I force down bile, my gaze lingering over the six pitiful heaps of fledgling skeletons, so impossibly fragile they draw tears into my eyes unbidden. Their mother is missing, the larger needles of her bones nowhere to be found. What happened to her, I wonder, leading her to abandon them? Was she killed elsewhere, or somehow injured and kept away from her brood, unable to fly back before they perished of hunger? Or did she simply choose not to return one day, bearing the gift of mother-love and worms?
Something about the nest, the macabre tenderness of it set against the breathless beauty of the day, crushes me with sadness and trepidation. As if today’s serenity disguises some dread peril beneath, a wolf’s snarl concealed behind a mild-faced sheep.
Dusting off my hands, I head back down the path. Five minutes later I’m behind the inn, Peter’s familiar shadow gliding over the leaded windows. Only the innkeeper’s family is wealthy enough in our village to afford the luxury of glass, and the fine, long slabs of stone that form the building’s facade; the rest of us make do with wattle and daub, and local shale that need not be hauled from a distant quarry. Ducking, I scoop a handful of pebbles and dart them at the glass, biting my lower lip to restrain my grin. The figure starts, then surges against the frame. Though the glass is so thick and milky that I cannot make out his face, I think I see the flash of his teeth right before he knocks back cheekily, flicking his fingers against the glass in a gesture that, knowing Peti, may very well be lewd.
I wait for him, swinging the basket around my wrist, until he emerges from the heavy back door with a basket of his own. Beyond the pleasure of his company, I can always count on my friend to feed me from the inn’s groaning larders.
“I thought I heard a little bee flitting against my windows,” he teases, flashing that broad grin again. My qualms settle incrementally; he wouldn’t smile at me just as easily as he always has if he were intending to propose so soon as my mother suspects. But before my guard drops entirely, I remind myself that affability is just his way. Peter smiles more than anyone else I’ve ever met. Perhaps courtesy of his easy life, I think, a touch unkindly. With an innkeeper and vintner for a father, he’s never known the taste of hunger, the particular torment of too little for too long.
“I thought maybe she could use a little honey,” he continues, “and butter. And bread.”
My knees nearly go weak at the thought of warm, crusty bread, generously slathered with salted butter. If Peti had his way, he would split all his rations with me, sneaking me food on the sly at every turn. But even his boundless generosity could not possibly be enough to feed an additional five mouths, and I could not live with being well-fed while my mother and siblings grew ever more hollow with hunger.
Still, I refuse to begrudge myself the occasional treat, and I’ll be bringing half home to Klara.
“I would say you spoil me,” I quip, dimpling back at him. “But we both know I deserve it.”
He rolls his eyes skyward, still grinning. “Ah, my honeybee, modest as she is industrious and fair. The clearing, then? Do you have time?”
“I do today. No one seems to be sick or dying, for a wonder, so I have a moment to catch my breath,” I say, though the feeble stab at humor curdles on my tongue as soon as it emerges. Do not court the reaper when an ill wind blows, they say. Another superstition that my mother would not grant the time of day. But I am not my sensible mother, and the notion of it expands in my mind, haunting, twisting out of sight like a trailing phantom spotted from the corner of the eye.
Peter’s gray eyes sharpen as he notices my turmoil. “What troubles you, Anna?” He searches my face, the exposed skin on my hands and forearms. Over the years, he’s seen the worst of the damage my father wreaks upon my flesh. “Has he . . . ?”
I shake my head. “No. Not this time, anyway. It’s something else.” I incline my head toward the path that wends away from the village proper, twisting into the silvery thicket of beech and birch on the outskirts. “Come. I’ll tell you once we’re there.”
We’re sitting by the trilling little brook that runs through our clearing by the time I feel ready to begin.
“Here,” Peter says before I can speak, unwrapping a fragrant langos and pressing it into my hands. “Eat first. You’ll be the actual size of a honeybee soon enough.”
Peter has called me “honeybee” since I can remember, in reference to my love of plants and how unable I am to keep still, my hands and mind ever busy with some task. I am a whirling dervish of activity in comparison to him, who runs slow and steady and dependable as tree sap.
“Believe me, it’s not from lack of appetite,” I respond tartly. My mouth fills with water at the aroma of the fried bread, cupping sour cream, garlic, and curled strips of crisped ham in its center. “Are you sure, though? You said just bread and honey. Your mother must have made these for lunch, they’re so rich, I wouldn’t want to—”
“Eat, Anna,” he says firmly. “We have plenty at home.”
“Even with the harvest as it has been?”
“Even with that. My father has begun selling his ale and plum brandy to Gor, Ikervar, and Szotony, with plans for beyond. We . . .” He hesitates, not wanting to seem like he’s rubbing their prosperity in my face. “We’re faring well. More than well enough to feed my best friend in the world.”
I nod reluctantly, trying to force down the envy creeping up my throat as I take a bite of the bread. It crackles as my teeth cut through the fried meat, then yields with satisfying give, so greasy and chewy that my eyelids slide involuntarily closed with pleasure. Klara will love it, I think, almost as much as the beloved savory dumplings she so rarely gets to sample. When I open my eyes again, Peter is watching me closely, brimming with satisfaction. He offers me a wineskin, and I tip it to my lips and drink deep, letting the rich red wash down the remains of the mouthful.
“Better now?” he asks, amusement coloring his voice. “It’s not nectar, but it’s the best I can do.”
“It’s wonderful,” I say ardently, taking another swallow. It is, tasting of hay and cherries, incomparably superior to the sour, watered-down pig swill we can afford. “You’ve been holding out on me. This is even better than the usual.”
He gives a bashful half shrug. “I tried my own hand at this batch. Apu thinks I have the knack for it—I’m glad you like it. No, no,” he demurs when I try to hand it back. “I brought this bag just for you.”
“More for me, then.” I shrug, tipping it to my lips again. “Tell me, how is Marika doing? Recovered from her tree fall?”
“Oh, she’s fine, the ridiculous imp,” he replies, his face brightening at the mention of his littlest sister. He dotes on both his sisters, loving them as I do Klara—as well he should, given how bright and darling they are. “Bossing all the rest of us about while her ankle heals. Apu has been carrying her all over creation on his shoulder; she actually pulls his hair to tell him which way to go, the little snot.” He shakes his head ruefully, eyes soft with indulgence. “I swear, that girl thinks she was born to be a queen. And who am I to say she wasn’t?”
He continues telling me of his sisters and mother, resting on his elbows as I devour half of the bread with unladylike speed—though I should like to meet the well-mannered lady whose belly growls like a slavering pack of wolves as mine does—and swig his fine wine. When I’m done, I wrap up the remainder for Klara and trail my hands in the icy brook to clean them. I wipe them on the grass before I lean back on my elbows, unaccustomed to the sensation of being so full-bellied and drowsy.