On the midweek market day before she planned to go, Brun decided to test her plans. She would nurse the babes to fullness, mingling a little of the home brew into her milk . . . they were greedy feeders, and she had discovered that if she dripped sugared fruit juice down her breast, they’d take it along with her milk. Then she’d see how long they slept . . . which would give her some idea how long she had to find Hazel.
She finished her chores, and noticed that all but two of the staff had left to go to market. She picked up the babies, and caught the attention of one of the remaining staff women. She nodded toward the orchard.
“Go ahead, then. A good day for a walk,” the woman said. Brun mimed eating. “Oh—you want to take your lunch out there? Fine. I’ll ring the bell for you to come back, in case you fall asleep.”
Brun took a small loaf of bread, fresh-baked that morning, and sliced off a hunk of cheese, laying the knife neatly back in its place. The woman had poured her a jug of fruit juice and water—and on this day, Brun noticed that this was an unnecessary courtesy. She smiled; she could not help it. The woman smiled back, clearly pleased.
She could not afford this . . . offer of friendship, if that’s what it was. She took the jug and her lunch, tucked them into the sling where the redhead lay content, shifted the back sling until the other baby was balanced better, and moved out onto the paved terrace between the nursery buildings and the orchard.
She strolled, in her usual way, along the right-hand path, pausing now and then to look up into the trees at the hard green fruit that would be ripe in a few months. This was not the day; this was merely practice. Why, then, was her heart beating so wildly that she felt it must be drumming loud enough to hear? Why was her breath coming short? She tried to relax, reaching out to stroke a branch heavy with fruit. But the babies caught her tension and began to squirm and whimper. The one in back flailed at her head with his arms.
That, oddly enough, steadied her. She moved on, more quickly now—though today there was no hurry—to her favorite spot near the far end of the orchard. When she’d first made it this far, up the little rise, she’d been able to see the building through bare branches, but now the orchard trees were in full leaf, and she knew they could no more see her, than she could see them.
She laid the babies down on the little quilts folded into the slings, and put her lunch down as well. The babies rolled and played, cooing, making wide-handed swipes at each other. She bit off a hunk of bread as she watched, thinking over her plan again, trying to improve it. But it was such a tissue of improbables . . . if she made it twice as good, she would still have less than one chance in a hundred of success.
The darker one found a leaf to explore, and managed, with great effort, to pick it up. The redhead noticed his brother was no longer paying attention, and put his own foot in his mouth instead. Brun finished eating, and by then they were getting fussy, looking at her. In her mind, she heard a voice somewhere between her own and Esmay’s: All right then. Let’s do it.
Nursing both at once was harder now that they were bigger, but she was used to it. She leaned back against the tree, and let her mind drift . . . one way or another, in less than seven days, she would be somewhere else. Maybe dead . . . she wasn’t going to be taken alive, not again. But maybe . . . somewhere . . . she couldn’t picture it, quite. Her mind threw up pictures from her past life—hills, valleys, forests, fields, island beaches, rocky ledges. The shuttlefield on Rotterdam, then the shuttle, rumbling down the runway, taking off, the sky darkening, darkening, the stars . . .
She shook her head abruptly. The twins had taken most of her milk; it was time to try out her brew. She added a little honey, to make it sweeter, and dribbled it into their mouths as they sucked. Redhead made a face, and snorted before going on, but the dark-haired one didn’t pause in his rhythm.
She had no idea how much to use. Not as much today; she didn’t want anyone to notice, and worry about them. Did babies go to sleep with a spoonful or a cup? She had no idea. Their sucking slowed, finally, and their mouths fell away . . . they gained a kilo whenever they fell asleep, she thought. Carefully, she laid them on the little quilts. Asleep like this . . . she could almost . . . but no. Not now. She told herself firmly what she already knew: they would be loved, cherished, given every opportunity this world held, because they were boys. That their mother had been an outlander heathen abomination would not affect the care given them.
They would look this way—this vulnerable, this beautiful—when she left them on the market day after the holy day. She stared at them, eyes narrowed. She could leave them—she had to leave them—and she would leave them.
She levered herself up and stood, fastening her dress and then stretching. She found the knife she had hidden, and turned it in her hands. She could go now . . . no. Better stick to her plan, such as it was. But one thing she could do, with a knife in hand. She might die—it was likely. Her family might not know where she was. But she could leave a record that would not be found until fall, if they noticed it then.
With the sharp tip of the paring knife she marked the tree under which the babies lay, thin scorings that would scar into visible marks later. Maybe. Her name, every syllable of it.
She wanted to write more. She wanted to scribble with that knife blade on every tree, saying what had been smothered all this time . . . but she stopped herself. No more indulgence. She had to try the wall today, to measure her strength against its height. She tied a length of yarn around the knife and hung it around her neck, then took the cloth strips she’d made and bound them tight around her breasts. When it was time to go, really time, she would bind her breasts before she fastened her dress . . . but this was only practice.
With a last glance at the sleeping babies, she turned and walked over to the wall. A last glance back, to make sure she could not been seen through the thick leaves . . . no. She turned to the wall again, steeling herself. It was the quiet time of day, after lunch. Chances were there was no one on the other side right now. If there were . . . if they saw her . . . she hesitated. Today was not the day. She didn’t have to jump the wall today, and it would be disasterous if she were caught unprepared.
She looked back at the babies. Still sleeping. When she turned again to the wall, a man was looking over it. Brun stood frozen, immobilized with shock.
The man stared at her. “Brun?” he said softly.
Her heart lurched, then pounded. Someone who knew her name—who used her name. It must be a rescue. She nodded, giddy with relief.
“Can you climb over?”
She nodded again, and a wad of brown cloth flew toward her. She dropped back, furious. But his voice came over the wall, urgent and barely loud enough to hear. “Put that on. Cover your dress, and your hair. Not many have such light hair. Then wait for me to call—I’m watching for groundcars. Don’t bring the babies; they’ll be cared for.”
The babies. She had given them only a few drops each—would they sleep long enough? She yanked her long skirt up around her waist and ran to them, fumbled at the jug, and poured more of the honeyed brew onto her hand. Would they suck? Could they swallow? Their mouths caught at her finger, sucking, and she dribbled more brew into each mouth. Then she dragged the garment on—a hooded cloaklike thing, too warm for the day—and ran back to the wall. Even in those few moments, she was aware how good it felt to have her legs free, not bound by the narrow skirt. While she waited, she thought how to make him understand that they had to find Hazel and the little girls. She could not go without them; if she could not save her babies from this world’s horrors, she must save them.