Fool’s Assassin by Robin Hobb (12)

You are correct in your surmise. I haven’t told everything I know about that event but in some ways I have shared as much as I believe is safe to share with Chade. Hence, what I will repeat here is for the eyes of the Skillmistress only. Fond as we both are of the old man, we know that he is inclined to risk himself in the pursuit of knowledge.

The first thing to remember is that I was never truly there, myself. I dreamed, and in that dream I Skill-walked. But as one highly gifted in Skill-dreams, you of all people will know that what I saw there, I saw through the eyes of King Verity.

In my dream, we were in a broken city. It held its memories still, as we now understand that some Elderling cities do. I saw it both as it had been, full of delicate soaring towers and graceful bridges and thronged by exotic people in bright clothing. And I saw it as Verity experienced it, cold and dark, the streets uneven and every fallen wall a hazard he must negotiate. Sand blew in a vicious wind; he bowed his head to it and trudged toward a river.

As a river, I perceived it. But it was not water. It was Skill, as a liquid, as molten gold or even running red iron. To me, it seemed to have a black luminescence then. But in my dream, it was night and winter. Did it have a colour at all? I cannot tell you.

I do recall how my king, wasted to a scarecrow of a man, knelt on that bank and relentlessly plunged his hands and arms into the stuff. I shared his pain, for I swear it ate the flesh and muscles from his bones. But when he pulled back from that current, his hands and arms were silvered with pure Skill, with magic in its strongest and most powerful form.

I will also tell you that I helped him refrain from throwing himself into that flow. I lent him the strength to step back from it. Had I truly been there, in my own flesh, I do not think I would have had the strength of will to resist the temptation to drown myself in it.

So, for myself, I am grateful that I do not know the way to that place. I do not know how Verity got there; I do not know how he went from there to the quarry. I suspect he used Skill-pillars, but which ones and what emblem they bore, I do not know and I do not wish to know. A number of years ago, Chade asked me to travel through pillars with him, to go back to the Stone Dragons and from there to the quarry, to discover what pillars King Verity might have used. I refused him then, and I have continued to refuse him.

For the safety of all, I beg that you keep this knowledge only to yourself. Destroy this scroll, if you will, or conceal it where only you can find it. I truly hope that the site is far, far away, reached only by a series of pillar journeys that none of us ever undertake. The small amount of Skill-magic that we have learned to manipulate should be enough for us. Let us not seek power that exceeds our wisdom to use it.

From an unsent scroll from FitzChivalry Farseer to Skillmistress Nettle

There are endings. There are beginnings. Sometimes they coincide, with the ending of one thing marking the beginning of another. But sometimes there is simply a long space after an ending, a time when it seems everything has ended and nothing else can ever begin. When my Molly, the keeper of my heart since I was a boy, died it was like that. She ended, but nothing else began. There was nothing to take my mind from that void, nothing to redeem my pain, nothing that made sense of her death. Instead, her death made every other ending I had ever known a fresh wound.

In the days that followed, I was useless. Nettle came quickly, arriving before the first night had passed, bringing Steady and Riddle with her. I am sure she travelled by the stones, and they as well. Molly and Burrich’s sons and their wives and children were there as swiftly as they might come. Other mourners arrived, people I should have greeted, people I should have thanked for their thoughtfulness. Perhaps I did. I’ve no idea what I did in those long days. Time did not seem to pass, but dragged on and on. The house was full of people, talking and eating together, eating and talking together, weeping and laughing and sharing memories of times when I had not been part of Molly’s life, until my only solitude was to retreat to my bedchamber and bolt the door. Yet Molly’s absence was greater than anyone’s presence. Each of her grown children mourned her. Chivalry wept unashamed. Swift went about with his eyes blank while Nimble simply sat. Steady and Hearth seemed to drink a great deal, something that would have grieved Molly to see. Just had become a solemn young man, and a dark aura of aloneness, very reminiscent of Burrich, hung about him. Nonetheless, he was the one who busied himself taking care of his brothers and sister. Riddle was there as well, ghosting about in the background. We spoke once, late at night, and with good intention he tried to say that my sorrow would pass eventually and my life begin again. I wanted to strike him and I think it showed on my face. After that, we avoided one another.

Dutiful, Elliania, the princes and Kettricken were in the Mountain Kingdom, so I was spared their presence. Chade never came to funerals, nor did I expect him to visit. Almost every evening, I felt him at the edge of my mind, inviting but not intruding. It reminded me of how he would open the secret door to his tower and wait for me when I was a boy. I did not reach back to him, but he knew I was aware of him and grateful for his discretion.

But listing who came and who did not makes it seem as if I noticed or cared. I did not. I lived my grief; I slept mourning and ate sorrow and drank tears. I ignored all else. Nettle stepped into her mother’s place, managing it all with seeming effortlessness, as she consulted with Revel to assure that arriving folk had a place to sleep, and coordinated meals and supplies with Cook Nutmeg. She undertook that everyone who should be notified of Molly’s death was told. Just became the man of the house, directing the stable hands and servants, giving greetings and making farewells. All that they did not command but needed doing, Revel and Riddle managed. I let them. I could not help them with their mourning. I could do nothing for anyone, not even myself.

Somehow, all needful things were done. I cut my hair for mourning, and someone must have cut the child’s. Bee looked like a brush for hoof oil when I saw her, a little stick all swathed in black with the fuzzy pale stubble standing up on her little head. Her blank blue eyes were dead. Nettle and the boys insisted that their mother had wanted to be buried. Like Patience before her, she wished not to be burned, but to return as quickly as possible to the earth that nurtured all things that she had loved. Buried in the ground. It made me cold. I had not known. I had never spoken to her of such things, had never thought of or imagined a time when she would not be there. Wives always outlive their husbands. Everyone knows that. I had known that and counted on it. And fate had cheated me.

Burying her was hard for me. It would have been easier for me to watch her burn on a pyre, to know she was gone, gone completely and untouchable than for me to think of her wrapped only in a shroud and put under the weight of damp soil. Day after day I went back to her grave, wishing that I had touched her cheek one more time before they put her into the dark earth. Nettle set the plants that would define her mother’s resting place. Daily, when I visited, I saw the prints of Bee’s small feet. Not a weed dared show itself.

I saw little more of Bee than her footprints. We avoided one another. At first I felt guilt that, in the depths of my grief, I had deserted my child. I went seeking her. But as I entered a room, she would leave it. Or place herself as far from me as possible. Even when she sought me in my private den late at night, it was not me she sought, but the isolation that room granted us both. She entered that sanctuary like a tiny ghost in a scarlet nightgown. We did not speak. I did not bid her go back to her sleepless bed, nor offer her empty promises that all would eventually be well. In my den, we huddled as separately as scalded cubs. I knew I could no longer bear to be in Molly’s study. I suspect she felt the same. Her mother’s absence was stronger in that room than anywhere else in the house. Why did we avoid one another? The best explanation I can offer is a comparison. When you hold your burned hand near the fire, the pain flares anew. The closer I came to Bee, the more acute my pain became. I believe that in the crumpling of her little face and the trembling of her lower lip, I read that she felt the same.

Five days after we buried Molly, most of the mourners packed up and left Withywoods. Hap had not come. He had a minstrel’s summer post far away in Farrow. I don’t know how he received word so quickly, but he sent me back a note by bird. It came to the Buckkeep cotes and from there a runner brought it to me. It was good to hear from him, but I was just as glad that he had not come. There were other notes that came in various ways. One was from Kettricken in the Mountain Kingdom, a simple note on plain paper, written in her own hand. Dutiful had touched minds with me and knew there was nothing to say. From Lady Fisher, once Starling, came a letter elegantly written on fine paper, with heartfelt words. I had a rougher missive from Web. They said what such notes always say. Perhaps words are helpful to others when they mourn; to me, they were only words.

Molly’s boys had farms and work and families and animals to tend. Summer does not allow anyone who makes a living from the land any time to stand still. There had been much weeping, but also fond recollections and the gentle laughter they brought with them. Nettle had quietly asked me to sort some keepsakes that each of her brothers could take. I asked her to do it, saying I was not up to such a task and that without the woman, her possessions meant little to me. Only later would I realize how selfish a decision that was, to put that weight on my elder daughter’s shoulders.

But at the time, I was numb and stunned, thoughtless of anyone except myself. Molly had been my safety, my home, my centre. With her gone, I literally felt flung to pieces as if my core had exploded and chunks of me were flung to the wind. For almost all of my life, there had been Molly. Even when I could not be with her, even the agony of watching her from afar as she gave her life and love to another man, even that pain was infinitely preferable to her total absence from my world. In our years apart, I had always been able to dream ‘one day’. Now all dreams were over.

Some days after her death, when the house had emptied of guests and the extra staff Revel had called in had also departed, Nettle came into my private study. Her duties at Buckkeep were calling her. She had to return, and I did not blame her, for I knew there was nothing she could do here that would improve anything. When Nettle entered, I lifted my eyes from my paper and set my pen carefully aside. Writing down my thoughts has always been my retreat. That night, I had written page after page, burning each one almost as soon as it was finished. Rituals do not have to make sense. On the hearth, on a folded blanket, Bee was curled into a kitten ball. She was dressed in her little red robe and fur slippers. Her curved back was to me, her face turned toward the fire. Night was deep, and we had not spoken a single word to one another.

Nettle looked as if she should have gone to her rest hours ago. Weeping had left her eyes red-rimmed and her glorious mane of black waves had been reduced to a curly cap. It made the circles under her eyes darker and the thinness of her face bony. The simple blue robe she wore hung on her, and I realized how much flesh she had lost.

Her voice was hoarse. ‘I have to return to Buckkeep tomorrow. Riddle will escort me.’

‘I know,’ I said at last. I did not tell her it would be a relief to be alone where I could mourn as savagely as I needed and no one would witness it. I did not tell her that I felt suspended, restrained by civility in a place where I could not express the anguish I felt. Instead, I said, ‘I know you must wonder. You know I brought the Fool back from the other side of death. You must wonder why I let your mother go.’

I had thought my words would trigger her hidden anger. Instead she looked horrified at my words. ‘That would have been the last thing I wished for! Or that she would have wanted! To every creature is given both a place and a time, and when that time is over, we have to let them go. Mother and I spoke plainly of that, once. I had come to her about Thick. You know how he is, how his joints hurt him. I asked her for a liniment that Burrich used to make for the boys when they had strained muscles, and she mixed some up for me. Sweet Eda, that is another thing gone! Why did I never write that down? So much she knew, so much he knew, and they took it to their graves with them.’

I did not tell her, then, that I knew that recipe as well as anyone could. Doubtless Burrich had passed his lore on to his sons as well. It was not a time to speak of those things. I noticed there was ink on the little finger of my right hand. I always managed to get ink on myself when I wrote. I took up my pen wipe and smeared it away. ‘What did Molly say, about Thick?’ I dared to ask.

Nettle came back to herself as if she had walked a far and darkening path. ‘Only that there was mercy in making pain bearable, but not in forcing someone to remain in this life when their body’s work was done. She was cautioning me about using the Skill on him. I told her that Thick was far stronger in that area than I was, and that he was more than capable of turning that talent on himself as he desired it. He hasn’t. So I’ll respect his choice. But I know that Chade has availed himself of that magic. He keeps himself as spry as he was when I first met him.’

