“A girl,” Garrick murmured reverently, gently cradling the newborn Lisbet had placed in his arms.

Cindra did not reply, did not even glance up at the baby. Lisbet didn’t like it. Of course Cindra was exhausted from the birth, but she was a strong girl and it had been nothing like this with Atholt. From the first moment she had been unable to take her eyes off the boy and had cried big, silent tears when they took him away to be washed. Now she lay back on the bed, apparently uninterested in the tiny baby lying quietly in her father’s arms. Lisbet didn’t like it at all.

“A girl,” he whispered again, hoisting the soft bundle up onto his shoulder with a father’s grin.

She glanced at Cindra again, her hands lying listless on her belly, her cheeks still flushed from the exertion of birthing. Something felt wrong. The whole thing just felt wrong. She knew Hepsie felt it too. The baby had slid silently from Cindra’s womb, never making a sound, not a single cry though they tickled her feet and poked at her to try and make her. Hepsie had finally declared her healthy, despite her odd silence and all the while the baby had stared up at them with a strange intensity in her wide, green eyes.

But Garrick seemed not to notice and was gazing down at the baby with a father’s adoration.

“Why, isn’t she the most beautiful thing you ever did see,” he exclaimed, holding the baby up so that he could peer at her, his big, bristly, red face close to her small, pink, wrinkly one.

“She looks just like her,” he sighed sadly.

The baby was staring up at her father with that same intense look, her green eyes barely blinking. Covering her head was a soft red fuzz, not unlike the stubble that grew untended on her father’s neck. Lisbet didn’t agree… the baby barely resembled Cindra at all, perhaps she had her mother’s chubby cheeks. But she was the very image of her father.

Lisbet awkwardly maneuvered her swollen body onto the bed, perching on the edge. She gave her friend a gentle pat on the leg.

“Are you alright honey?”

Cindra blinked as though coming out of a daze.

“Lisbet,” she whispered, her voiced wavering, “could you please have Atholt brought here.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to sleep now sweetpea? You must be exhausted.”

“No,” Cindra mumbled, her eyes beginning to fill with tears, her lower lip trembling, “I want Atholt.”

Lisbet glanced up at Garrick, but he seemed entirely unaware of his wife’s distress, cooing at the swaddled bundle in his arms.

“Igrayne dear, could you please go and get the Baroness’ son for her. Don’t mind if he’s asleep. Just bring him please.”

“Of course your ladyship,” Igrayne replied scurrying off to the adjoining nursery.

Cindra was scrambling towards the bedside, wincing in pain as she swung her legs over the edge.

“Are you certain that’s a good idea,” Lisbet said softly, looking to Hepsie for assistance.

“I’m fine,” Cindra muttered.

“Yew just take it easy now Yer Grace. Yew’ve just popped out a baby and it certainly isn’t being the easiest thing in the world to do,” Hepsie chided, “Yew can get up if yew want but just take it easy, alright love.”

Cindra didn’t seem to hear her as she launched herself from the side of the bed, propelling herself towards the door where Igrayne was standing cradling her curly-haired son.

Where Cindra’s face had been dull and lifeless before, now it was all sparkles and rosy-cheeked joy.

“Atholt!” she squealed, gathering the sleepy boy into her arms, “There’s my darling boy.”

Garrick did not even seem to have noticed the entrance of his son.

He was reverently kissing the top of his daughter’s head, his lips brushing against the red fuzz on the crown of her skull.

“So much like her,” he whispered again, clutching the infant tightly to him.

“Cindra love,” he called out to his wife, “can we name her Isabelle?”

“Arright Graney… yew can open yer eyes now!” Arran drawled, his arms clasped tightly around her.

Her feet dangled prettily in their soft slippers, the folds of her wedding dress falling neatly around her legs. She was a soft, white bird gliding through the air, her feet never touching the ground. She had never felt so beautiful or so loved.

She slowly opened her eyes, squeaking in surprise at the sight she beheld.

“What’s this then Arran?”

“Why, this is just our house then Goodwife Barran. Our very own house,” Arran replied with a small smile tugging playfully at the corners of his lips.

“Our very own,” she murmured staring at the fine eaves, the carefully plastered walls. To the side of them the sea lapped gently onto the beach, behind the house the mountains curving into the sky.

“It’s beautiful Arran,” she sighed, “just lovely. Thank you.”

“Well don’t be thankin’ me love. Yew think these two hands of mine can build all that. Yew should be thankin’ Noah an’ Steen. It was mostly them that done it,” Arran blushed modestly.

“Thank you,” she breathed, feeling Arran’s arms tighten around her floating body.

“Aw… it was being nothing Arran,” Steen mubled as Hepsie clutched his arm tightly, smiling softly.

“I didn’t help at all!” Maire cried, “but I would have if they’d been asking!”

“Well, maybe you can be helping me with the gardening Mairey. We can plant all the beautiful flowers from the forest,” she smiled, snuggling against her husband’s chest.

Her own house. Her very own house. It was more than she had imagined. Her very own house to live in with the man she loved. She was sure it was a dream and any moment she would crash from the bed as his arms released her, awake and alone, tangled in the blankets.

But she did not wake.

“Well now,” Noah said gruffly, “Perhaps we’d best be leaving these young’uns to get some rest.”

He winked at Igrayne, his bushy eyebrows framing twinkling eyes, “They must be awful tired after such a big day.”

Gena tittered beside him, her hand reaching for his.

“They won’t be sleeping!” Maire cried, jumping from foot to foot. Igrayne wondered if she hadn’t had a little too much mead.

“Oh Graney, let me have a kiss then. It won’t be the last I’d wager but it don’t matter.”

She leaped forward, planting a sloppy kiss on Igrayne’s cheek.

“Yew’d better tell me all about it in the morning!” she giggled, and Igrayne blushed feeling the warmth of Arran’s chest against her cheek.

“Goodnight dear friends,” Arran’s voice was deep and rumbling from Igrayne’s position huddled against his chest, “thankin’ yew again fer all yew’ve done fer us.”

Their muffled goodbyes faded into the distance as Arran carried her into their house and carefully set her down.

“So,” she giggled, “it’s just us now then.”

