Sleep eluded her that night. She ached all over and her stomach felt as if it had been invaded—the result of a hearty stew on slices of dense bread and downed with a mug of cider. In the soporific haze of the evening, the farmer’s yarns had spun ropy webs inside her head. While Elaaron and Lendel paid attention to the depredation of chicks due to white foxes and the fruit expected to rot again this summer, the farmer’s wife settled a sleepy infant into Irenya’s arms. Left to herself at the edge of the lamplight, Irenya gazed at the little boy’s face. The rosebud mouth nuzzled for a breast. She heard Lendel ask a question about the workers who came for the summer harvest, and heard the farmer reply, ‘Yea, we can survive. We wouldna die for lack o’ the food. But where is the money t’ buy wha