Her voice trailed away, but I thought I heard her unasked question. ‘I don’t,’ I told her bluntly. ‘I never desired to stay young and watch your mother age away from me. No. If I could have aged with her, Nettle, I would have. I am still bearing the consequences of that mad Skill-healing that our coterie did on me. Could I stop it, I would. It renews me when I wish it would not. I strain a shoulder doing some task, and that night I lose flesh as my body burns me up repairing itself. I awake ravenous and am tired for a week. But my shoulder will have healed.’ I tossed my latest sheet of writing onto the fire, and shoved it deeper into the flames with the poker. ‘There. Now you know.’

‘I knew already,’ she told me tartly. ‘Do you think my mother didn’t know? Fitz, stop it. No one blames you for her death, nor should you feel guilty for not following her. She would not have wanted that. I love you for the life you gave her. After my father … after Burrich died, I thought she would never smile again. And when she discovered you were still alive, after she had so long mourned you as dead, I thought she would never stop being furious. But you came back to her and were patient enough to win her back. You were good for her, and she has lived her last years exactly as I wished all her life could have been.’

I wheezed in a breath past my constricted throat. I wanted to thank her but could not find words. I didn’t need to. She sighed and reached out to pat my arm. ‘So. We’ll be gone in the morning, then. I was a bit surprised to find that Bee does not have a pony, and seemed completely unfamiliar with the concept of riding. Nine years old and she can’t ride! Burrich put me on a horse when I was … well, I simply can’t remember a time when I couldn’t ride. When I tried to put Bee up on a horse, she struggled against me and clambered down the other side of the beast as swiftly as she could. So I think our journey to Buckkeep will be an interesting one for me. She is small enough that I think I can fit her into a pannier on a pack animal and balance her with her clothes and toys. Or some of them. I was totally astonished that one small child could possess so many toys and so much clothing!’

I felt as if I were running along behind her. ‘Bee?’ I asked. ‘Why would you take Bee to Buckkeep?’

She gave me an exasperated look. ‘Where else can I take her? Both Chivalry and Nimble offered to have her, even though Nimble does not even have a wife to help him with her. I said no to both of them. They’ve no idea of what they would be taking on. At least I’ve my experience of Thick. I think in time, I will be able to reach through her fog and get some understanding of her.’

‘Her fog,’ I said stupidly.

My elder daughter just stared at me. ‘She’s nine. She should be speaking by now. And she can’t. She used to babble at Mother, but I haven’t even heard her do that lately. With Mother gone, who will be able to understand the poor little thing? I wonder if she even knows that Mother has died. I’ve tried to speak to her about it, but she just turns away from me.’ Nettle sighed heavily. ‘I wish I knew how much of anything she grasps.’ She cocked her head at me and spoke hesitantly. ‘I know Mother would not have approved, but I have to ask. Have you ever used the Skill to try to touch her mind?’

I shook my head slowly. I wasn’t following her trail of thought. I tried to make a connection. ‘Molly did not wish me to do that, and so I did not. I discovered the dangers of letting Skill touch children years ago. Don’t you recall?’

That wrung a bit of a smile from her. ‘Both Dutiful and I recall that well. But I thought that after years of silence from your daughter, you’d at least have tried to see if she had a mind.’

‘Of course she does! She’s a clever little creature. Sometimes alarmingly so! And she talks, when she pleases. It’s just not very clear. Or as often as one might expect.’ I had not stopped to think that Nettle had never seen her little sister sewing a sampler at their mother’s knee, or standing on a table to take candles from their moulds. All she had ever seen of Bee in her comings and goings was a shy and elfin child, quiet and watchful. And now she was a mute child, curled in a tight ball. I rose, paced around the room and then stooped by my younger daughter. ‘Come here, Bee,’ I said impulsively, but the moment I set my hand on the child’s back, she stiffened straight as a sun-dried fish, then scooted away from my touch, and curled again, her face away from me.

‘Leave her be,’ Nettle said firmly. ‘Fitz, let us speak plainly to one another. You are a man in deep grief and you cannot think outside yourself right now. Even before this happened, you were not … well, focused on your daughter. You cannot care for her. Did I not know you better, I would say she fears you. I do know it is not in you to be cruel to a child. So I will plainly say only that she does not want to be touched by you. So how could you possibly take care of her? She will have to go with me tomorrow. There are many nurses at Buckkeep, and as I have seen in the last few days, she actually takes little tending. Once dressed, she feeds herself, she knows not to soil herself, and left alone, she seems content to sit and stare into a fire. One of the women who used to tend Thick would be a good choice I think, especially one who is older now and looking for a simple position.’ Nettle drew a chair closer to the fire and sat down. She leaned down to touch her sister. The child wriggled away from her and Nettle let her go. Bee found her favourite spot on the hearth and folded her legs up inside her robe. I watched her little body relax as she folded her hands and lost herself in the dancing flames. Safe there. Safe as she would not be in Buckkeep. I thought of letting her go with her sister. I didn’t like the idea. Was it selfish to keep her with me? I wasn’t sure.

‘They’ll be cruel to her there.’ The words bled slowly from me.

‘I would not hire a woman who would be cruel! Do you think so little of my judgement?’ Nettle was outraged.

‘Not her nurse. The children of the keep. When she goes for her lessons, they will peck her for being small and pale. Pinch her at meals. Take her sweets away, chase her down the corridors. Mock her. For being different.’

‘The other children? Her lessons?’ Nettle was incredulous. ‘Open your eyes, Fitz. Lessons in what? I love her as dearly as anyone can, but a comfortable and safe life is the best we can do for her. I would not send her to lessons, nor put her at a table where she might be mocked or pinched. I’ll keep her safe in her own chamber, near my own. Fed, dressed and clean, with her simple little toys. It the best we can offer her and all she knows to want from life.’

I stared at her, baffled by her words. How could she see Bee that way? ‘You think her a simpleton?’

She looked jolted that I would deny it. Then she reached into herself and found steel. ‘It happens. It’s not her fault. It’s not your fault. It’s something we cannot hide from. She was born to my mother late in her life, and she was born tiny. Such children seldom have a … a growing mind. They stay children. And for the rest of her life, be it short or long, someone must look after her. So it would be best if—’

‘No. She’ll stay here.’ I was adamant, shocked that Nettle could suggest otherwise. ‘Regardless of what you may think, despite her strange ways, she has a bright little mind. And even if she were simple, my answer would be the same. Withywoods is all she has ever known. She knows her way about the house and grounds, and the servants accept her. She isn’t stupid, Nettle, nor slow. She’s small, and yes, she’s different. She may not speak often, but she does talk. And she does things. Sewing, tending the hives, weeding the gardens, writing in her little book. She loves to be outdoors. She loves being free to do as she will. She followed Molly everywhere.’

My elder daughter just stared at me. She tipped her head toward Bee and asked sceptically, ‘This tiny child sews? And can tend a hive?’

‘Surely your mother wrote to you …’ My words dwindled away. Writing was a task for Molly. And it was only in the last year that I myself had seen the bright spark of intellect in my child. Why should I think Nettle had known of it? I had not shared the knowledge of it with her, or Chade or anyone at Buckkeep. At first I had feared to rejoice too soon. And after our remembering game, I had been wary of sharing knowledge of the child’s talents with Chade. I was still certain he would quickly find ways to exploit her.

Nettle was shaking her head. ‘My mother was overly fond of her youngest. She bragged to me of things that seemed … well. It was plain that she longed desperately for Bee to be …’ Her voice sank as she could not bring herself to say the words.

‘She’s a capable little girl. Ask the servants,’ I advised her, and then wondered how much of Bee’s abilities they had seen. I walked back to my desk and dropped into my chair. None of it mattered. ‘In any case, she’s not going with you, Nettle. She’s my daughter. It’s only right that she stay with me.’

Such words for me to say to her. She stared at me, her mouth slowly flattening. She could have said something cruel then. I saw her choose not to do so. I would have called my words back if I could, would have found another way to state that thought. Instead I added frankly, ‘I failed at that duty once, with you. This will be my last chance to do it right. She stays.’

Nettle was silent for a short time and then said gently, ‘I know you mean well. You intend to do right by her. But Fitz, I just doubt that you can. It’s as you say; you’ve never had the care of such a small child as she is.’

‘Hap was younger than she when I took him in!’

‘Hap was normal.’ I do not think she meant for the word to come out so harshly.

I stood. I spoke firmly to my elder daughter. ‘Bee is normal, too. Normal for who and what she is. She’s going to stay here, Nettle, and keep her little life as it is. Here, where her memories of her mother are.’

Nettle had begun to weep. Not for sorrow but because she was so weary and still knew she was going to defy me and that it would hurt me. Tears slid down her face. She did not sob. I saw her set jaw and knew she would not back down from her decision. Just as I knew I would not allow her to take Bee from me. Someone was going to break; we could not both win this.

‘I have to do right by my baby sister. My mother would expect that of me. And I can’t allow her to stay here,’ she said. She looked at me and in her eyes I read a hard sympathy for what she knew I was feeling. Sympathy but no mercy. ‘Perhaps if I find a good nurse for her at Buckkeep, she could sometimes accompany Bee to come back here and visit,’ she offered doubtfully.

I could feel my anger start to build. Who was she to question my competence in this? The answer that came to me was a dash of cold water in my face. She was the daughter I had abandoned so that I might serve my king. The daughter raised by another man. More than anyone else in the world, she had the right to believe me an incompetent parent. I looked away from both my daughters.

‘If you take her, I’ll be alone here.’ The words sounded so self-pitying that I instantly regretted them.

Nettle spoke softly and more gently than such a selfish statement deserved. ‘Then the answer is clear. Close up Withywoods. Leave the staff to run it. Pack up your things. Come back with me to Buckkeep Castle.’

I opened my mouth to speak and could think of nothing to say. I’d never even considered the idea that I might return to Buckkeep Castle one day. Part of my heart leapt up at the thought. No need to face this gulf of loneliness. I could run from it. At Buckkeep, I’d see old friends again, the halls of the keep, the kitchens, the steams, the stables, the steep streets of Buckkeep Town …

As abruptly, my enthusiasm died. Empty. No Molly, no Burrich, no Verity, no Shrewd. No Nighteyes. The yawning cavern of emptiness gaped wider as each remembered death slashed at me.

No Fool.

‘No,’ I said. ‘I can’t. There’s nothing for me there. Only politics and intrigue.’

The sympathy I had seen in her face faded. ‘Nothing.’ She said the word stiffly. ‘Only me.’ She cleared her throat. ‘And Chade and Dutiful and Kettricken and Thick.’

‘That’s not what I meant.’ Suddenly I was too tired to explain. I tried anyway. ‘The Buckkeep Castle I knew is long gone. And life there has gone on without me for too long. I don’t know how I’d fit in there now. Not as FitzChivalry Farseer, certainly. Not as the assassin and spy for the royal family. Nor as Tom Badgerlock, the serving-man. One day, I’ll come to visit for a week or even a month, and see everyone then. But not to stay, my dear. Never again to stay there. And not now. The thought of going somewhere now, of meeting old friends, eating and drinking, laughing and talking … no. I have no heart for it.’

