“Off out, Pitman?”
“Off out, my love.”
“On parish business?”
“No, chuck. The same business as yesterday.”
“Well, I pray the Lord brings you more success today.”
“And I that he hears both your prayers and mine.”
“Will you take Josiah?”
His son raised his head from his place before the cold fireplace, like a hound hearing of a morning’s chase. “I will not, sweetheart. I may have to meet with, uh, characters.”
“Then best not.” The boy lowered his head again and shivered. The hearth had been empty these few days, and spring yet cold. Bettina waddled forward, her stomach large before her, and dropped a thin shawl around her son’s shoulders. “Good hunting, Pitman,” she said, trying to smile at him, turning away quickly at the cry from the other room. Imogen, sick again, and no more money