He did not reply, his gaze upon her, his green eyes burning with the intensity of copper fire.

She could not fail to remember that he had stood in a room like this before, with a bride like this before. She was new and fresh, like a tiny chick pecking her way resolutely from the egg while he was the shadow soaring high above, coasting on updrafts while she stretched her glistening wings.

His hands fell to her waist and he slowly spun her like a feather twisting on the breeze. His fingers were sure and steady as they went to the laces of her dress.

She wanted to protest, to say something but his fingers were nimble, pulling the laces one by one, as though he plucked the feathers from her body slowly exposing her goose pimpled flesh.

The laced material of her gown slowly slid to her feet, falling in a rumpled pile, white and soft like feathers in a nest.

She turned to him, searching his face for any sign of the Arran she knew, the timid, nervous man who would make her laugh until she wanted to cry. This was an Arran she had not seen before, an Arran of resolute intensity whose eyes glinted from beneath his dark hair, following her every move as though she were a mouse scuttling on the ground far below oblivious of the beak that would soon break her spine in two.

“Igrayne,” he groaned, closing the gap beside her, his arms wrapping around her half-naked body, his lips finding the crook of her neck.

She stood rigid, suddenly frightened as his lips tickled the soft skin that stretched taut over her collarbone.

“Arran,” she tittered as his fingerstips stroked her back.

“Mmmmh,” he murmured, his lips slowly moving their way down towards her breast.

“Arran, but you’re still wearing all your clothes,” she squeaked, “that’s hardly fair is it?”

He looked up at her, that strange look still claiming his features, “Why yer right of course. Now yew just sit yerself down and I’ll get to remedying that fact. No peeking now.”

She plonked down on the side of the bed, closing her eyes. But she couldn’t help it. She just had to peek. She watched him through slitted eyes as he struggled with one boot then the other, fumbled with his belt, whisked his tunic up over his chest and hastily pulled his leggings down.

At that point she shut her eyes, afraid of what might come next.

“Yew can open yer eyes now,” his voice was husky with desire.

She slowly did and was relieved to find he was still wearing his underclothes.

“That’s not undressed,” she smiled giddily up at him as he gazed down at her.

“I didn’t want to be frightening yew,” he murmured.

If she was frightened before now she was terrified. What the hell did he have under there?

He sat beside her on the bed, pulling her close against the hot skin of his body. His arm circled around her neck, fingers heavily weighing on her shoulder were they played with the strap of her bodice. With his other hand he reached up to stroke her face.

She shivered away from his hand, but his touch was persistant, her body pinned in place against his. His fingers slowly sought the humped mass of skin beneath her left eye, moving over the hummocky, pink mess. They caressed the lumpy ridge of her brow with its line of scars marching away from her nose.

She felt as though he had laid her plucked and naked on the table and was only deciding which piece was most succulent to carve.

“Arran, I’m scared,” she murmured, her cheek against the rough, curling hairs of his chest.

He flinched as though she had slapped him, “Of me!” he yelped like a kicked puppy.

“No, no! Of this! This whole thing. You’ve been doing it before but I’m as blind as poor Gena wandering in here,” she muttered, “You’ve done it all before… and what if I’m no good at it.”

Arran carefully pulled her trembling body onto his lap.

“Grane love, I’ve never been doing this with yew now have I?” he was smiling sheepishly at her, “so I’m just as new to it as yew an’ just as nervous I might be doing something yew don’t like.”

He pulled her close to him, and on his face was her Arran’s tentative smile though his eyes still followed her every move.

“Perhaps we can be nervous together yew and I. I know a little more than yew so at least we won’t have any nasty mishaps,“ she giggled as he grinned at her, “but yew an’ I… we’re new and there isn’t nothing to be afraid of because we’re going to help each other along alright?”

She nodded and with a burst of courage tentatively leaned forward to kiss him softly on his smiling lips. He responded gently pressing her to him, his arms around her body which was no longer trembling.

And when their kisses grew more fevered and passionate and he lay her back on the bed she felt as though she were stretching her new wings and soaring upwards into the sky. But she was not alone, for he was beside her, his feathers softly brushing against hers as they rode the warm updraft higher and higher.

Maire wished she were anywhere else. She would even have been happy scraping burnt porridge off the bottom of the big, black pot which was the thing she hated most in the world. Anything but sitting here, next to him.

It was all made infinitely worse by the fact that he kept looking at her. Every time she dared to glance in his direction she would catch him staring at her, his grey eyes furtively darting away as they met hers. It was really a bit much. It didn’t help that even when she stared straight ahead or focused on the inane conversation that she could still feel him. She had crept as far from him as possible so she was wedged cosily against Igrayne’s leg. But it didn’t matter, the man seemed to radiate some sort of heat so that even though they did not touch she could feel him. She could smell him too, a dizzying heady scent that was not masked by the steaming roast that was spread upon the table. It was the intoxicating scent of his skin, of his hair that she well remembered from the time she had pressed her face in shame to his muscular chest.

And now he was staring at her. She may as well have been the roast, spread askew on the table for all to see as Kelgar picked up the knife to carve off the first piece.

“Kelgar, do you think that meat smells quite right?” Illewen murmured beside him and Kelgar turned back to mutter softly in her ear.

Maire felt hot and flushed, a rising nausea in her belly that refused to be stilled. She gulped down a slosh of mead which burned her throat and churned in her stomach.

She did not even have to look at him to know that he was looking at her. All of the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end as though he had stroked a finger along the soft skin that resided there. She glanced quickly at him and sure enough, he was gazing at her again with a bewildered look on his face.

There was a dreadful wrenching in her gut like the knife twisting into the juicy roast and she suddenly felt like she might be sick all over her plate. The smells of the carved meat wafted on the breeze so thick and heavy she could almost taste the blood on her tongue.

“Mairey love,” Igrayne looked over, concerned, “are you alright my sweet.”

She leaned over and whispered, “Did you drink too much mead, it’s awful strong stuff?”

“No, no, I’m fine,” she murmured, swallowing her nausea and trying to smile.

Igrayne eyed Kelgar suspiciously.

Leaning back from the table she tapped him soundly on the shoulder.