She rose and came to me. She stood behind my chair and set her hands to my shoulders. ‘I understand,’ she said. There was forgiveness in her voice for my thoughtless remark. She had that in her, that ability to forgive easily. I had no idea where she had learned it. It humbled me: I knew I didn’t deserve it. She spoke on. ‘I had hoped it might be otherwise, but I understand. And maybe in the spring you will feel differently. Maybe by then you’ll be ready to come and spend some time with us.’

She sighed, squeezed my shoulders a final time and then yawned like a cat. ‘Oh. It’s got late somehow. I should have put Bee to bed hours ago. We’ve an early start to make, and I still need to find a way to make her comfortable in a pannier. I should go to bed now.’

I made no reply. Let her go to bed and get some sleep. In the morning, when she tried to take Bee, I’d simply say ‘No.’ But for tonight, I could let it go. A coward’s way out.

Bee was still sitting cross-legged, still staring into the flames. ‘Come, Bee, bedtime,’ Nettle said, and stooped to pick up her sister. Bee rolled her little shoulders in a way I knew well, moving herself just outside of Nettle’s grip. Nettle tried again, and again the child shrugged her away. ‘Bee!’ Nettle objected.

Bee turned her face up and looked somewhere between Nettle and me. ‘No. I’m staying with Papa.’

Never had I heard her speak so clearly. It shocked me and I fought to keep that from my face and from my Skill.

Nettle froze. Then slowly she crouched down next to her sister to peer into her face. ‘Staying with Papa?’ She spoke each word slowly and carefully.

Bee turned her head sharply aside and said nothing. She looked away from both of us, into the shadowy corners of the room. Nettle shot me an incredulous look. I realized that it might be the first time she had ever heard her sister speak a full sentence. Nettle put her attention back on the child.

‘Bee, it’s time to go to bed. In the morning, we must get up very early. You’re going for a ride with me, a long ride to a place called Buckkeep Castle. It will be so much fun to see a new place! So come to me so I can take you to your bed and tuck you in.’

I saw Bee’s shoulders tighten. She bent her head down, tucking her chin to her chest.

‘Bee,’ Nettle warned her and then tried again to pick her up. Again, Bee squirmed out of her grip.

She had moved closer to me, but I knew better than to try and pick her up. Instead I addressed her directly. ‘Bee. Do you want to stay here with me?’

No words came from her, only a single sharp nod of her head.

‘Let her stay,’ I told Nettle, and with a sigh my elder daughter rose.

She rolled her shoulders, stretched and added with a sigh, ‘Perhaps it’s better this way. Let her wear herself out and fall asleep. Once she’s bundled up tomorrow, she can catch up on her rest for part of the journey.’

Nettle had not accepted her sister’s response. I had to make it clear for her. I leaned down toward my younger daughter.

‘Bee? Do you want to go on a journey with Nettle tomorrow, to Buckkeep Castle? Or do you want to stay here at Withywoods with me?’

Bee turned her head, and her pale glance slipped past both of us. She looked up into the dark recesses of the ceiling. Her eyes darted to me once and then away. She took a long slow breath. She spoke each word distinctly. ‘I do not wish to go to Buckkeep Castle. Thank you, Nettle, for your kind offer. But I will be staying home here, at Withywoods.’

I looked at Nettle, and turned a hand up. ‘She says she wants to stay here.’

‘I heard her,’ she replied sharply. She looked jolted at hearing her sister speak, but I maintained a calm façade. I would not betray that this was more talking than she usually did in a week, let alone that her enunciation was unusually clear. Bee and I were in this together, I sensed. Allies. So I looked at Nettle calmly as if I were not startled at all.

For a moment, Nettle resembled her mother right before she would fly into a temper. I looked at her and my heart smote me. Why had I so often provoked that look from Molly when she had been alive? Couldn’t I have been kinder, gentler? Couldn’t I have let her have her way more often? Black and utter loneliness rose in me. I felt sick with it, as if the emptiness were something I needed to vomit out of my body.

Nettle spoke in a low voice. ‘It’s not a decision that she is competent to make for herself. Think of the days ahead. How are you going to take care of her, when you’ve barely taken care of yourself these last two weeks? Do you think she can go without eating, as you have? Do you think she can stay up until dawn, sleep a few hours, and then drag herself through the day as you do? She’s a child, Tom. She needs regular meals, and a routine and discipline. And yes, you are right, she does need lessons. And her first lessons need to be in how not to be strange! If she can speak, as she just so clearly did, then she needs to be taught to speak more often, so that people know she has a mind. She needs to be taught all that is needful for her to know. And she needs to be encouraged to speak, not let everyone think she is a mute or an idiot! She needs to be cared for, not just day-to-day food and clothing, but month to month and year to year, learning and growing. She can’t run about Withywoods like a stray kitten while you soak yourself in old books and brandy.’

‘I can teach her,’ I asserted, and wondered if I could. I remembered the hours I had spent with Fedwren and the other children of Buckkeep. I wondered if I could find the patience and tenacity he had possessed in teaching us. Well, as I must, I would, I decided silently. I had taught Hap, hadn’t I? My mind leapt sideways to Chade’s offer. He had said he would send me FitzVigilant. He had not told me yet that it was time, but certainly it must be soon.

Nettle was shaking her head. Her eyes were pink from both tears and weariness. ‘There is another thing you are ignoring. She looks like a six-year-old, but she is nine. When she is fifteen, will she still look like a much younger child? How will that affect her life? And how will you tell her about what it is to be a woman?’

How, indeed? ‘That is years away,’ I asserted with a calmness I did not feel. I realized that my Skill-walls were up and tight, keeping Nettle from feeling any doubts that I had. Yet by the very impenetrability of my walls, she would know I was keeping something from her. That could not be changed. She and I shared the Skill-magic and had been able to reach one another since she was a little girl. That unforgiving access to one another’s dreams and experiences was one reason I had refrained from using the Skill to know Bee’s mind. I glanced at her now, and to my shock she was staring directly at me. For a moment our gazes met and held, as they had not for years.

My instinctive response surprised me. I dropped my eyes. From somewhere in my heart, an old wolf warned me, ‘Staring into someone’s eyes is rude. Don’t provoke a challenge.’

An instant later, I looked back at Bee, but she, too, had cast her gaze aside. I watched her and thought I saw her sneak a glance at me from the corner of her eyes. She reminded me so much of a wild creature that I knew a lurch of fear. Had she inherited the Wit from me? I had left her mind untouched by mine, but in many ways, that meant I had left it unguarded as well. In her innocence, had she already bonded with an animal? One of the kitchen cats, perhaps? Yet her mannerisms did not mirror a cat’s. No. If anything, she mimicked the behaviour of a wolf cub, and it was impossible that she would have bonded to one of those. Yet another mystery from my peculiar child.

‘Are you listening?’ Nettle demanded, and I startled. Her dark eyes could flash fire just as her mother’s had.

‘No. I’m sorry, I wasn’t. I was thinking of all the things I’d need to teach her, and it distracted me.’ And gave me more reason than ever to keep her safely at Withywoods with me. I recalled an incident with a horse and felt cold. If Bee was Witted, then home was the safest place for her. Feeling against the Witted was not as publicly hostile as it had been, but old habits of thinking died hard. There would still be plenty of folk at Buckkeep who would think even a Witted child was best served by hanging, burning, and being cut into pieces.

‘And are you listening now?’ Nettle persisted. With an effort I pulled my gaze from Bee and met her eyes.

‘I am.’

She folded her lower lip into her mouth and chewed on it, thinking hard. She was going to offer me a bargain, one she didn’t much like. ‘I’m coming back here in three months. If she looks neglected in any way, I’m taking her with me. And that’s the end of it.’ Her tone softened as she added, ‘But, if any time before then, you realize you’ve bitten off more than you can chew, let me know and I’ll send for her immediately. Or you can bring her to Buckkeep Castle yourself. And I promise I will not say, “I warned you.” I’ll just take her over.’

I wanted to tell her, ‘That is never going to happen.’ But over the years I’ve learned not to tempt fate, for it has always seemed to me that the very things I swore I would never do are the ones that I ended up doing. So I nodded to my formidable daughter and replied mildly, ‘That seems fair. And you should get to bed and get some sleep if you’re making an early start.’

‘I should,’ she agreed. She held out a hand to the child. ‘Come, Bee. Now it’s bedtime for us both, and no argument.’

Bee hung her head, her reluctance obvious. I intervened. ‘I’ll put her to bed. I’ve said I can take care of her in all ways. It’s fitting that I begin now.’

Nettle rocked, hesitant. ‘I know what you’ll do. You intend to let her stay there until she falls asleep on the hearth, and then just trundle her into her bed as she is.’

I looked at her, knowing what we were both remembering. More than once, I had fallen asleep on Burrich’s hearth in the stables, some bit of harness or simple toy in my hands. Always, I awoke under a woollen blanket on my pallet near his bed. I suspected he had done the same for Nettle when she was small. ‘Neither of us took any harm from that,’ I told her. She gave a quick nod, her eyes filling with tears, and turned and left.

I watched her go through misted eyes. Her shoulders were rounded and slumped. She was defeated. And orphaned. She was a woman grown, but her mother had died just as abruptly as the man who had raised her had. And though her father stood before her, she felt alone in the world.

Her loneliness amplified my own. Burrich. My heart yearned for him suddenly. He was the man I would have gone to, the one whose advice I would have trusted in dealing with my grief. Kettricken was too contained, Chade too pragmatic, Dutiful too young. The Fool was too gone.

I reined my heart away from exploring those losses. It was one of my faults, one that Molly had sometimes rebuked me for indulging. If one bad thing befell me, I immediately linked it to every bad thing that had happened in the last week or might happen in the coming week. And when I became sad, I was prone to wallow in grief, piling up my woes and sprawling on them like a dragon on a hoard. I needed to focus on what I had, not what I had lost. I needed to remember there was a tomorrow, and I had just committed myself to someone else’s tomorrow as well.

I looked at Bee and she immediately looked away. Despite my aching heart, I smiled. ‘We two, we need to talk,’ I told her.

She stared into the fire, still as stone. Then she nodded slowly. Her voice was small and high, but clear. Her diction was not a child’s. ‘You and I do need to talk.’ She flickered a glance in my direction. ‘But I never needed to talk to Mama. She just understood.’

I truly had not expected any response from her. With her nod and earlier brief words, she had already exceeded most of her previous communication directed at me. She had spoken to me before, simple requests as when she wanted more paper or needed me to cut a pen for her. But this, this was different. This time, looking at my small daughter, a cold realization filled me. She was profoundly different from what I had always assumed her to be. It was a very strange sensation as the familiar tipped away and I spilled into the unknown. This was my child, I reminded myself. The daughter that Molly and I had dreamed of for so long. Since Molly’s strange pregnancy and Bee’s birth, I had been trying to reconcile myself to what I thought she was. In one night nine years ago, I had gone from fearing my beloved wife was delusional to being the father of a tiny but perfect infant. For the first few months of her life, I had allowed myself the wild dreams that any parent has for a child. She would be clever and kind and pretty. She would want to learn all Molly and I had to teach her. She would have a sense of humour and be curious and lively. She would be company for us as she grew, and yes, that trite concept, a comfort to us in our old age.

