“It will give me something to do,” he insisted. “The pump is out front?”
Now that my belly was full, my eyelids were drooping and my limbs felt heavy. So I gave in. “It is. There shouldn’t be anyone else about at this hour. Will you not sleep?”
“I think it’s best if I don’t. I don’t need much anyway.”
I couldn’t argue. If Jack did come home, there might be trouble. I felt a hard pang of regret over the fact we wouldn’t share a bed on our wedding night—or, most likely,ever.
Reading me again, he came close and pressed his lips to my forehead. “Perhaps we’ll meet in your dreams,” he murmured.
I made fists to stop myself from reaching my arms around him.
Throat tightening, I said, “Good night, Harker.”
I climbed the ladder to the loft with a heavy heart. I undressed and crawled into bed, so weary I thought I’d be asleep in moments. But the sounds of Harker setting the kitchen to rights kept me from drifting off. Once the task was finished, I lay awake wondering what he was doing. What he was thinking. If he was lonely. How it was that longing for someone could cause an actual pain in your chest.
I flopped onto my side, sighing, and then I heard a sound I hadn’t in a very long time. Harker must have taken down Da’s fiddle. It hung on the wall next to the back door, as far away from the heat of the hearth as possible. The plucking noises of his tuning took me back to my childhood.
I recalled Harker’s broken fiddle, and the teacher he’d fallen in love with.The teacher he may have killed.It came to rest in my chest, cold like a stone.
Yet as the plucking stopped and Harker began to play, no cold feeling could hold. The melody washed over me like water in the bath. This music was like nothing we’d had at home. Da knew jigs and old ballads, and Mum had taught him sad Irish tunes. Remembering how her sweet voice had sometimes risen to the loft after Jack and I had gone to bed caused the tears to spill from my eyes.
I had no category to place Harker’s song in. It wasn’t joyful, or sweet, or even sadly romantic. The long, slow, somber notes seemed to contain every sorrow from the history of the world—including mine and his.
Yet somehow it brought me peace.
When the gray light woke me, all in the cottage was quiet but for the wind moving in the thatch overhead.
I got up and quickly dressed, braided and pinned my hair, then paused at the top of the ladder. All of yesterday felt like a dream. Would I find Jack below, instead of Harker, still asleep in our parents’ bed? Then my gaze fell on the russet gown, which I’d draped carefully over a chair.
It’s all real.
There was no sign that Jack had returned, but Harker was there—asleep, sitting on the floor propped up against the wall. Da’s fiddle lay across his lap. I stepped lightly, hoping to let him go on sleeping. But as I began to move around in the kitchen, lighting the stove and putting water on to boil, I heard him stirring.
An unexpected shyness came over me—as if we’d had our wedding night—but I smiled and called, “Good morning.”
He raised his hand, rubbing the back of his neck. “Good morning.”
“You should have moved to Jack’s bed. You can’t have passed a very comfortable night.” We had a couple of chairs and stools near the hearth, but nothing like what he was used to.
He set the fiddle carefully aside and got to his feet. “So much for keeping watch for Jack.”
I frowned. “No sign of him, then.”
“None, unfortunately. But try not to worry. He won’t be fool enough to go after Goosevar again. He’ll be somewhere close.”
Grasping at his hopefulness, I replied, “Yes, we’ll find him.”
He walked to the back door and hung the fiddle on its pegs.
“Your playing last night was beautiful,” I said, filling the teapot with hot water.
He met my gaze, a small smile on his lips. “You are kind. The instrument needs new strings, and I haven’t played in years. Was it your father’s?”
I nodded. “No one’s played it since he died.” We met at the table and sat down. “It’s nice to hear it in the house again.”
The porridge I’d made sat cooling on the table. I poured him a cup of tea, my heart thumping as I worked up to what I wished to ask him.
“Would it ...” His eyes came to my face, and my courage flagged. I spooned the porridge into bowls.