“You’re not upsetting our little Maire now are you Kelgar. That would be awfully bad wedding guest behaviour. Or worse… are you a boring conversationalist?”

“I… I don’t think so. Well, that is I hope I’m not,” Kelgar stammered.

Good Lord, what was wrong with the man. Kelgar never stammered.

“Alright then. We’ll forgive you just this once, won’t we Maire,” Igrayne chuckled, “but don’t do it again.”

“Don’t… er what?” Kelgar asked confused, but Igrayne had already turned back to her husband.

Her husband, their husbands, Illewen’s husband. They all had a husband didn’t they. Not Maire. She was the only one at the table who didn’t have a husband.

And she was happy for her friend but right now she would rather have rinsed out beer mugs where the last inch of beer had started to grow fungus on the surface than have sat next to her and listened to Igrayne cooing into Arran’s ear.

“Yew bein’ alright there Maire?” Hepsie called over the table looking all happy with her happy husband and their happy marriage, “yew look a little under the weather. Perhaps some water next love.”

Hepsie was not so much older than her and yet she was happily married with a baby and another on the way. Why was everything so unfair?

Oh God, he was looking at her again. It was more than she could bear. His glance was searing the side of her face leaving a trail of flushed skin wherever it went. She knew it was spreading down over her neck and her breast and for a moment she wished she had not worn this bodice. Already she felt naked under his gaze. He had seen every inch of her before so why, oh why did he have to look at her now. What more was there to see?

“Kelgar, I don’t feel very well. Do you think there’s something wrong with the mead. It smells so sickly sweet.”

Kelgar turned to listen to his wife who was also darting furtive glances at Maire.

This was really getting ridiculous. Wasn’t there anyone else to look at, at this party? Like the bride for instance.

When Kelgar’s gaze fell on her again she decided it was enough.

“Was there something yew were wanting Kelgar?” she grumbled.

He looked at her his eyes wide with shock.

“No… I… no,” he swallowed hard, not looking her in the face now that her eyes were turned upon him.

“Well, yew just look real nice is all Maire. Real pretty. Yew should do yer hair more often like that. It suits yew,” his face was blank, no sly grin of the past Kelgar. No teasing and flirting. Was this even the same man?

“Thank you,” she mumbled, looking down at her hands.

“So Kelgar, are yew thinking’ it’s being a boy or a girl,” Illewen piped in.

“Oh, er… I don’t know. Can yew tell that sort of thing already?”

“I think it’s being a girl,” Illewen sighed contently rubbing her belly, “Matilda felt just the same so it must be.”

Maire felt claustrophobic, the overwhelming happiness flooding the air and the heat radiating from the man beside her making it difficult to breath. She tried to stretch out her arms carefully but accidentally bumped Kelgar with her elbow. He flinched as though she had burned him with her touch.

“Kelgar, I’m really not feelin’ that well. Perhaps there was something bein’ wrong with the mead,” Illewen nudged him, placing a tiny hand on the crook of his arm.

“Let me get yew some water then dear heart,” Kelgar muttered, reaching for the jug.

Maire turned away from them, focusing her attention on Igrayne who was smiling uncontrollably.

“Oh Mairey,” her friend sighed contentedly, “Isn‘t this just the happiest day?”

Arran thought he was going to die. Surely he would die right here right now. His heart was pounding against his ribcage, his mouth was dry and his palms sweaty. He was going to die, right here, right now in front of all this people. There really was no justice.

“Yew alright lad,” Steen chuckled, give him a hearty slap on the back, “Yer about the same colour as yer tunic.”

“I’m being fine,” Arran hissed, noticing the people in the front row beginning to stare, “yew just be keeping’ yer mouth shut alright. I didn’t ask yew to be a groomsman to have yew mouthin’ off the whole time. Just be keeping yer trap shut alright?”

Steen laughed heartily but at least he stopped teasing Arran. Arran stared fixedly ahead afraid to look from side to side. Everyone was looking at him.

There was a sniffle form the front row.

“Yew alright then Gena?” Engin muttered with a grin.

“Yes I… it’s just… well… I’m being so happy is all,” Gena replied her voice choked as she wiped away a tear.

“I think we are all Goodwife Ulcar,” the Baroness called over to her.

Arran was so happy. He was so happy he was probably going to die.

“Oh I love weddings Garrick,” Cindra cooed from the front, “It’s always so happy!”

So very happy. They wouldn’t be so happy when he died right here in front of them from lack of air or dehydration from sweating too much.

There was a hushed murmur from the crowd and they turned to crane their necks as the bride and the Duke came working up the centre. She was barely visible behind the flaming red hair of her bridesmaid which was hanging in soft curls around her face. For a moment Arran was struck by the fact that he had never even seen Maire with clean hair, let alone clean clothes. She looked fresh and almost… well almost pretty.

Suddenly she was upon him, wrapping her scrawny arms around him in a fierce hug.

“Why Arran Barran. I cannot be believing things turned out his way but yew know, I’m so glad they did.”

She clasped him to her again, “Yew better not be hurtin my ‘graney or I’ll be hurtin’ yew, yew hear me.”

“Yes,” he choked and she released him, trotting over to stand beside the priest.

And then there was nothing blocking his view as a beautiful, blonde girl with flowers in her hair slowly walked up the aisle towards him her arms clutching the Duke’s. He couldn’t help the fleeting memory of another beautiful, blonde girl who had swayed up the aisle her arm in her father’s on her face a bright smile.

Igrayne’s smile was more tentative and shy, her green eyes on his face as though searching for signs of confusion or discontent.

“Is this yours,” the Duke drawled, “because I found it on the way here and it looked lost. I thought she might need a home.”

Arran gulped and nodded.

“Are you sure you want him dear, he seems to have lost his capacity for speech,” Lochan murmured a smile twitching at the corners of his mouth.

“Yes,” Igrayne said softly, a shy smile spreading across her face.

“Well then, what are you waiting for,” the Duke quipped, gently pushing her towards Arran.

What was he waiting for, he reached out and grasped her warm hand in his. Her fingers were strong and sure, twining around his warm and comforting. His heart slowed to a normal rhythm. He sucked in a shuddering breath and felt better.

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today…” the priest began but Arran barely heard him.