Then, as week after month and then years passed, and she did not catch up her growth, nor speak, I had been forced to confront her differences. Like a worm slowly eating into an apple, the knowledge burrowed in and hollowed my heart. She did not grow, nor laugh nor smile. Bee would never be the child I had imagined.

The worst part was that I had already given my heart to that imaginary child, and it was so terribly hard to forgive Bee for not being her. Her existence turned my life into a gamut of emotions. It was hard to kill my hope. As she slowly developed skills that other children would have had years ago, my hope that somehow, now, she was getting better would flare up in me. Each crash of that vain hope was harder than the previous one. Deep sorrow and disappointment sometimes gave way to cold anger at fate. Through it all, I flattered myself that Molly was unaware of my ambivalence toward our child. To cover how hard it was to accept her as she was, I became fiercely protective of her. I would tolerate no one else speaking of her differences as short comings. Anything she desired, I got for her. I never expected her to attempt anything she was reluctant to try. Molly had been serenely unaware that Bee suffered in comparison to the imaginary child I had created. She had seemed content with our daughter, doting, even. I had never had the heart to ask her if she ever looked at Bee and wished for another child. I had refused to consider if I ever looked at her and wished that she had never been.

I had wondered what would become of her as she grew and we aged. I had thought that her sparse words meant she was simple in some way, and I had treated her as such, until the evening when she had astonished me at the memory game. Only in the last year had I found the wisdom to enjoy what she was. I had finally relaxed and taken pleasure in the joy she brought to her mother. The terrible storms of disappointment had given way to calm resignation. Bee was what she was.

But now Bee spoke clearly to me, and it woke shame in me. Before she had given me simple sentences, as sparing of her mumbled words as if they were gold coins. Tonight I had felt such a leap of relief when she spoke that first simple request to stay with me. Small she might be but she could talk. Why shame? It shamed me that it was suddenly so much easier to love her than it had been when she was mute.

I thought of the old fable and decided I had no choice. I would grasp the nettle. Nonetheless, I approached it cautiously. ‘Do you dislike speaking?’

She gave a short shake of her head.

‘So you held silent with me because …?’

Again a flash of her pale blue glance. ‘No need to talk to you. I had Mama. We were together so much. She listened. Even when I could not speak plainly, she could make out what I meant. She understood without all the words you need.’

‘And now?’

Her little shoulders twisted away from me, a squirming discomfort in this conversation. ‘When I have to. To stay safe. But before, it was safer to be quiet. To be what the servants are accustomed to me being. Mostly they treat me well. But if I suddenly spoke to them as I am speaking to you, if they overheard me speaking to you like this, they would fear me. And then, they would consider me a threat. I would be in danger from the grown-ups, too.’

Too? I thought. I made the leap. ‘As you are from the children.’

A nod. No more than that, and of course that must be so. Of course.

She was so precocious. So adult. That tiny voice speaking such grown-up words. And so chilling to hear her assess the situation as if she were Chade rather than my little girl. I had hoped to hear her speak to me in simple sentences; I would have welcomed the uncomplicated logic of a child. Instead, the pendulum swung the other way and from resignation that my daughter was mute and simple I suddenly felt dread that she was unnaturally complex and perhaps deceitful.

She looked at my feet. ‘You’re a little bit afraid of me now.’ She bowed her head and folded her little hands on her crossed legs and waited for me to lie.

‘Uneasy. Not afraid,’ I admitted unwillingly. I tried to find the right words but could not. I settled on, ‘I am … amazed. And a bit unsettled that you can speak so well, and I never guessed you were capable of such thought. It is unnerving, Bee. Still, I love you a lot more than I fear you. And with time, I’ll get used to … how you really are.’

The little pink head with its haze of blonde hair nodded slowly. ‘I think you can. I’m not sure Nettle could.’

I found I shared her reservations about that but felt obliged to defend my older daughter. ‘Well, but it’s not fair that you expect that she could. Or even that I could! Why did you hold back? Why not begin talking as you learned to speak rather than keep silent?’

Head still lowered, she lifted one shoulder and shook her head mutely. I had not expected any answer. In truth, I understood the keeping of such secrets. For years in my own childhood, I had hidden the secret of my bastardy from Molly, pretending I was no more than the scribe’s errand-boy. Not to deceive her but because I had longed to be so unremarkable. I knew too well that the longer that sort of secret is kept, the harder it is to expose it without seeming deceitful. How could I not have seen this? How could I keep her from the mistakes I had made? I tried to speak to her as a father should.

‘Well, it’s an odd secret you’ve kept. And I advise you to surrender it now. You should begin to speak to other people. Not like we are talking now, but with a few words here and there. Naming things you want when you point at them. Then moving on to simple requests.’

‘You want me to practise a new sort of deception,’ she said slowly. ‘You want me to pretend I’m just now learning to speak.’

And I realized I had sounded more like an assassin’s mentor than a loving father. I was giving her the sort of advice Chade would have given me. I felt uncomfortable at that thought and spoke more firmly because of it. ‘Well. Yes. I suppose I am. But I think it’s a necessary deception, based on the first one you chose. Why on earth would you pretend that you can barely speak at all? Why did you keep your words so hidden?’

She pulled her knees tighter to her chest, clasped her arms round them and held herself tight and small. Holding her secret close, I guessed. Doubt dropped the floor of my belly. There was more here that I did not know. I consciously took my eyes off her. Don’t stare at her. She was only nine. How large a secret could such a tiny person conceal? I thought of myself at nine and grew still inside.

She didn’t answer my question. Instead, she asked, ‘How did you do that?’

‘Do what?’

She rocked slightly, chewing on her lip. ‘You are holding it in, now. Not spilling out everywhere.’

I rubbed my face and decided to let her lead the conversation, even if she carried me onto painful ground. Let her become accustomed to talking to me … and me to listening to her. ‘You mean, how sad I’ve been? That I’m not weeping today?’

An impatient shake of her head. ‘No. I mean everything.’ Again, that tilt of her little head and a look from the corners of her eyes.

I considered my words and spoke gently. ‘You’re going to have to explain better than that.’

‘You … boil. Like the big kettle in the kitchen. When you come near, ideas and images and what you think come out of you like the steam from the pot. I feel your heat and smell what seethes inside you. I try to hold back but it drenches me and scalds me. And then, when my sister was here, suddenly you put a lid on. I could still feel the heat but you kept in the steam and the smells … There! Just now! You made the lid tighter and cooled the heat.’

She was right. I had. As she had spoken, dread had risen in me. She did not think of the Skill as I did but the images she used could not apply to anything else. And the moment I realized that she had been privy to my thoughts and emotions, I had slammed my Skill-walls tighter, sealing myself behind them as Verity had taught me so many years ago. Verity had pleaded with me to learn to hold my walls tight because my adolescent dreams of Molly were spilling over into his sleep and infiltrating his own dreams and destroying his rest. And now I walled out my little daughter. I cast my thoughts back over not just that evening, but all days and nights of the past nine years, wondering what she had heard and seen in her father’s thoughts. I recalled how she had always stiffened when I touched her, and how she averted her eyes from my glance. Even as she did now. I had suspected she disliked me and it had grieved me. Never had I stopped to think that if she knew all my thoughts about her she had every right to dislike me, the man who had never been content with her, who had always wished his daughter to be someone else.

But now she looked up at me cautiously. For less than a wink, our gazes met. ‘It’s so much better,’ she said quietly. ‘So much more peaceful when you are contained.’

‘I wasn’t aware that you were … so beset by my — my thinking. I shall try to keep my walls closed when I am around you.’

‘Oh, could you?’ she begged, relief evident in her voice. ‘And Nettle? Can you ask her, also, to close her walls when she comes near me?’

No. I could not. To tell her sister that she must keep her Skill-walls tight when she was around Bee would betray to her how sensitive her sister was to that magic. And I was not prepared for Nettle to wonder, as I did now, just how much ability Bee would have for that Farseer magic. How ‘useful’ might she be? I was suddenly Chade, seeing before me a child, apparently a very young child, but actually years older and Skilled. Rosemary had been an excellent child-spy. But Bee would outshine her as the sun outshines a candle. Walls tight, I did not betray that thought to her. Senseless to make her worry about such things just yet. I would do all the worrying for both of us. I made my voice calm.

‘I will speak to Nettle about it, but not just now. Next time she comes to visit us, perhaps. I will have to think how to phrase the request.’ I had no intention of conveying this to Nettle, not until I myself had decided how best to handle it. I was rummaging in my thoughts, trying to decide how best to push my question of why she had concealed her intellect and speaking abilities when she suddenly stood up. She looked up at me, all big blue eyes, with her little red nightrobe falling down to her slippered feet. My child. My little girl, sleepy and innocent-eyed. My heart swelled with love for her. She was my last vestige of Molly, the vessel that held all the love Molly had poured into her. She was a strange child, and no mistake. But Molly had always been a keen judge of people. I suddenly knew that if she had seen fit to trust her heart to Bee then I need not fear to emulate her. I smiled down at her.

Her eyes widened in surprise. Then she cast her eyes aside from my gaze but an answering smile blossomed on her face. ‘I’m sleepy now,’ she said quietly. ‘I’m going to bed.’ She looked toward the darkened doorway outside the circle of firelight and lamplight. She squared her little shoulders, resolving to face the dark.

I lifted the lamp from my desk. ‘I’ll take you to your bed,’ I told her. It suddenly seemed very strange to me that in all nine years of her life, it had always been Molly who put her to bed at night. Molly would bring her to me as I was at my books or writing, and I would say good night, and she would whisk the child away. Often Molly, too, had gone to bed without me, knowing I would join her as soon as I had trapped my thoughts on paper. Why, I suddenly wondered, had I wasted all those hours I could have spent with her? Why hadn’t I gone with them, to listen to a bedtime story or nursery song? To hold Molly as she fell asleep in my arms?

Grief choked me so I could not speak. Without a word, I followed my daughter as she led the way through the panelled halls of her grandparents’ home. We passed portraits of our ancestors, and tapestries, and mounted arms. Her small slippers whispered on the grand stair as we mounted to the second floor. These corridors were chill and she wrapped her little arms around herself and shivered as she walked, bereft of a mother’s embrace now.

She had to reach for the door handle, standing on tiptoes, and then she pushed it open to a room lit only by the fading fire on the hearth. The servants had prepared her bedchamber hours ago. The candles they had lit for her had guttered out.

I set my lamp on a table by her canopied bed and went to the hearth to build her fire up again for her. She stood silently watching me. When I was sure the logs were catching well, I turned back to her. She nodded grave thanks and then stepped on a low stool and clambered up onto the tall bed. She had finally outgrown the small one we’d had made for her. But this one was still far larger than she needed. She pulled off her slippers and let them fall over the side of the bed. I saw her shiver as she crawled between the chill white sheets. She reminded me of a small puppy trying to find comfort in a big dog’s kennel. I moved to her bedside and tucked the blankets in well around her.

‘It will warm up soon enough,’ I comforted her.

‘I know.’ Her blue gaze roamed the room, and for the first time it struck me how strange this world might look to her. The room was immense in comparison to her, everything sized for the benefit of a grown man. Could she even see out of her windows when she stood by them? Open the heavy cedar lid of her blanket chest? I suddenly remembered my first night in my bedchamber at Buckkeep Castle after years of sleeping cosy in Burrich’s chamber in the lofts above the stables. At least the tapestries here were all of flowers and birds, with no golden-eyed Elderlings staring down at an awe-struck child that was trying to fall asleep. Still, I saw a dozen changes that needed to be made in the room, changes that would have been wrought years ago by a father with any sensitivity. Shame flooded me. It felt wrong to leave her alone in such a large and empty space.

