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sister’s shape, and whispered urgently. “Did she notice I was gone?” Their aunt also didn’t approve of “traipsing off,” her term for the myriad earnest excuses, some of them real, Jenn produced for having been outside in nice weather instead of inside. Inside being lectured. “Am I late for supper?”
    “Not to eat it,” came the tart reply.
    Jenn winced. She’d promised to help with the preparations, hadn’t she. Time flew in the meadow. “Sorry, Peggs.”
    A basket was thrust at her. “Run this to Uncle, Good Heart, and all’s forgiven.”
    Jenn slipped her arm through the handle and lifted one edge of the covering cloth. The aroma wafting upward with the steam made her mouth water. It wasn’t as if Peggs needed help anyway. Until the dishes. “I won’t be long.”
    “While you’re there, Jenn Nalynn,” her sister suggested dryly, “thank Uncle for filling the cistern.”
    “Oh.” Her chore, most definitely, to lug buckets from the fountain to fill the clever holding tank Zehr had built behind their kitchen. “I will.”
    Determined not to be at fault again, at least not today, Jenn crossed the road to the mill and took the short path to Uncle Horst’s, exchanging an absent smile and greeting with Riss as the two passed one another, Riss with her darning basket over one arm and a pair of plump, skinned squirrels in hand, doubtless courtesy of Uncle Horst’s arrows.
    Jenn didn’t slow to admire his small garden, though the pumpkins were nicely plump, with orange creeping over their round sides, and she could almost taste the pies and breads and soups. They’d lost last year’s. The twins had let the yearlings lead the way into the village and, with the single-minded cleverness of cattle, they’d headed for the nearest garden, trampling what they didn’t eat. She’d had words with Allin over that disaster.
    He’d still proposed at her birthday. As if she’d forgive him for the pumpkins. Besides, all he wanted was to be the next miller, which he wouldn’t, since everyone knew Tadd was the twin who could hear when a gear was failing, let alone—
    “Thought I heard a visitor.” Uncle Horst, who their father swore could hear a feather fall, appeared in his doorway, smiling. He was older than their father, the corners of his eyes and mouth creased in small soft lines, his gray hair starting to thin. His body was thin, too, which only went to prove Aunt Sybb’s assertion that you mustn’t judge someone by their looks since Horst could outwork any man in Marrowdell and only Davi the smith could lift a heavier weight. He’d been a soldier in Avyo; beyond that bald statement, he wouldn’t speak of the past, not even when a younger Jenn had coaxed, being curious how he’d lost the tips of two fingers on his left hand and what old wound made him limp in the damp chill of fall and become, as Peggs put it, cranky as a bear himself.
    “Greetings, Uncle. I brought supper.”
    “Most kind.” He took the basket from her and sniffed, closing his eyes in rapture for a moment. “You’re such a fine cook.”
    Jenn chuckled. “Peggs’ the fine cook,” she corrected as always, then grimaced. “I’m sorry I forgot the cistern, Uncle. Thank you for taking care of it.”
    “It was needful.” He raised an eyebrow. “Tomorrow’s laundry day.”
    So it was. Meaning he expected an explanation for her negligence. In many ways, Jenn thought glumly, her “uncle” was stricter than her father. “Aunt Sybb was talking about hems,” she began. “Hems and husbands. And the sun was shining so very brightly,” that was important to mention, since Uncle Horst preferred the outdoors, too. “And I thought asters might start to bloom on such a bright sunny day and they have and—”
    “And you, my dear, must respect both your aunt and your responsibilities.”
    Quashed, Jenn ducked her head and said in a small voice. “Yes, Uncle. I am very sorry.”
    “Actions. You must take more care to think