if it were a huge stone bench. Bast didn’t even have time to sit down before they came up the hill together.
It was Wilk, a serious boy of ten with shaggy blond hair. At his side was his little sister Pem, half his age with three times the mouth.