I stood over her in the darkness. I promised myself I would do better. I reached to smooth the pale stubble on her skull. She curled away from my touch. ‘No, please,’ she whispered into the darkness, looking away from me. It was a knife to my heart, a stab I well deserved. I drew back my hand, did not stoop for the kiss I had intended to bestow on her. I held back my sigh.

‘Very well. Good night, Bee.’

I took up my lamp and was halfway to the door when she asked timidly, ‘Can you leave a short candle burning? Mama always left me one candle.’

I immediately knew what she meant. Molly often lit a small fat candle by our bedside, one that fragranced the room as she drifted off to sleep. I could not recall how many times I had come to our bed to find her deep in slumber and the last bit of flame dancing on the foundering wick. A pottery saucer on Bee’s bedside table awaited such a candle. I opened the cupboard beneath the table and found ranks and rows of such candles. Their sweet fragrances drifted out to me as if Molly herself had entered the room. I chose lavender for its restfulness. I lit the candle from my lamp and set it in its place. I drew the bed’s draperies closed, imagining how the dancing candlelight would seep through the hangings to softly illuminate the enclosed space.

‘Good night,’ I said again, taking up my lamp.

I started for the door, and her whisper reached me softly as blown thistledown. ‘Mama always sang a song.’

‘A song?’ I asked stupidly.

‘You don’t know any,’ she surmised. I heard her turn away from me.

I spoke to the curtains. ‘Actually, I do.’ Obtusely, it was Crossfire’s Coterie that leapt to the forefront of my mind, a martial and tragic tale completely inappropriate for a child’s bedtime. I thought of others I knew, the learning tunes and rhymes I had acquired growing up. The Poisoner’s Prayer, a list of deadly herbs. Blood Points, a musical recitation of where to stab a man to make the blood leap. Perhaps not for bedtime.

She whispered again, ‘Do you know The Twelve Healing Herbs?’

‘I do.’ Burrich had taught it to me, as well as Lady Patience hammering it into my head. I cleared my throat. When had I last sung a song, when mine was the only lifted voice? A lifetime ago. I drew a breath and suddenly changed my mind. ‘Here’s a song I learned when I was much younger than you are now. It’s about horses, and choosing a good one.’ I cleared my throat again and found the note.

‘One white hoof, buy him.

Two white hooves, try him.

Three white hooves, think for a day.

Four white hooves, turn him away.’

A brief silence greeted my effort. Then, ‘That seems cruel. Because his hooves are white, you turn him away?’

I smiled into darkness, and remembered Burrich’s answer. ‘Because his hooves are soft. Sometimes. White hooves can be softer than black hooves. You don’t want to buy a horse whose hooves will split easily. The rule isn’t always true, but it reminds you to check the hooves of a horse you are thinking of buying.’

‘Oh.’ A pause. ‘Sing it again, please.’

And I did. Four more times, until my listener did not request an encore. I took my lamp and walked softly to the door. The fragrance of lavender and soft candlelight remained as I stepped out into the corridor. I looked back at the draped bed, so large in comparison to the very small person who slept there. So small, with only me to protect her. Then I eased the door closed behind me and sought my own chill and empty bedchamber.

The next morning I awoke at dawn. I lay still, looking up at the shadowy corners of the bedchamber ceiling. I had slept but a few hours and yet sleep had deserted me. There was something.

The cub.

I took in a sudden breath. It happened, not often, that I heard my wolf speak in my mind as clearly as if he still lived. It was a Wit phenomenon, something that happened to people who had been so long partnered with an animal that when it died, some influence lingered. It was close to a score of years since I had lost Nighteyes, and yet in that instant, he was at my side, and I felt the nudge as clearly as if it were a cold nose intruding under the blankets. I sat up. ‘It’s barely dawn,’ I grumbled, but I swung my legs over the edge of the bed.

I found a clean tunic and leggings and dressed. The view from my window showed me a beautiful summer day. I let the curtains drop back into place and then took a deep breath. Life wasn’t about me any more, I discovered. It surprised me to discover that it had been so. Molly, I thought to myself. I had believed that I had spoiled her with my attentions and gifts. Actually, she was the one who had spoiled me, allowing me to awake in the morning and think first of what I needed to do that day, rather than what someone else needed done.

The wolf in me had been correct. When I tapped softly on Bee’s door and then entered at her muffled invitation, I found her awake and considering a variety of garments she had taken from her little clothing chest. Her blonde hair stuck up in tufts. ‘Do you need any help with that?’ I asked her.

She shook her head. ‘Not with clothes. But Mama always stood on the other side of the bed as we made it each morning. I’ve tried, but it doesn’t go straight for me.’

I looked at her effort. It had probably been like trying to raise canvas on a ship by herself. ‘Well. I know how to do that,’ I told her. ‘I’ll make the bed for you.’

‘We are supposed to do it together,’ she rebuked me. She took a deep breath and squared her little shoulders. ‘Mama told me that I must always be able to take care of myself, for few in this world will make allowances that I am small.’

Yes. Molly would have thought of that. ‘Then let’s make it together,’ I offered, and followed her very precise directions to do so. I did not tell her that I could simply tell one of the housemaids that this was now her task. What Molly had carefully built in our small daughter, I would not tear down.

She shooed me out of the room while she dressed herself. I was standing outside her door, waiting for her, when I heard the tap of Nettle’s boots on the stone-flagged floor. She halted in front of me, and it was not flattering that she was obviously startled to see me there. ‘Good morning,’ I greeted her, and before she could respond, the door swung open to reveal Bee dressed and ready to meet the day.

‘I did brush my hair,’ she told me as if I had asked. ‘But it’s too short to lie flat.’

‘Mine, too,’ I assured her. Not that I had even attempted to make it do so.

She looked up at me and asked, ‘Does it make it hard to trim your beard, too?’

Nettle laughed, as much to hear her sister speak as to see me uncomfortable.

‘No. It does not,’ I admitted gravely. ‘I’ve just neglected it.’

‘I’ll help you before I go,’ Nettle offered, and I wondered how she knew it was a task Molly had often undertaken.

Bee looked up at me solemnly. She shook her head slowly. ‘There’s no reason for your beard any more. You should just shave it off.’

That gave me a twinge. How had she known? Had Molly told her that I had grown it in an attempt to look closer to my true years? ‘Perhaps later. But now, we should go down to breakfast, for your sister wishes to make an early start.’

Bee walked between us, and at table, she essayed a few words to the staff, mostly muttered to her plate. But it was a start and I think even Nettle saw the wisdom of letting her reveal herself slowly.

The farewell was hard for all of us. Bee endured a hug from Nettle, but I would have held my elder daughter longer in my arms if she would have allowed it. Her eyes were bright as she bade us farewell, and I promised that she would hear from me regularly. She looked down at Bee and charged her to ‘Learn some letters, and write to me, little Bee. I expect you to try as hard as your Papa to make this work.’ It was well for me that Nettle did not see the guilty look that Bee and I exchanged behind her back.

Riddle had stood silent and watched us make our partings. He approached me then with a grave face and I thought he would offer me awkward words. Instead, he suddenly engulfed me in a hug that nearly cracked my ribs. ‘Be brave,’ he said by my ear, and then released me, walked to his horse and mounted, and they all rode away.

We stood in the carriageway of Withywoods and watched until Nettle and her party were out of sight. A time longer we stood there. Steward Revel and several of the other servants had turned out to bid Nettle farewell. They ebbed away from us until only Bee and I were left standing there. Birds called from the woodland. A light morning breeze stirred the leaves of the white paper birches that lined the carriageway. After a time, Bee ventured a single word. ‘Well.’

‘Yes.’ I looked down at her. What was I to do with this tiny girl? I cleared my throat. ‘I usually begin my rounds with a walk through the stables.’

She looked up at me and then quickly away. I knew she feared the large animals of the manor. Would she go with me? I could scarcely blame her if she refused. But I waited. After a moment, the small blonde head nodded once.

And so we began a new pattern that day. I wished I could carry her but knew that she dreaded my touch, and why. And so she trotted at my heels and I walked more sedately so she could keep up with me. We walked the stables and conferred with Tallerman. He was visibly relieved to see the guests departed and his workload return to normal. Lin the shepherd glanced once at my small follower and then spoke to me while his dog gravely poked Bee under the chin with her nose until Bee petted her.

The vineyard required a horseback trip. When I told Bee this, she seemed to consider it for a longer time before informing me that, ‘I have not checked on my mother’s beehives for some days. I do have tasks of my own, you know.’

‘I don’t know how to help you with the hives,’ I told her.

She lifted her head and again squared her small shoulders. ‘I know what must be done. And I’m stronger than I look,’ she told me.

And so we parted, but came back together for a noon meal. I reported to her that the grapes had an excellent set, and that I had seen many of her bees busy at their work. She nodded gravely to that and said that all had appeared well with the hives.

After our meal, I retreated to the Withywoods study, to go over the long-neglected accounts. There was a list from Steward Revel there of maintenance projects for Withywoods that he judged too important to ignore. There were small notes next to some of the suggestions in Molly’s handwriting. I couldn’t bear to look at it. She’d put it there at least two months ago, and I had promised her, promised her that we’d get the most pressing work under way this summer. But I hadn’t. I’d set it aside, confident that she would nag me into action when it became urgent.

Well, she wouldn’t. Not ever again.

There were other messages on my desk, accounts that needed to be paid for supplies brought in from the outlying farms. There was a lot of tallying to do for men who had worked the hayfields in exchange for a share. Here was a note that we’d have to hire more workers for the grape harvest, and if we wanted good ones, we’d best secure them now. Everything needed to be done now.

And another list, poorly written and spelled worse, of various foodstuffs. I stared at it for a time. I must have looked perplexed because Bee wandered over to peer past my elbow at it. ‘Oh. Cook Nutmeg wrote that, I think. She always asked Mama what meals she would like for the week to come, so Cook could be sure she had all she needed on hand for them. Mama used to write the list for her to send to town.’

‘I see. And this?’

She scowled at it for a minute. ‘I’m not sure. I think that word is meant to be “wool”. And that might be “cobbler”. Mama was talking of winter woollens for the help, and new boots for you and me.’

‘But it’s summer!’

She cocked her head at me. ‘It’s like the garden, Papa. You have to plan now what you want to have three months from now.’

‘I suppose so.’ I stared at the unintelligible scribbling, wondering if I could somehow persuade Revel to translate and assume command of whatever this was. It was suddenly all too much. I set it down and pushed away from the desk. ‘We should go look at the apple trees.’

And so we did, until evening.

Day by aching day, we groped toward a routine. We made our needless daily inspection of the stables, the sheep pens and the grapes. I did not throw myself into the work; I did not have the focus, but the accounts did not go too late, and Revel seemed almost relieved to take up the meal planning. I didn’t care what he put before me; eating had become a task to accomplish. Sleep evaded me, only to ambush me at my desk in the middle of the afternoon. More and more often, Bee followed me to my private study in the evenings, where she amused herself by pretending to read my discarded papers before drawing lavish illustrations on the backs of them. We talked little, even when we played games together. Most evenings ended with her asleep on the floor. I would carry her back to her bed, tumble her into it, and then return to my study. I let go of far too many things. I felt sometimes as if we were both waiting for something.