Suddenly it didn’t matter that all these people were watching. Suddenly it didn’t matter that his priest had broken his vows to God in adultery with the Earl’s wife. None of it mattered. All that mattered was the small girl standing beside him who had so well and truly captured his heart even when he had thought it broken beyond repair. All that mattered was her warm hand clasped in his.

The priest droned on, Arran barely heard him. He had heard it before but somehow that didn’t matter either. It was as though this were the first time, fresh and new. He was starting again, his heart brand new, the scars faded and gone.

“Repeat after me Arran,” Harndall continued.

And he did all the while fixated on her glowing smiling face, “I, Arran Barran, take thee, Igrayne Woolforth, to be my wedded Wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, fer better fer worse, fer richer fer poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part, according to God’s holy ordinance; and thereto I plight thee my troth.”

She repeated the vows all the while her green eyes flitting over his face as though memorising every curve, every freckle, every flaw.

“Does someone have the rings?” the priest asked tentatively.

“I have them,” Noah’s voice was deep and reassuring. He placed a warm hand on Arran’s shoulder and handed him the rings.

Arran repeated after the priest, “With this Ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship, an’ with all my worldy goods I thee endow: In the name of the Father, and of the Son, an’ of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”

He carefully slid the ring up over her rounded fingers.

As she said the words he watched her mouth move, the way her tongue flicked out when she said thee, the way the scar that ran over her lips tugged at the soft corner. She was so divine, even the scars that marred her face. Somehow they made her more beautiful, like the tiny white star-shaped flowers that grew over the marshes, made more special by the rudeness of their surroundings.

She awkwardly giggled as the ring caught on his knuckle as she tried to push it up his finger. He noticed that her hands were trembling and gave them a quick squeeze as she managed to fit the ring on. It sat comfortably on his finger, somehow right where it should be.

”I now pronounce you, man and wife,” Harndall said with a slight smile.

The sun suddenly passed behind a cloud but it did not matter because his wife stood before him, radiantly beautiful, a glorious smile on her lips.

”You may now kiss the bride.”

”Well come on then,” Maire whooped, ”this is the bit we’ve all been waiting for.

He gently clasped his wife around the waist drawing her close to him.

”Igrayne,” he murmured.

”Yes,” she replied with a shy smile.

”I love you,” it was so simple to say all of a sudden and he wanted to say it again and again for as long as he lived, ”I love you.”

Before she could speak he drew her to him, pressing his lips softly against hers. She tasted sweet like honey, and fresh like rain. She was everything there was and the rest of the world fell away. There was no dry chuckling Noah, no clapping cheering Steen, no giggling Maire, no murmuring crowd. There was just Igrayne and her soft, warm mouth.

”Enough already,” Maire groaned, ”now it’s just getting boring!”

They broke apart, Igrayne giggling in his arms.

He looked down at her upturned nose, her wide, startled eyes.

”I love you.”

”I love you too,” she murmured softly, kissing him again.

“Up yew go young lad,” Arran cried as he hoisted Derrin into the air.

The small boy squealed in delight, pedalling his arms and legs as he went flying through the air.

Gena’s face was turned to them, concentrating intensely on every chuckle of glee her son made. She liked to sit like that, listening intently while he or Noah played with Derrin. Her lips would curve up in a soft smile at the sound of her son’s burbling laughter.

“Goodness me but yer getting to be a fat little beetle aren’t yew now Derry,” Derrin grinned up at him as swung the boy upwards again, “Soon yew’ll be as big as yer old dad.”

He tipped Derrin upside down, his blonde hair hanging down from his face like downy feathers. His brown eyes were like half-moons, huge with excitement, his newly tooth-filled mouth grinning in glee.

“Dada!” the door swung open bringing with it a gust of chill air and spiralling flakes, “Dada!”

“Noah,” Gena voice was a warm question, her head turning searchingly towards the door, her mouth curving into a tentative smile.

“Well goodness me, what do we have here. Why are yew upside down lad? Or is it me that’s upside down?” Noah gazed down at his feet theatrically, lifting one then the other.

“No! Dada,” Derrin shrieked as Arran tipped him back up the right way, “me! me!”

“Hello love, miss me?” Noah curled his arms protectively about Gena’s thickening waist.

“Yew weren’t gone that long,” Gena whispered with a small smile.

“What about yew in there, did yew miss me at least,” Noah bent down to lay a hand gently on Gena’s swollen belly.

Arran jigged Derrin up and down on his side, the small boy squirming in his arms, breathless with excitement.

Though it was a freezing night, the icicles creaking on the dead limbed trees, the occasional thump as a landslide of snow crashed off the roof, the small cottage was warm inside. The air was thick with the scent of hearty stew and pine logs, dry and crackling on the tiny fire. The room was filled with Derrin’s joyful laughter, Gena’s soft, lilting voice and Noah’s gentle tone.

It was the most perfect place of all, a true warmth and happiness Arran had never been privy to before. It was everything that he wanted. He could see the Arran of tomorrow, stomping in from the cold greeted by pattering feet, bright faces, swinging blonde plaits and shouts of “Papa’s home!” He would plant kisses on their warm sticky faces and she would be there, sitting the corner, perhaps a small child or two on her knee, perhaps a swollen belly before her. Her face would glance up, radiant and flushed from the heat of the fire and full of love. Love for him. Love for their small family.

“Woowooowowoo!”

“Sounds like Dog finally finished burying his bone“, Noah laughed, “Arran, can yew get the door then lad or is that lump of a boy too much fer yew.”

“I don’t know Noah, he is bein’ a fat little boy isn’t he,” Arran grinned and swung Derrin perilously by one arm towards the floor as he spun to open the door.

“Wooh!”

Dog burst in through the door in a shower of snow, shook his coat, hair flying this way and that as wet flecks of snow prickled on Arran’s arms and legs.

“Woof woof no no,” Derrin shrieked in dismay as wet snow landed on his face and arms.

“Wooh,” Dog replied, apparently satisfied that he had created as much mayhem as the occasion warranted.

It was probably as good a moment as any in the squashy, loud cottage, “Er, Noah. I was wondering if I could speak with yew fer a time?”

“Certainly lad, Gena, would yew mind taking Derry and starting his bedtime story. I’ll be in shortly to finish it.

