Page 126 of The Frozen River

“Well, speaking of wild things”—I smooth out a wrinkle from my skirt—“Jonathan was supposed to put netting over the chicken run last week so Percy couldn’t get in. He hasn’t done it yet.”

“There are lots of things that Jonathan is supposed to do and doesn’t. And plenty that he does but shouldn’t.”

“Then you’d best deal with him as well when you get the chance. And eat the hen on your plate before your bird steals it too. I didn’t bring it for him.”

Ephraim tucks in to his dinner as I sort through the contents of his haversack and pack basket to make sure he has everything he needs for the trip to Boston. It all looks to be in order.

Once done with his dinner, Ephraim still has a hungry look in his eye, and, after putting his plate down, he eases me up against the wall. “What will you do without me?” he asks, sliding his hands around my waist.

“I have no lack of things to keep me busy.”

“Oh?”

“There’s much to do in my workroom. Syrups. Salves.”

Those hands drop lower, exploring the small of my back. My hips. My arse.

“Flax to spin. Cotton to comb,” I tell him.

Slowly, too slowly for my liking, in fact, Ephraim begins to ruck up my skirt. He kisses the side of my neck.

“Cooking… cleaning…”

“Sounds terribly boring.” His fingers brush against the soft skin of my thighs.

“If you have thoughts on a better way to keep me occupied, I would love to hear them,” I say.

“I think words are wasted at a time like this.” Ephraim lifts me up and sets me on the table, drawing my skirt up around my knees. “I’d rather show you.”

DAWIN’S WHARF SUNDAY, APRIL 18

“Is it twins?” May asks, lying on her back, in a soft white shift.

I run my fingers across the wide expanse of her swollen belly. She is six months pregnant but looks eight.

“I feel only the one head.” I press my fingers into May’s side, just above her hip bones. “Right here. And here”—I slide my palm to the other side and cup another small mound—“its backside.” Finally, I tap the base of May’s ribs. “And little feet, right here, which I’m sure you can feel.”

“Constantly.” She laughs. “But I’m so big. There must be two?”

“No. Your belly is big. The rest of you is quite little.”

May is small and narrow, and she carries every inch of her baby out front. I think this might suggest a boy—there is some truth to the old wives’ tales—but I don’t mention it aloud. I have long since learned not to raise a woman’s hopes. If they want one thing, they’ll almost certainly get the other.

“It’s just the way you carry,” I tell her. “Your ribs haven’t spread, so you’re going out straight instead of wide.”

“Is that bad? My ribs?”

“No.” I give her a reassuring smile and continue the examination, poking and prodding. “Does anything hurt?”

“Only my back. And only sometimes. Like when I walk. Or sit. Or stand.” Another laugh, this one helpless, as if to say, What can I do?

“Roll to your side.”

May heaves herself over with a grunt, and I work my fingers across the dip of her back. “Where?”

“Lower. Nearer my…”

“Ah.” I pat the top of her bottom, the way I might with a baby, and May giggles.