The evening that I realized that I was waiting for Molly to come back, I put my head down on my arms and wept useless bitter tears. I only came back to myself when I felt a soft hand patting my shoulder and heard her voice saying, ‘It can’t be changed, dear. It can’t be changed. You must let go of the past.’

I lifted my head and looked at my little daughter. I had thought her asleep on the hearth. It was the first time she had touched me of her own volition. Her eyes were such a pale blue, like Kettricken’s, and sometimes she did seem not blind, but as if she looked past me into another place. Her words were not ones I would have expected from a child. They were Molly’s words, the words she would have spoken to me to comfort me. My little child, trying to be strong for me. I blinked my eyes clear of tears, cleared my throat and asked her, ‘Would you like to learn how to play stones?’

‘Of course,’ she said, and even though I knew she didn’t mean it, I taught her that night and we played until it was almost morning. We both slept in until nearly noon the next day.

The message came, delivered in the usual way, as autumn was winding to a close. When I sat down at the breakfast table with Bee, there was a fat brown acorn with two oak leaves still attached to it on the table. Once, I had carved such a motif on the top of a little box where I kept my poisons, the kit of my trade as an assassin. The box was long gone, but the meaning was the same. Chade wished to meet with me. I scowled at the acorn. For as long as I’d lived at Withywoods, he’d been able to do this. No one on the staff would admit to putting the acorn on the table, nor to leaving a door unbarred or a window unlatched. Yet there it was, a reminder from my old mentor that no matter how clever and wary I thought myself, he could still steal through my defences if he wished to. He’d be waiting for me by evening at an inn called the Oaken Staff at a crossroads near Gallows Hill. That was a two-hour ride away. Which meant that if I kept the rendezvous, I would be very late returning, perhaps not getting back until dawn if this was one of Chade’s convoluted discussions. Whatever it was, he was not going to Skill to me about it. That meant no one in the coterie knew of it. It was another of his damned secrets, then.

Bee watched me handling the acorn. When I set it back on the table, she picked it up to examine it. She had begun to use small phrases to the staff, ‘Please, more bread.’ Or a simple ‘Good morning’. Her childish lisp was not entirely pretence, but I was not sure if I felt pride or dismay at how polished an actress she was. In the last few evenings, we had played our memory game as well as stones, and at both she seemed incredibly gifted. I tutted at my fatherly pride, reminding myself that every parent must think his child the cleverest and prettiest. She had shown me a page from an herbal that she had copied out with painstaking care at my urgent request. She had her mother’s gift for illustration. And she had written a brief note to Nettle, scarcely blotched at all and in a hand so like my own that I wondered if her sister would deem it counterfeit. Our last few weeks together had been like balm on a wound. Briefly, it eased the aching.

But Chade’s summons I could not ignore. The only times when he went back to the cryptic communications of my boyhood were when he had something of the utmost delicacy to broach to me. Was it private to him, or too dangerous to share? My heart sank at the thought. Now what? What was happening at Buckkeep Castle that was worthy of this secret liaison? What was he trying to drag me into?

And what arrangements could I make for Bee that evening? If I went to meet Chade, I would not be there to see her to bed that night. We had begun to build something, we two, and I did not want to neglect it. As Nettle had warned me, caring for the child full time was not as easy as one might think it, but neither was it as hard as she had painted it. I was enjoying my daughter, even when we both were in the same room but quiet and busy at our own tasks. Her latest fancy was a set of brushes and some paints. Her copies of illustrations were painstaking and accurate. She sighed over them, but since I had suggested that Nettle needed to see her abilities, she did them. But I was more charmed by the peculiar and childish images she created when left alone with brushes and inks. She had painted a small man with his cheeks puffed as if blowing, and told me that he breathed out fog. She had never seen the ocean or a ship, but had drawn a little boat towed through the waves by water snakes. Another was a row of flowers with tiny faces. She showed me such work shyly, and I sensed she was letting me into her world. I didn’t want to leave her for a housemaid to tuck into bed. Nor would I drag her out and into the night with me. An autumn storm was threatening.

Bee was looking at me curiously as I pondered my lack of choices. ‘What this?’ she piped in her childish voice, and held up the acorn.

‘An acorn. A seed from an oak tree.’

‘I know that!’ she said, as if amazed I could think her so ignorant. She silenced herself hastily. Tavia had come out of the kitchen with a steaming kettle of porridge. She set it down on the table and ladled two generous servings into our bowls. A pitcher of cream and a pot of honey were already on the table, beside a loaf of freshly baked dark bread. One of the younger kitchen girls, Elm, followed her with a bowl of butter and a dish of stewed prunes. She did not look at Bee, I noticed. I marked, too, how Bee stiffened slightly and did not breathe as the girl passed behind her chair. I nodded my thanks to Tavia and waited until she had whisked herself and her daughter back to the kitchen before I spoke.

‘I have to go on a brief trip this evening. I may be gone all night.’

I felt Bee’s eyes flicker over my face, trying to read what I was thinking. It was a new habit she had. She still did not meet my gaze, but sometimes I felt her looking at me. She was relieved that I now attempted to keep my Skill contained at all times, but I think it also made me more mysterious to her. I had to wonder how much she had read from me in the first nine years of her life. The thought was so saddening that I pushed it aside. She had not spoken. ‘Shall I ask Tavia to put you to bed tonight?’

She shook her head briskly.

‘Mild, then?’ The other kitchen maid was younger, in her twenties. Perhaps she would suit Bee better.

Bee lowered her eyes to her porridge and shook her head more slowly. Well, that cancelled both of my easy solutions; unless I simply told her she’d have to endure whatever arrangements I could make. I wasn’t ready to be so firm with her yet. I wondered if I ever would be, and then chided myself to think that I might be the sort of father who spoiled a child by indulging her will. I would think of something, I promised myself, and pushed the matter from my mind for the time being.

Despite Chade’s visit looming before me, I went about my regular tasks for the day. The needs of a manor stop for nothing, not even a death. I was swiftly discovering just how many unseen parts there were to managing a household, even with Revel stepping up to much of it. Molly had always been the one to coordinate with him. Together they had discussed meals and seasonal tasks, routine maintenance, hiring of help. It had all been invisible to me, and now the man and his insistence that we meet each afternoon to discuss the day’s needs nearly drove me mad. He was a pleasant enough fellow and good at what he did, but every time he tapped at my study door it was a reminder that Molly was not there to intercept him. Twice he had brought up maintenance that should be done before winter. The carefully detailed notes he gave me, with suggestions as to tradesmen and material and dates, overwhelmed me. It was all stacked on top of my ordinary work. Today I was already late paying the staff, and though they had seemed understanding of my grief, I knew that their lives went on. How to manage? Hire yet another person to nag me through the day? I dreaded trying to find someone trustworthy, and my heart sank even deeper as I realized that I still needed to find a nanny or tutor for Bee as well. I wondered if FitzVigilant were ready yet, and then realized that for a little girl, a woman would be more appropriate. Someone who could sleep in the unused servant’s chamber adjacent to her own. Someone who would move from being a nanny to a maid as Bee grew. My woe deepened at the thought of bringing a woman into her life who would do some of what her mother had done for her. I knew I must. Although Chade’s visit would be the first task to take me from her side, it would not be the last.

I had no idea where to begin looking for a servant who could fulfil such a demanding role.

I was silent as I ate, pondering my dilemma, and silent when I rose. For neither the first nor the last time I considered the strange isolation my peculiar station in life had conferred on me. To the landholders and gentry around Buckkeep, Molly and I had been neither aristocracy nor common folk, but creatures trapped between classes. The men who worked for me as groundskeepers and ostlers spoke me well and appreciated my first-hand knowledge of their tasks, but they did not consider me a friend. And those nobles with holdings within an easy ride had known us as Holder Tom Badgerlock and Lady Molly. To their eyes, Molly had been elevated only as recognition from the crown for Burrich’s services. They had been pleasant enough when we encountered them, but none had extended invitations to socialize and Molly had wisely held back from pressing the matter. We’d had each other for daily company, and the irregular invasions of our relatives to inject both chaos and merriment into our lives. It had been enough for us both.

But now that she was gone I looked around myself and perceived how solitary my life at Withywoods was without her. Our children had gone back to their own lives and left me here alone. All save one. I glanced down at her. It wasn’t right for a child to grow up so alone.

Bee’s little slippers were close to silent as she ghosted along behind me through the house. I glanced back at her and said, ‘I have to go out to the stables. And a storm is waiting. Let’s get you into some warm clothes.’

‘I can do that myself,’ she insisted softly.

‘Can you reach everything?’ I frowned to myself. Were her winter things still stored in a chest somewhere? Would they still fit her?

She thought about it for a moment, and then nodded consideringly. She tilted her head up and I felt her gaze brush across me. ‘I’m not as little as I look. I’m nine.’

‘Very well. I’ll wait for you in my private study.’

She bobbed her head in grave acknowledgement and I watched her hasten up the stairs. It was a climb for her, a reach for every step. I tried to imagine being so small in a world scaled for adults, and could not. She was a very capable child, I thought to myself, and wondered if I was underestimating her. There was a danger in asking too much of a child, but the danger of asking too little was almost equal. Nonetheless, provisions should be made for her, lest she need me and I not be there to protect her. I reached a decision.

When she came into my study, she was wearing her boots and warm leggings and had her winter cloak slung over her arm. Her hair was pulled back into a stubby tail. I could tell she had done it herself, and did not criticize it. She looked around the room, obviously wondering why we were there so early in the day. The room was smaller than the formal study, but pleasant enough. The walls were rich dark wood, and the hearth was built of big flat river stones. It was a comfortable room, a man’s retreat, but that was not why I had chosen it for my den. I considered and hesitated. But she was nine. The same age I had been when Buckkeep Castle’s secret had been shared with me.

‘Please close the door behind you,’ I told her as she came in.

She did so, and then looked past my shoulder, wondering at my odd request. ‘I thought we were going out.’

‘We are. But not right away. I want to show you something. And see if you can do it. But first I have to explain it. Sit down, please.’

She climbed up to sit on one of the cushioned chairs and perched there, watching me but not meeting my eyes. ‘This is a secret,’ I warned her. ‘It’s a secret only for you and me. Patience showed it to your mother and me when we first came here. Patience is gone, and now Molly is gone, too.’ I waited, swallowed and went on. ‘So only I know about this now. And soon you will, too. It’s not written down anywhere, and it must never be put on paper. You cannot show it to anyone else. Do you understand?’

For a time she was very still. Then she nodded slowly.

I got up from my seat behind the desk, went to the door and made sure it was latched. ‘This door has to be shut completely,’ I told her. I touched the hinges of the massive door. ‘Look here. This door has four hinges. Two at the top, and two closer to the bottom. They all look just the same.’

I waited and again she nodded gravely.