Arran passed the suddenly exhausted child into his mother’s waiting arms.

“Bit too much excitement fer one day eh Derry?”

“Awwan,” Derrin mumbled sleepily and buried his face in his mother’s neck.

“Oh Derrin, yer bein’ that cold. Stupid Dog,” Gena chuckled.

“Aw he’s not all bad,” Arran bent down to wrestle with Dog, who was thoroughly wet and smelt like it.

“G’night Arran,” Gena whispered softly over the tired child’s head.

“Night Gena.”

They slowly processed into the back room and Noah and Arran were left alone except for Dog who was strolling lazily towards the fire.

“Pull up a chair lad, that’s right. Close to the fire. I need to get this chill out of me old bones.”

“Now, what was it yew wanted to…”

Noah was interrupted by a loud, long, pink-mouthed yawn as Dog languorously stretched, his bristly hair emitting an earthy, mouldy sack smell of wet dog.

“Good grief, are yew quite alright there Dog?” Noah paused to look down at Dog who turned around three times and curled himself up beside the fire.

“Right now lad, what was it yew wanted to ask of me?”

“Well… er… yew see. We was havin’ that conversation not too long ago. That is…”

He paused searching for the right words.

“Go on lad, yer alright,” Noah’s warm voice was encouraging.

“Well, yew see, yew were offerin’ to help me build a house. And I was wondering… that is… if perraps the offer was still standing.”

“Oh, well this is a change of mind. Can I perraps be askin’ what brought this about then,” Noah’s soft, brown eyes were wide and a little too innocent.

“Well, yew see it’s this, Igrayne’s agreed to marry me. An’ we’re going to be needing a little house of our own soon enough. So I was wondering if I could still be takin yew up on yer very kind offer.”

There he had said it. He could see it now, Igrayne, a warm little room, multitudes of tiny, blonde children and perhaps a stupid, old dog or two.

Gena had sent her down to the beach. A blanket of stark white covered the yellowed crystals of sand, the canvas of the beach with its ripple marks and crab holes painted over with a thick, dripping, white brush. She could feel the ice crunching beneath her timid feet, thousands of icy crystals welding together with the pressure of footsteps and beneath them the grinding sand.

He was here, staring out at the drifting ice floes as they migrated slowly in the churning current. Near to the shore they had stuck fast to the beach, great chunks of ice filled with silvery bubbles, frozen in place as they swirled and danced. She knew him by his stance, the worried slump of his shoulders, the curve of his spine, his unruly hair with small, white flakes of snow tangled up in it.

She took a deep breath and walked to stand beside him, the snow squeaking softly beneath her booted feet.

“Hello Arran,” she murmured, her heart in her mouth.

“Igrayne,” he nodded, crossing his arms over his chest as though he were forming a protective barrier for his own hurting heart.

She turned to him and he followed suit, uncrossing his arms and laying them stiffly beside his body. He stood, straight as a board now, his chest slightly puffed out as though accepting his fate and readying himself for the wounding blow.

“Arran, there’s something I need to be saying to you. I… I wanted to apologise for the things I said to you that day at the church.”

Arran stared at her, his swampy eyes narrowed.

“I was cruel and I hurt you. And I’m that sorry for it.”

She meant to continue but Arran interjected, “No, I won’t be listening to yew anymore. I thought yew were being different but yer just the same as always. Only want to laugh at me and hurt me. Well I won’t stand fer it Igrayne I simply won’t.”

She had never seen him so angry. All the times she had teased him or been cruel, all the times she had whispered and laughed he had only bowed his head and taken it as wave after wave of poison flowed from her stupid mouth. What had she expected? He had offered her his heart and she had stomped on it with her tiny, booted foot. For all she knew she had shattered it on that icy afternoon.

“Arran,” she squeaked, her heart creaking inside her chest, like the ice floes trying to break free from the rocks.

“No, don’t yew even try it. I won’t be fooled by yew again. I won’t,” his mouth was set in a hard line, his stiff arms on his hips as he stared at her defiantly.

“I know what yew mean to be doing. Yer trying to win back my trust so yew can just go and do it again. I know yer type and I’m done with yew. Yew hear me. I’m done. We’re not friends anymore. We’re nothing. So yew go an’ laugh with yer little red-haired friend about that if yew want but that’s the last yew hear me.”

Her heart cracked and broke loose, floating alone out into the frigid ocean where it would finally melt into nothingness. It was so empty and cold out there, fathoms of deep water beneath and her spluttering, waterlogged heart drowning while silver fish nibbled at its meaty mass.

“Oh Arran, I’m so sorry,” she cried miserably and the tears came pouring out.

They splashed hot and salty over her freezing cheeks, stinging as they evaporated in the chill air. She covered her face in shame but she could not stop them, slipping, dripping, sliding down her face one after another, leaving tiny sizzling holes in the snow at her feet.

She had ruined everything. She had laughed at him one too many times and now he would never, never forgive her. What right had she to even ask it?

“Igrayne?” she heard his confused voice between her racking sobs.

“Is this part of the joke?” he asked, but he sounded dubious.

She wept all the harder, her entire body shaking uncontrollably. She was entirely miserable, humiliated and all she wanted to do was run but she was so caught up in sobbing that she couldn’t do anything but cry until her eyes hurt.

“Igrayne?”

She heard the squeak of his shoes on the snow as he tiptoed beside her.

“What’s all this about then? Has something happened?”

Oh he didn’t understand at all.

“I… oh…,” she gulped and hiccuped between sobs, “There was Illewen… and the… baby. Thought… they needed… a husband.”

She swallowed, tears running thickly down her throat, dripping over her soggy heart, “I wanted you. But… she needed you. And so…”

“And now… Kelgar asked her to marry him. I thought…”

“Yew thought I might forgive yew fer bein’ cruel,” Arran said softly and she felt his warm arms wrapping around her trembling body, pulling her close against him.

“I did it for them Arran. Lord knows I… I didn’t want to. Oh… I’m so unhappy.”

“You poor little’ mite. Here I was bein’ that mean to yew an’ yew were just tryin’ to do the right thing,” she felt his chuckle, warm against her arm, “ didn’t yew think maybe I should get some say in the matter?”

