Soul of the Fire

He groped for something to say, but couldn't think of anything meaningful. He stood mute as she clucked her tongue, urging Brownie to back up. One hand held the trace chain as her other hand stroked the horse's chest, guiding, reassuring, as he clopped backward. What Fitch wouldn't give to have that hand touch him in such a gentle manner.

Her short red hair, so soft, so lustrous, so fetching the way its fullness tapered to turn in and caress the nape of her neck, ruffled in the warm spring breeze.

Fitch waited beside the cart, fearing to say something stupid and have Beata think him a fool. Even though he thought about her often, he figured thoughts about him probably never passed through her mind. That was one thing, but to have her think him a fool would be unbearable. He wished he knew some interesting bit of news, or something to make her have pleasant thoughts about him.

Expressionless, Beata gestured as she walked back to the cart where he stood. "What's wrong with your hand?"

The shape of her, so close, paralyzed him. The dusky blue dress swept up from the top of the flare of the long skirt, hugging her ribs, swelling over her bosom in a way that made him have to swallow to get his breath. Worn wooden buttons marched up the front. A pin with a simple spiral head held the collar closed at her throat.

It was an old dress; she was, after all, a Haken, like him, and not deserving of better. Edges of the blue fabric were frayed here and there, and it faded a little at the shoulders, but Beata made it look somehow majestic.

With an impatient sigh, she snatched up his hand to look for herself.

"It's nothing… it's a splinter," he stammered.

She turned his hand over, laying it palm up in her other as she pinched up the skin to inspect the splinter's depth. He was stunned by the unexpected warm touch of her hand holding his. He was horrified to see that his hands, from being in the hot soapy water cleaning pots and cauldrons, were cleaner than her hands. He feared she would think he did no work.

"I was washing pots," he explained. "Then I had to bring in oak. Lots of heavy oak. That's why I'm sweating."

Without a word, Beata pulled the pin from the top of her dress. The neckline fell open a few inches, revealing the hollow at the base of her neck. His jaw went slack at seeing so much of her, so much she ordinarily kept hidden. He wasn't worthy of her help, much less to look upon the flesh at her throat she meant to be kept hidden. He made himself look away.

Fitch yelped when he felt the sharp pin probe. Frowning in concentration, she- absently muttered an apology as she dug at the splinter. Trying not to contort his face with pain, he instead curled his toes against the dirt as he waited.

He felt a deep, sharp, painful tug. She briefly inspected the long, needle-like oak splinter she'd pulled out, and then tossed it aside. She closed her collar and secured it once again with the pin.

"There you go," she said, turning to the cart. "Thank you, Beata." She nodded. "That was very kind." He followed in her steps. "Uh, I'm to help you take in the load."

He dragged a huge hind section of beef to the end of the cart and ducked under to hoist it onto his shoulder. The weight nearly buckled his knees. When he managed to get it wheeled around, he saw Beata already going up the path with a fat net full of pullets in one hand, and a section of mutton ribs balanced on the other shoulder, so she didn't see his mighty effort.

Inside, Judith, the pantler, told him to get a list of everything the butcher had sent. He bowed and promised he would, but inwardly, he cringed.

When they returned to the cart, Beata ticked off the cargo for him, slapping a hand to each item as she called it out. She knew he couldn't read and so had to commit the list to memory. She took care to make each item clear. There was pork, mutton, ox, beaver, and beef, three crocks of marrow, eight fat skins of fresh blood, a half-barrel of pig stomachs for stuffing, two dozen geese, a basket of doves, and three nets of pullets, counting the one she had already taken in.

"I know I put…" Beata pulled over a net of the pullets, looking for something. "Here it is," she said. "I feared for a moment I didn't have them." She dragged it free. "And a sack of sparrows. The Minister of Culture always wants sparrows for his feasts."

Fitch could feel the heat of his face going red. Everyone knew sparrows, and sparrow eggs, were consumed to stimulate lust-although he couldn't fathom why; lust hardly seemed to him in need of any more stirring. When Beata looked up into his eyes to see if he'd added it to his mental list, he felt the overwhelming need to say something- anything-to change the subject.

"Beata, do you think we'll ever be absolved of our ancestral crimes, and be as pure of heart as the Ander people?"