‘This one, not the lowest one, but this one above it is false. When you pull the pin out of the top of this hinge, it becomes a handle. See? Then you can do this.’ I pulled the brass pin out, took hold of the false hinge and pulled on it. A tall narrow door disguised as a wood wall panel swung open. Spiderwebs stretched and broke as I pulled it open. Darkness breathed out. I glanced back at Bee. Her attention was absolute, her lower lip caught between her small perfect teeth. ‘It’s a secret passageway.’

‘Yes?’ she queried, and I realized I was telling her the obvious. I scratched my cheek and felt how deep my beard had grown. I’d still not trimmed it, I suddenly realized, and Molly had not rebuked me. All thoughts fled my mind for a moment as a wave of loss drenched and drowned me again.

‘Papa?’ Bee tugged at my shirt cuff.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said, and drew breath again.

‘I’m sorry, too,’ she said. She did not take my hand, but held onto my cuff. I had not even been aware of her getting down from the chair or crossing the room to me. She cleared her little throat and I became aware of the glistening tracks on her cheeks. I tightened my Skill-walls and she nodded a silent thanks to me. In a low voice she asked me, ‘Where does it go?’

And so, together, we crested that wave of sorrow and pushed on.

‘It goes to a little room above and to the left of the hearth. There’s a tiny peephole there, so someone could sit there and watch people come and go and talk in this room.’ I rubbed my eyes. ‘And from that little room, there is a narrow stair that goes to a very low crawlway. And it goes to other little spy-rooms in other parts of the house.’ I swallowed and my voice became almost normal as I added, ‘I think it’s a Farseer obsession. We seem to like spyholes and secret places in our homes.’

She nodded, staring past me at the door. The broken cobwebs stirred in a slight draught. A smile dawned on her face and she actually clasped her little hands together under her chin. ‘I love it! Is it for me?’

It was the last reaction I could have predicted from her. I found my smile answering hers. ‘It is now,’ I told her. ‘There are two other ways to get into it. One from my bedroom. And another from a pantry. Those ones are both difficult to open, mostly because they haven’t been used in a very, very long time. This one is easier. But it, too, hasn’t been used in a long time. So it will be full of cobwebs and dust, and mice and spiders.’

She had advanced to the edge of the passageway. She flapped a hand through the dangling webs and then shook the rags free of her fingers, undaunted by small things with many legs. A glance back in my direction. ‘Can I go in now? Can I take a lamp?’

‘I suppose so.’ Her enthusiasm had caught me off-guard. I had thought only to seed an idea with her today, to show her a place to retreat to if she were ever in danger and I was not around to protect her. I shot the concealed bolts on the study doors so that no one could enter. I took the lamp from my desk. Then I shut the door to the passage, and dropped the hinge-pin back into its place. ‘You try to open it.’

The pin was stubborn and it took some tugging before she freed it. ‘We can oil that,’ she said breathlessly, and then stood up to pull the panel open. She glanced back at me. ‘Can I take the lamp and go first?’

If she fell and dropped the lamp, the spilled oil and flame would set all of Withywoods afire. ‘Be careful,’ I told her as I handed it to her. ‘Use both hands. And don’t fall.’

‘I won’t,’ she replied, but as soon as it was in her hands, I doubted my wisdom in entrusting it to her. She was so obviously excited and focused only on exploring. She walked unhesitatingly into the narrow dark corridor. I stooped and followed her.

The spy-passages of Withywoods were not nearly as elaborate as the ones that threaded Buckkeep Castle. I think if they had been my father’s handiwork, he would have made them for a taller man. I suspected they dated back to the first rebuilding of the house, when they had added the south extension. I’d often wondered if there were more of them, the secret of opening the doors lost in the process of the house changing inhabitants.

The passage had a short landing and then a steep stair. At the top of the stair, there was a landing and a sharp turn to the left. There the passage became slightly wider. It went up six more steps and then was flat until it reached the area beside the hearth. I could not stand straight in the little compartment, but someone had been comfortable there once. There was a short sturdy stool for him to perch on while he did his spying, a little cabinet of dark wood, its doors securely closed, and a small shelf where Bee set down her lamp. Her instinct was correct. I noticed now the little guard around the peephole that would keep the lamp-light from being visible. She sat down on the stool without dusting it off, leaned forward to peer into my study, then leaned back and proclaimed, ‘I love it. It fits me perfectly. Oh, Papa, thank you!’

She stood up and went to the little cupboard, reaching the handle easily. She peered inside. ‘Look! Here’s an inkpot! It’s all dried up, but I could put ink in it. And here’s an old quill pen, all eaten away to its spine. I’ll need a fresh one. Look! The shelf folds down and now it’s a little table for writing! How clever! Is it truly all for me?’

What had probably been a rather cramped space even for a small spy did fit her perfectly. The space I had thought of an emergency retreat for her, she saw as a refuge, perhaps even a play room.

‘It’s a safe place for you. A place to come and hide if you feel you are in danger and you can’t get to me. Or if I tell you there is danger and you must run and hide.’

She looked at me earnestly, not meeting my eyes, but her pale gaze wandering over my face. ‘I see. Of course. Well, then, I shall need candles, and a tinderbox. And something to keep water in, and something with a tight lid for keeping hard bread. So that I shall not be hungry if I have to hide for quite a long time. And a cushion and a blanket against the chill. And perhaps a few books.’

I stared at her, aghast. ‘No! No, Bee, I’d never leave you hidden here for days at a time! Wait … a few books? Do you truly read that well?’

The expression on her face would not have been as surprised if I’d asked her if she could breathe. ‘Of course. Can’t everyone?’

‘No. Generally, one has to be taught to read. I know your mother showed you letters, but I didn’t think …’ I stared at her in amazement. I had watched her at play with her pen and her book, thinking that she did no more than practise random letters. The note she had written to her sister had been a simple one, just a few lines. I now recalled she had asked for paper so she could write down her dreams; I thought she had meant her odd drawings. I quelled my sudden desire to know what she wrote, to see what she dreamed. I would wait until she offered to share it with me.

‘Mama read to me. Her big beautiful book about herbs and flowers, the one Lady Patience gave her. She read it very slowly, pointing at each word. She had told me the letters and the sounds. So I learned.’

Molly had come to reading late, and mastered it with great difficulty. And I knew immediately the book she had read to Bee, one that had not pages of paper, but narrow slabs of wood with the words and the illustrations engraved in them, and the herbs and flowers carved and then painted in their correct colours. Patience had treasured that gift from me. And Molly had taught our daughter to read from it.

‘Papa?’

I had been wool-gathering. I looked down at her.

‘What happened to Lady Patience? Mama told me many stories about her, but never the end of her story.’

‘The end of her story.’ I had been there the day my stepmother’s story had ended. I thought of it now and it suddenly took on a completely different significance to me. I cleared my throat. ‘Well. It was a day in early spring. The plum trees had begun to waken from the winter, and Lady Patience wanted them pruned before the buds burst into flowers. She was quite an old lady by then, but still very fussy about her gardens. So she insisted on leaning out an upper window and shouting instructions to the workers pruning her trees.’

I had to smile at the memory. Bee was almost looking at me, her face intent with interest, her brow wrinkled. ‘Did she fall out of the window?’

‘No. For a wonder, no, she didn’t fall. But she wasn’t happy with how they were doing the pruning. So she declared that she was going out to make them do it as she wished, and to bring back some of the trimmings to force into bloom for the table. I offered to go fetch her some, but no, she was off to her room and then came clumping back down in her boots and a heavy wool cloak and out she went.’ I paused. I remembered it all so clearly. The blue sky, the blustery wind, and Patience’s eyes snapping with indignation that the orchard crew was ignoring her.

‘Then what?’

‘She was gone for a little while. I was in the morning room when I heard the door slam. She was calling for me to come and take some of the cuttings. I stepped out in the hall, and here she came with a great armful of them, dropping twigs and bits of moss as she came. I was going to take them from her when she suddenly stopped where she was. She stared, and her mouth fell open and her cheeks that were pink with cold went even pinker. Then she shouted, “Chivalry! There you are!” And she flung up her arms, and the branches went everywhere. She opened her arms wide and took two running steps past me. And then she fell.’

Tears suddenly prickled my eyes. I blinked but could not stop them.

‘And she was dead,’ Bee whispered.

‘Yes,’ I said hoarsely. I recalled the loose weight of her as I gathered her and turned her face-up in my arms. She was dead and staring, but smiling still.

‘She thought you were her dead husband when she saw you.’

‘No.’ I shook my head. ‘She didn’t look at me. She was looking past me, down the hallway behind me. I don’t know what she saw.’

‘She saw him,’ Bee decided with great satisfaction. She nodded to herself. ‘He came to get her at last. It’s a good end to her story. May I keep her book up here, the one of herbs?’

I wondered if Molly would come to get me some day. A fluttering of hope rose in me. Then I came back to myself, to the little room and my daughter sitting at the folded-down desk top. ‘You could keep books up here if you wish. You may keep anything here that you want. You may have candles and a tinderbox, if you promise to be very careful with them. But you must remember, this room and its entrance are a secret, one that is not to be shared with anyone. Only you and I know that it exists. It’s important that it stays our secret.’

She nodded gravely. ‘Can you show me where the other passage goes, the one we passed, and how to open the other doors?’

‘Perhaps tomorrow. Right now, we must close it up snug, and then go see the man who takes care of the sheep.’

‘Lin,’ she reminded me casually. ‘Shepherd Lin takes care of the sheep.’

‘Yes. Lin. We need to talk to him.’ An idea blossomed in my mind. ‘He has a son named Boj, who has a wife and a little girl at his house. Perhaps you would like to meet them?’

‘No. Thank you.’

Her crisp reply killed that hope. I knew there would be more to that story. I waited in patient silence as she took up our lamp and led us down the narrow stair. She paused hopefully at the intersection to the other passage, lifting her lamp to peer into the darkness, but then with a short sigh led us back down to my study. I held the lamp as she closed the panel and secured it. Then I blew out the lamp and drew open the heavy curtains to let in the grey light. It was raining. I blinked as my eyes adjusted and realized we must have had a frost in the night. The leaves had begun to change, with the edges and veins of the birch leaves turning gold. Winter was drawing closer. I still hadn’t spoken.

‘Other children don’t like me. I make them uncomfortable. They think I’m a tiny child dressed up as a girl, and then, when I can do things, like pare apples with a sharp knife, they think … I don’t know what they think. But when I go into the kitchen, Tavia’s sons would go out. They used to come to work with her every day. They don’t any more.’ She looked away from me. ‘Elm and Lea, the kitchen girls, hate me.’

‘Oh, Bee, they don’t hate you! They hardly know you. And Tavia’s sons are of an age where they go with their father now, to learn what he does all day. It’s not you, Bee.’ I was looking down at my small daughter with a sympathetic smile. She glanced up at me and, for the instant that our eyes met, the blue anger in hers burned me.

She looked down at the floor, her whole body stiff. ‘Perhaps I shall stay in out of the rain today,’ she said in an icy little voice. ‘It might be a good day to stay by myself.’

‘Bee,’ I said, but before I could go on, that fury was flashed at me again.

‘I hate it when you lie. You know that other children will fear me. And I know when they hate me. It’s not something I pretend. It’s real. Don’t lie to me to make me think that I’m the one who is judging them badly. Lies are bad, no matter who tells them. Mama put up with it from you, but I shan’t.’ She folded her arms across her chest and stood staring defiantly at my knees.