“I’m so sorry Arran,” she shivered.

“Come on now Igrayne, yew know I can’t stay mad at yew. Now stop this cryin’ let me see yew.”

“No, you can’t! I must look simply dreadful.”

He pried her hands gently away from her tear-streaked face and tilted it up towards him with a careful hand.

“Well, yer nose is a bit red,” he laughed, his smile warm as he gazed at her “but yer still beautiful.”

And then he kissed her and it was the dearest, sweetest moment of her life.

The air was filled with grunts, squeals and the occasional oath as Arran drove the oinking crowd towards the barn. He was doing well though, all the pigs where heading in the same direction at least, galloping along on muddy trotters, pink legs flying and curly tails waggling.

“That’s it lad, keep ‘em steady, yew got it,” he called out to the panic faced boy.

“Bloody ‘ell, oh pardon, that saddlebacked ones headin’ off in the wrong direction,” Arran cried, eyes wide, his body turning this way and that unsure whether to keep with the herd or follow after the errant pig.

“It’s bein’ alright lad, calm now. Yew just go an’ grab that un’ an I’ll take care of the rest of these,” he called.

The boy went pelting after the pig that was squealing in terror and galloping towards the limited cover of the trees, stripped bare by winter and waving weakly in the chill breeze.

“Now yew come ‘ere yew, yew bloody stupid hog yew,” Arran shouted, darting around the terrified pig his scrawny limbs going every which way, his scruffy hair flapping crazily in the wind.

On second thought perhaps the pig would win this battle. No wait, he had it, squirming and screaming in his arms, trotters kicking out but Arran would not relinquish his grip. He lugged the writhing animal over, giving it a gentle nudge on the rump and sending it careening over to the rest of the group.

“There now, what did I tell yew,” Noah congratulated him, “good job lad, now can yew be getting’ that door.”

If there was ever a person that needed to be told he was appreciated it was Arran. Noah supposed it came from the build up of so many small unkindnesses that had been done against the boy. If there was ever a person who did not deserve it, it was warm, honest, friendly Arran. It only reaffirmed Noah’s opinion of people. In general, they would treat you bad if they had the chance. He had been lucky, never providing much of a target. But those that he cared about the most had been easy pickings.

“Good lad, but yer goin’ to have to be moving if yew want them pigs to get past yew.”

“Oh, sorry. Sorry Noah,” Arran cried, leaping away from the doorframe where he had been standing.

So quick to apologise. A lifetime of being blamed. Poor lad.

“Noah, that there pig’s lookin’ at me like he’s fit to run off again, don’t yew dare yew, yew pink wretch.”

The pig gave a loud oink and then turned on its trotters, bolting for the bushes again.

“Bloody, ‘ell, yew come back here yew ruddy piece of pork!”

“Yew get him lad, I’ll get these others inside,” Noah said as Arran scuttled after the crazily galloping pig.

Noah carefully led the other pigs, which were on the whole very well-behaved, into the barn and their new pen. Arran staggered in through the door, grunting with exertion as he wrestled with the squirming pig in his arms.

“There yew big, pink bastard into the pen with yew,” he cried, triumphantly lowering the pig unceremoniously into the pen with the others.

“Well that’s it then now,” Noah latched the pen door, with a satisfied smile.

It was a big relief to him that the weather had been good enough for them to raise this structure. Fair enough, it was not a proper barn by any means, more than anything it was a shelter from the wind. But it was the best they could do in the short time since they had been released from their duties at the castle and he was pleased with the result. His family and Arran who felt like part of it, his farmhands and their families. They would not go hungry this winter.

He gave Arran a hearty clap on the back by way of thanks and they stepped out into the grey, cloud-filtered light.

“Hallo luv,” Gena was carefully coming down the front steps with Derrin in her arms.

“Yew two shouldn’t be out here without coats. It may be looking a bit warmer but there’s a bite to the wind to be sure.”

“Oh, we’re only steppin’ out fer a moment. We thought that perhaps yew lads would be interested in some tucker didn’t we Derrin luv?”

She peered fretfully at her son, as though if she squinted hard enough she might be able to finally read his expression. He didn’t like to see it when she did this, so often did he need to reassure her of Derrin’s love for his mama.

The dreadful thing was that, had she been able to see his bright, little face for only a moment she would have seen the love and trust that shone there whenever he gazed up at her. Derrin loved his Pa and he loved his uncle Arran, he even loved Dog, but there was noone who he looked at like that but his mama.

”We’ll just be finishing up here luv an’ then we’ll join yew an’ this little piggie here inside.”

He heard Arran groan behind him, ”no more pigs thanks.”

“Oh dear, didn’t I mention to yew, we’re havin’ that salted pork fer dinner tonight in a nice stew.”

“Oh, well that’s bein’ alright. If we’re eatin’ the blighters I mean,” Arran replied with a nervous laugh.

“Yew two just head on inside, we’ll be just a moment.”

They bustled up the stairs, through the door, Derrin happily chattering while his Mama listened, her faced screwed up intently as though there were something more to hear.

“Now lad, I’ve been thinking. Truth be told, it’s a big help yew’ve been to me this year. I couldn’t have got the farm up an’ running without yew.”

“Oh, really, I think I was bein’ more trouble than help, takin’ the best spot in front of the fire an’ all,” Arran replied instantly, the lad always believed that his actions were worth naught. Noah supposed it was because he had been told it so very often.

“Well now, that was no trouble really, good to have someone to keep the fire stoked efter all. But I was thinking’ perhaps yew deserved a bit of something’ extra.”

“Extra?” Arran replied, his eyes wide and startled, “oh no Noah, I couldn’t be takin’ anything extra from yew. Yew’ve kept me fed an’ watered an’ given me a roof over me head an’ it’s more than I could have asked fer.”

“Now, now, listen lad, I can’t be given yew any money as we’ve scarce any ourselves. What I can offer yew is help building’ yer own little house,” Noah had been planning how to say this all morning, ordering his thoughts as he went about neatly stacking sacks of grain and bales of hay in the flimsy barn.

“Yew, see,” he began slowly, ”It’s probably none of my business, but I thought perhaps yew might be needin’ a place of yew own. In case yew had… plans.”

