Mouse was awake and waiting for her.

Wynflaed tried to open the door quietly and creep into the bedroom, but Mouse was awake and waiting for her.

“Wyn!” she whispered.

Wynflaed sighed. After her conversation with her mother, she had gone down to sit in the dark kitchen for a long while. She had wanted to think, not talk. But Mouse had been trying to get her alone and talk to her ever since she had come home that afternoon.

“What did our little mother say to you?” Mouse asked her.

“If she had wanted you to know, she would have said it to you, too.”

'If she had wanted you to know, she would have said it to you, too.'

“Did she tell you what Sigefrith told her?”

“No. And if she had, I would not tell you.”

“But what happened to him?” Mouse sat up on her bed.

Wynflaed brushed her hair in silence.

“Do you know what he was doing when we came home?” Mouse asked.

“No.”

“He was sitting on the floor next to our little mother’s chair, and he had his head leaning on her lap, and she was petting it just like a big shaggy dog. We saw it through the window. Wyn?”

'We saw it through the window. Wyn?'

“You shouldn’t have been looking through the window.”

“But it’s our own house!”

“I know, but…”

“And did you see his face?”

“Yes,” Wynflaed sighed. “I saw his face when he came.”

“What do you think happened? Do you suppose he got in a fight?”

“He probably hurt it fighting with swords.”

“But they don’t fight with swords on Sunday,” Mouse pointed out.

“Then I don’t know. Perhaps he only fell.”

'Then I don't know. Perhaps he only fell.'

Wynflaed did not think he fell. After the conversation she had had with her mother, she supposed she understood, though her mother had never mentioned Sigefrith by name. And yet it didn’t seem quite possible – she wasn’t certain she did understand.

“Did he say anything to you?” Mouse asked.

“I only saw him for a moment.”

“But why? Why didn’t you stay?” Mouse whined. “You always find an excuse to get away when he comes. I think you’re not very kind to him.”

'I think you're not very kind to him.'

“When he came, our little mother told me that I could go lie down and rest.”

“And so of course you did!”

“Of course I did!” Wynflaed snapped. “She meant that she wanted me to go away so she could talk to Sigefrith alone! Imagine if you had been there. ‘Oh, no! I shall just sit me down here and listen to everything you two say!’”

'I shall just sit me down here and listen to everything you two say!'

“Wyn!”

“And don’t tell me I’m not kind to him, either!”

“Ohhhhhh! Fine then.” Mouse dropped back onto her pillows.

Mouse dropped back onto her pillows.

Wynflaed pulled down the blankets of her own bed and sat. She was beginning to think it was true. She was not very kind to him. Perhaps that was what her little mother had been trying to tell her after all, in explaining the fragility of men to her.

She was not very kind to him.

But there had been so many of these bedtime conversations lately. It seemed as if her mother intended to impart to her a little more of her own wisdom each day. And yet Wynflaed could not interest herself in the care and keeping of men, nor of babies, children, households, or farms, nor in any of the other matters her mother had discussed on the other nights. All she could truly understand – the only thing she thought as she lay awake that night and strained to sleep – was that her mother was dying.

The only thing she thought as she lay awake that night and strained to sleep was that her mother was dying.