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that he had heard more in the priest’s utterances than was in fact spoken. It was many times the case that I misjudged my husband and dismissed his words when I should not have done.
    And so the months unfolded, and then the years. Edd expected that we would have more children, so that we could care for more sheep and prosper accordingly. Each new child meant an additional flock of twenty or more could be grazed on the moors, watched over by its young shepherd. Edd himself had little feeling for sheep, preferring to grow corn in the good upland ground and mill it into bread. The beasts we did own were mainly confined close to the buildings, foraging on the riverbank. Edd had taught two of the dogs to bring the sheep back if they wandered too far, which was a great fascination to me to watch. The dogs and I had a bond that I valued. Their great brown eyes would watch me, reading my thoughts, waiting to find a way to please. But I never attempted to teach them tricks, the way Edd had done. For me they were friends more than servants, warm bodies in the night and good signallers of some alarm or change.
    I could not openly admit to myself or my man how deathly afraid I was to give birth again, but he came to understand and accept the truth of it. It seemed certain that I would once again be crippled, and it was too much to require of me. Despite the miraculous events on the day of Cuthie’s baptism, I was not fully mended after all. I could stand straight, bend and turn, but walking over the moors for more than an hour together would bring an ache to the same place as before, and prevent me from sleeping that night. I treated myself with care, a cracked vessel which could stand no sudden knocks or bumps.
    It was a hardship for me to avoid the union which created new life, but I was adamant. If ever I was tempted, I only had to recall the agony I had suffered and I was easily suppressed. If Edd became urgent, as he would sometimes in the warm depths of the night, I found other ways of pleasuring him, which was itself a satisfaction. We remained friendly, as we’d always been, with the shared labour of the land and stock and children to bond us.
    Wynn and Cuthman grew robustly, taking their place in the family quickly and readily. My son was spoken of as Cuthie by everyone. Wynn seemed to admire him, with a mixture of big-sister patronage to ensure he never forgot his place. I came upon them one breezy day, in the lee of the hut, playing quietly together. It took me some time to understand what they were doing.
    Cuthie had my little straw house, long since forgotten, set down before him, and was poking a large stick through its doorway. ‘Come out!’ he was saying, in his deepest tones. ‘Come out, you faery!’
    Wynn was watching anxiously, her hands clasped tightly before her. ‘Oh, Cuthie, no,’ she pleaded. ‘Don’t hurt the faery.’
    At first I was amused at their childish fancy. But then I looked more closely at the house. It had been over two years since I made it, yet it was as perfect as it had been on that first day. Slowly, I crept closer to them, hoping not to disturb the game. Cuthie’s rough jabbing with the stick seemed certain to break the little house into pieces, yet it held together. I gave it my full scrutiny, coming ever closer. The beechmast was still around the roof edges, but the rowan berries had come away from the walls. Instead there was a different design, made of the red seed-covered spears of dock, which gave the walls a bristling appearance. Wynn must have done it, I supposed, and admired the fancy handiwork.
    As my shadow fell across him, Cuthie finally looked up at me. Defiance came into his eyes. ‘I not care,’ he said. ‘Faeries be sinful.’
    I nodded at him. ‘That’s so,’ I said, wondering where he had learned this piece of doctrine.
    â€˜No!’ cried Wynn. ‘Not sinful. The faeries are lovely. See how