Arran looked confused for a moment and Noah feared he would have to explain more thoroughly than that, but to his profound relief comprehension suddenly dawned on the boy’s face. Noah was not the sort of man to handle the affairs of the heart, he was used to dealing in more solid matter, planks of wood, strong iron nails, blocks of stone. He would only mash and warp something as delicate as that.

Arran’s face grew sad, his gaze not meeting Noah’s, “No, I… I had no plans.”

Noah was actually quite shocked. Gena had been certain. He had even been a little certain when he let himself be. Arran had spoken so fondly of the girl. And she had seemed to have a certain fondness in return. What a pity.

“So I don’t really need a place of me own,” he suddenly looked horrified, “unless yer wantin’ me out of yours… oh of course. I’m sorry, so stupid of me.”

“Now slow down lad,” Noah chided before Arran got himself more worked up, “that was no what I meant at all. Gena an’ I, an’ little Derrin as well sure do appreciate yer company. I just thought yew might want it. But of course yew can stay. I was thinking’ that when spring comes an’ we build this barn the proper way we can make a space above fer yew to live in. That way there’ll be a bit more space fer us all but we can stay together.”

Arran nodded gratefully. Poor lad.

There it stood before her. It was only a slab of rock, carved out neatly by the stone mason’s hand.  There was a dove, the feathers of its wings etched out with endless patience, a tiny olive branch nestled between the sharp angles of its beak. It was upside down as though captured in the middle of diving, soaring down on whispering wings to deliver the most important symbol of all.

Beneath her feet lay a body.

A body. She could still feel the icy rasp of the woman’s tongue licking at the blood flowing freely from her wounds. The vice-like fingers as they snapped her bones as easily as twigs.

Rest in peace it read. Beloved of Christ it read. Sister Mella, faithful to the Lord till the end lay beneath her feet.

They told her it had not been Sister Mella that had shredded her face. They told her it was some creature inhabiting the emptied husk of the fragile nun. This was what they told her, but in her nightmares it was the mute nun with her sad, wide eyes who clawed at her face and beat her till she bled.

She had been brought up a good girl, the bible, the cane, the rows of orphans on their knees praying for forgiveness for their sins. But never had there been mention of monsters that stole in, in the night, ripping your soul bodily from its corpse so they had a mask of flesh to wear and walk around in.

They had not told her much, Father Harndall with his sorrowful, bowed head and trembling hands, the Duke with eyes that grew more and more haunted every day and could no longer even meet hers. She did not understand all the things they said but what she had understood had crept inside her head like rancid water trickling between the cracks, pooling in the hollows.

She was afraid. Afraid of what she didn’t understand. Afraid of what she did. The world was not the place she had believed it to be.

The tears came before she realised it, sinking to her knees in the moist, loose soil of Mella’s grave.

The rain came too but she barely noticed it. The pervading smell of the freshly dug grave was all around, clinging to her skin, filling her nostrils she was soaked in it like the chill rain that dribbled under her sodden cloak. The small patches of snow began to melt till everything was mud and dirt and death and she was drenched in it.

She felt him before saw him, perhaps the tiny vibration as his clumsy feet hit the ground, perhaps it was merely the comforting presence that seemed to warm her despite her water-logged clothing and the rain that was streaming down her face with the tears.

He did not say anything, merely crouched down beside her. She imagined the filth of the dank soil clinging to his knees as he crumpled into a sitting position beside her. She supposed he had come for the same reason she had. There had been no ceremony, only a few quiet prayers recited reverently by the Father and the shovels slicing into the dirt and the simple wooden box lowered into the gaping hole. It had been Harndall’s request for the carving and the stonemason, a quietly pious man had obliged. She supposed they had all felt some kind of guilt for the fate of the fragile sister in the end.

She had not been there, unable to bring herself to go anywhere near the body, even if it was just that, an empty body. She supposed Arran had felt the same.

He sat silently beside her for long moments. Igrayne followed his gaze to the carvings of the tombstone. The dove, its beady eye glaring out at her. She closed her eyes but it was still there, its dreadful flapping wings creaking in the rain and in its bloodstained beak a limply dangling finger.

Arran leaned towards her, one lank leg brushing against her knee. She could feel his warmth all the way through her sodden cloak where it scorched the chilled skin. She felt lightheaded and nauseous.

She looked down at his leg, with its intruding heat and saw the trembling hand hovering between them. In a moment it would be touching hers. It was exactly what she wanted, exactly what she needed but it could not be.

She tried to leap to her feet, her legs tangling awkwardly in her waterlogged gown. Arran sprung to her assitance, his coltish legs folding beneath him. He grabbed her upper arm, his fingers hotly imprinting the soft flesh there as he helped her to her feet.

Growing dizzy, his whole hand clasped around her arm she imagined her cloak drying beneath the heat of his touch. She began to shiver uncontrollably as his hand slid inexorably down her forearm to the opening of her sleeve where her fingers where curled inwards like the legs of a long dead spider.

Then he was prying them open gently, his strong fingers working their way between hers like a careful locksmith picking open a lock that had long since rusted shut.

Her heart was fluttering nervously in her chest. She tried to extract her hand from his tender grasp but he would not release it. Instead he gently took up her other hand so she was doubly his prisoner. She knew it was wrong but she had not felt so comforted and safe for such a long time.

In her mind those hands were softly rubbing the skin of her back as she lay wrapped in his embrace, her face pressed against the dark, curling hair of his chest. His lips were soft on her forehead as she finally slept, safe at last from the fear that plagued her when darkness fell.

He stared at her and she knew these uncontrolled emotions must be rampaging across her face to be caught one by one in the net of scars.

“Igrayne,” he stuttered awkwardly.

Then he suddenly leaned in and kissed her. His face was wet with the rain, his soggy hair brushing against her face. His hand was trembling uncontrollably as he gently cupped her chin, his other hand resting light on her hip.

It was the sweetest, dearest moment of Igrayne’s life and her heart throbbed painfully as she pushed him away. She steeled herself for what she was about to do, shut her heart away like she had done so many times when the thoughts of the mother who had died giving birth to her, the father she had never known crowded her head too much.