‘Bee! I am your father. You cannot speak to me like that!’

‘If I cannot be honest with you, I shall not speak to you at all.’ All the force of her will was behind her words. I knew that she was completely capable of resuming her long silence. The thought of being deprived of the only companionship I’d found since Molly’s death struck me so deep a blow that I immediately recognized how close a bond I was forming with my daughter. The second bolt of lightning was how dangerous it would be to both of us if I let my need for her company overcome my duty to be her parent.

‘You can be honest with me and still respect me. As I can with you. You are different, Bee. It will make some parts of your life very difficult. But if you always fall back on your differences to explain everything you dislike about the world, you will fall into self-pity. I’ve no doubt that you did make Tavia’s boys uneasy. But I also know that neither one of them liked working in the kitchens, and so their father took them down to the mill, to see if that suited them better. It is not always all about you. Sometimes you are just one factor.’

She lowered her eyes to the floor. She did not uncross her arms.

‘Get your cloak on. We’re going down to see Lin.’ I gave the order confidently, holding in my anguish over what I would do if she refused to obey. When Starling had given Hap to me he’d led such a life of privation that he was pathetically grateful to sleep inside and be given food. He’d been well past ten before we’d had any confrontations about my authority. The thought of physically disciplining a creature as small as Bee filled me with revulsion. Yet I knew I had to win this battle.

I concealed my relief when she retrieved her cloak and put it on. I didn’t say anything to nettle her pride as we left the study and went out onto the grounds. I did shorten my stride as we walked out to the pastures and the sheds. She still had to trot to keep up with me.

Lin was waiting for me. He showed me three sheep that he’d isolated from the flock after they’d developed a rash that had them rubbing themselves raw on trees and fencepost. I knew little of sheep, but Lin had been tending them since he was a youth, and his hair was now as grey as most of his woolly charges. So I listened, and nodded, and asked him to keep me informed if any more of the ewes became infected. As we spoke, his eyes wandered from me to my small charge and then back again. Bee, perhaps still smarting from being corrected, stood small and stiff and silent throughout our conversation. Lin’s dog Daisy wandered over to inspect her. When Bee stepped back at her approach, she wagged her tail appreciatively and her tongue lolled with dog laughter. So easy to herd. I chose to ignore them as Daisy backed my daughter into a corner and then prodded her with a nose, her tail wagging all the while. Lin glanced at them apprehensively, but I walked over to an ewe and asked him how old she was. Distracted, he came to me. I asked if mites might be causing the irritation, making Lin furrow his brow and go down to part the sheep’s wool and look for insects.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Bee reach out to fondle one of the dog’s silky little ears. Daisy sat down and leaned against her. Bee buried her chilled hands into the herd dog’s thick golden ruff and I saw suddenly that she and the dog were easy and familiar with one another. Her earlier backing away from the dog had not been apprehension, but an invitation to their game. I listened to Lin recount the ewe’s earlier symptoms with only half my attention.

When Lin was satisfied that I’d heard his worries and had confidence in what he was doing, our meeting was over. I’d never enjoyed sheep, and had little to do with their care when I was growing up at Buckkeep Castle, so I did with Lin what Burrich had done with the hawk-tenders at Buckkeep. I’d found a good man who knew more about the woolly knot-heads than I’d ever care to learn and entrusted Nettle’s flocks to him. But hearing him out did take a time and I felt my morning fleeing.

When I turned around to look for Bee, she was not there. Daisy was sitting calmly. My reaction was instinctive. I reached out to both dog and man as I asked, ‘Where is she? Where did my daughter go?’

‘Kittens.’ They responded as one. If Lin was Witted and Daisy his beast-partner, he had never told me and now was not a time to ask. He would not be the first unWitted man I’d met who behaved as if he and his partner could speak to one another. But my concern now was not with them but Bee.

‘Kittens?’

‘There’s a litter back there under one of the mangers. Got their eyes open two weeks ago and now they’ve started to explore.’

Indeed they had. And the litter of four kits was exploring my daughter as she lay on her belly in the damp straw and let them climb on her. An orange-and-white one sat on her back and pulled her hair, his pin teeth set in her scruffy braid and his small feet braced. Two calicoes were in the curve of her arms under her chin. At a short distance, a black-and-white kit with a kink in his tail glared at her as she stared back at him. ‘Bee, it’s time to go,’ I warned her.

She moved slowly, reluctantly. I reached down to unfasten the orange kitten from her hair. It smacked me experimentally. I set it on the straw beside her. ‘We need to go now,’ I prodded her.

She sighed. ‘I like the kittens. I’ve never held one before. These ones are nice, but that one won’t let me touch him.’

Lin spoke. ‘Oh, that blackie is like his father. Full of piss and vinegar already. He’ll be a good ratter, but I wouldn’t choose him, Mistress Bee.’

‘We’re not choosing any of them,’ I corrected him. ‘She just wanted to hold one.’

Lin cocked his head at me. At his side, his dog mimicked him. ‘Well, I’m just saying she’s welcome to one if you want him. They’re the right age to find a new home. Their mother is tired of them and they’ve started to hunt. And a little friend might be a comfort to the little girl, sir. A warm little bit of company.’ He cleared his throat and added, ‘Though I think a pup would be better for her.’

I knew a moment of impatience. A kitten or puppy would not cure her grief over her mother’s death. Then a sharp memory of a pup named Nosey intruded into my mind. But another young creature to be her friend could help. A lot. And perhaps in all the wrong ways. I spoke firmly.

‘Thank you, but no, Lin. Perhaps when she’s a bit older, but not now. Come, Bee. We need to get back to the house.’

I expected a plea from her. Instead she sat up, gently letting the pair of calicoes slide back into the straw. A moment longer she stared at the black kitten. She pointed one finger at him, as if to warn him, but then stood up the rest of the way and followed obediently as I left the sheep sheds.

I slowed my pace even more on our walk back to the house. ‘So. What did you hear?’ I asked Bee.

She was silent for a long time. I was on the point of pushing for a response when she admitted, ‘I wasn’t really paying attention. It was just about sheep. It wasn’t about me. And there were the kittens.’

‘We talked about sheep that belong to your sister, with a man who makes his living taking care of those sheep. Some day you may have to walk down there to talk to him, or to his daughter or grandchild, about those sheep. Next time, you listen.’ I paused to give her a moment to mull that, and then asked, ‘So you didn’t hear this time. What did you see?’

She surprised me in what she had heard me say. My question had not entered her mind at all. She spoke hesitantly in a voice full of trepidation. ‘So. Withywoods does not belong to you, or to me. It’s Nettle’s house and they are Nettle’s sheep. They’ll never be mine. Or the grapes or the orchards. None of it is really mine. Nettle was Mama’s eldest, and she now owns it all. But some day I may have to take care of all of it for her, just as you do.’ She pondered a moment. ‘Papa, when I am grown and you are dead, what will belong to me?’

An arrow to my heart. What would belong to this odd child of mine? Even if I set aside a good marriage portion for her, would she grow to be a woman that a man would wish to wed? A good man? How would I find him, or know him when I had? When I was dead and gone, what would befall her? Years ago, Chade had asked me the same thing, and I had replied she was but a baby, and it was too soon to worry. Nine years had passed since then. Another nine and she would be eligible for marriage.

And I was a procrastinating idiot. I spoke quickly to fill my long silence. ‘I am sure that your sister and brothers would never allow you to live in want,’ I told her, and I was confident that I spoke truth to her.

‘That’s not the same as knowing there would be something that was mine,’ she said quietly.

I knew she was right. Before I could assure her that I would do my best to see that she was provided for, she spoke again. ‘This is what I saw. I saw sheep, and sheep dung, and straw. I saw lots of wool on the lower rungs of the fence, and lots of little spiders, red and black on the bottom sides of the rungs. I saw one ewe lying down, and she had rubbed all the wool and some of her skin off her rump. Another ewe was rubbing her hip on a fencepost and licking her lips while she did it.’ I was nodding, pleased at her observation. She gave me a glance, looked aside and added, ‘And I saw Lin looking at me and then looking away, as if I were something he’d rather not see.’

‘He was,’ I agreed. ‘But not in dislike. He’s sad for you. He liked you enough to think you should have a kitten or a puppy of your own. Look at how he is with his own dog, and you’ll see that isn’t something he’d suggest for a child he disliked.’

She made a sceptical noise in her throat.

‘When I was a boy,’ I told her calmly, ‘I hated being a bastard. I thought that whenever anyone looked at me, that was the first thought he had. So I made being a bastard the most important thing about me. And whenever I met anyone, the first thing I thought of was how he was thinking about meeting a bastard.’

We walked for a time in silence. I could tell she was already tired. I caught myself thinking that I’d have to build her endurance with regular challenges and then reminded myself that she was not a dog nor a horse, but my child.

‘Sometimes,’ I added carefully, ‘I decided that people didn’t like me before they had had a chance to decide for themselves. So I didn’t speak to them or make any effort to have them like me.’

‘Being a bastard is something that doesn’t show unless you make it show,’ she said. She gestured at herself. ‘I can’t hide this. Being small and looking younger than I am. Being pale where most folk are dark. Being able to talk as if I am older than I am is something I can hide. But you said I shouldn’t do that.’

‘No. Some of your differences you can’t hide. Little by little, you can let people see that you are a lot more intelligent than most children of your age. And that will make you less frightening to them.’

Again, that sound of disdain.

‘Were you scared of Daisy?’ I asked her.

‘Daisy?’

‘The herd dog. Did she scare you?’

‘No. Of course not! She does like to poke me with her nose. But Daisy’s nice.’

‘How do you know?’

A hesitation before she replied. ‘She wagged her tail. And she wasn’t afraid of me.’ A pause. ‘May I have a puppy?’

Not where I’d wanted the conversation to go, but again, it was inevitable. ‘It would be hard for me to let you have a dog just now.’ Not while my heart was so desperately lonely still. Not while I reached out, whether I would or not, to any creature that looked at me with sympathetic eyes. Even if I did not bond, the dog would be drawn to me, not her. No. ‘Perhaps in the future we can talk about it again. But what I wanted you to see … Are you tired? Shall I carry you?’

Her walk had slowed to a trudge, and her cheeks were bright red with effort and the chill wind’s kiss.

She straightened her spine. ‘I’m nearly ten. I’m too old to be carried,’ she said with great dignity.

‘Not by your father,’ I said, and swooped her up. She went stiff in my arms, as she always did, but I was relentless. I set her up high on my left shoulder and lengthened my stride. She perched there, speechless and stiff as a stick. I thought I perceived her problem. I took a breath and walled myself in tighter. It wasn’t easy. For a moment, I was as disoriented as if I had suddenly discarded my sense of smell or sight. When one has the Wit to use it is instinctive, and the Skill wells over and out of the untrained. But I was rewarded by her relaxing a trifle, and then exclaiming, ‘I can see so far! Can you see this far all the time? Well, I suppose you can! How wonderful it is!’

She was so pleased and excited that I hadn’t the heart to drag her back to my lecture. Another time would be soon enough, I promised myself. She had just lost her mother, and she and I were just discovering how to reach out to one another. Tomorrow I would talk with her again about how to put others at ease. For now, I would enjoy a moment when she seemed an ordinary child and I could simply be her father.