“What are you doing Arran?” she cried, backing away from him.

He stared at her, startled as though she had just kicked him in the face with her small pointed boot.

“I… I don’t know. I’m sorry,” he began to stutter nervously, his face growing bright red and scrunching up in dismay, “I thought… I’m sorry, I just thought.”

He swallowed, “I thought, well, that you might care for me.”

She burst out laughing, laughter that to her ears sounded cruel and harsh. She knew it was the right thing but she felt as though she were extracting her heart, slowly and agonisingly up through her throat. It was a giant, choking lump that she had to laugh around. She smiled callously, though she held it meaty and softly beating between her teeth.

“You silly goose. As if I thought of you in that way. What a fine joke that is. Wait until I tell Maire.”

She turned and walked away unable to bear the hurt and betrayal in his eyes. The ground squelched wetly beneath her feet as they thumped down in time with her pounding heart. She did not have to wonder if she had been believable. She had teased and tormented Arran Barran enough times to know that he had accepted every word from her mouth as the truth. She felt sick, bile rising in her throat as she stomped on.

It was only when she was further down the road, the church well behind her that she let the tears come sobbing up. It had been the right thing to do and she had done it the only way she knew how, with surgical precision she had excised him from her life. There was a women with a sad, soft face who desperately needed a husband, a tiny, fragile baby who needed a father and a man who deserved far, far better than her.

The coals smouldered hotly in the stove casting a warm glow over the sleeping figure. The blankets lay in a tangled knot, wound partially around his foot where they had been kicked. Now his body shivered as the sweat that plastered his unruly hair to his feverish, flushed face dried on his clammy skin. His limbs were thrown out at awkward angles so that he lay like puppet with the strings removed.

He whimpered in his sleep, his boyish face contorting into a grimace of pain, the firelight illuminating the momentary flicker of grief. His mouth was open wide, his breath coming in pants, chest rising and falling unevenly.

The door swung open, bringing with it a gust of chill air that made the dying coals seethe with hot red light. A slow-moving figure shuffled across the wooden floor, tattered shoes scuffing the floor. When she reached the pitiful figure sprawled on the mat it paused for a moment.

Then bending down she reached a scrawny, pallid arm towards him. Her fingers were stretched wide, hanging in the air above his body as though suspended by strings.

Suddenly she plunged forward with a wounded cry, as though the invisible ties suspending her had been cut.

She pressed her pale face against the warmth of his chest, feeling it rising and falling beneath her frigid cheek. His heart thumped rapidly, the sound echoing in her ears.

“Nell”, beneath her Arran squirmed in his sleep, his hands desperately clutching at her.

He wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her close with a relieved sigh. He had not forgotten her. Though it had been almost a year since her death he still muttered her name in his sleep. Her dead heart gave a final beat at the thought, imagining him stumbling his way through the grief-stricken days and shivering alone through the nights.

She put her mouth to his hot, pink ear.

“Forget me my love”, she breathed, “Find happiness once more”.

He mumbled something in his sleep, drawing her closer, stroking her arm with his warm hands.

“You will see me again one day”

And she would see him again, one day when he was old and grey. But that would be many years from now and she did not wish on him such pain as this. She would see him again on the other side. But for now they had until midnight. She would not come again.

“Good evening folks”, Kelgar crooned strolling around the corner.

“Christ I wish yew would quit with the corny sometimes Kelgar”, Osras muttered under his breath, striding up to stand next to his brother.

“Just part of my all round charisma and overwhelming charm, oh brother of mine”, Kelgar grinned wolfishly at him in the darkness.

“Hello boys”, Polina called from the table where she was helping clear the remaining plates, “are yew here to accompany us home?”

“We most certainly are”, Kelgar replied rubbing his hands together briskly, “that’s the sort of decent fellows we happen to be“.

Kelgar heard Osras groan in the darkness beside him and could picture exactly how his eyes would be rolling in accompaniment.

Undeterred he continued on, “Good-natured fellows that we are we thought to provide yew with an escort, despite the fact that we were so rudely not included in the festivities”.

“Oh don’t yew be saying that in front of poor Gena, she’ll be that embarrassed. Good thing she’s with little Derrin an’ didn’t hear yew”, Pol chided him as she always had done.

“Hello Pol”, Osras called to his wife and Kelgar could imagine his happy grin in the darkness.

His brother strode over to her, embracing Polina tightly, his hands finding her belly for a gentle pat and then moving to her hair. Kelgar felt a surge of jealousy as he watched his brother’s fingers running through her thick brown mane while he leaned forward to kiss her softly on the lips. It should have been his hands, his mouth, his wife. He hastily pushed the feelings aside realising how childish they were.

“Illewen!” he suddenly realised she was off to one side, hiding beneath the cover of darkness.

He stumbled over to her, “Um… how are yew?”

She didn’t reply, her face lost to him as the moon passed behind a cloud. He could make out the gleam of the whites of her eyes, wide and frightened like a deer frozen in place as the wolf stalked surely through the forest.

“Is this yer baby then?” he bent down pinching one tiny toe between his fingers and squeaked, “hello there little baby, having a nice night?”

“No”, she murmured, her wide eyes never leaving his face, “it’s Hepsie’s little boy Thaell. My baby Matilda is a girl”.

“Oh… right… silly me”, he chuckled trying to find the right thing to say, “ah… I guess they all look a bit the same when they’re little’uns don’t they. Oh, but that’s not to say that yer little girl looks like a boy, she’s very pretty. Oh… and I’m not trying to say that Hepsie’s boy is looking girlish. Well, he’s certainly a fine little lad isn’t he… yes…”

In the pen behind Illewen one of the pigs let out a loud oink, which was followed by a chorus of squealing ringing out through the night. Kelgar supposed the sow had rolled over and the piglets weren’t pleased.

Illewen said nothing, turning her face away awkwardly. Kelgar struggled to find something to say to make the moment less excruciating, anything to ease his and her embarrassment but he was lost for words. He looked to the pigs for inspiration.

“Nice pigs they got here eh?”

Arran interrupted before the conversation could get any worse. Kelgar could have hugged the man. Then he heard what he was asking.

“Has anyone seen Igrayne?”