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knew I did not want more brandy. But someone else thought that I did. Someone else urged me to pick up the cup, just to hold it. I swirled it in the cup. Verity used to swirl his wine in the cup and look into it. I looked into the dark cup.
    Fitz.
    I set the cup down. I got up and walked around the room. I wanted to go out, but Burrich never let me go out alone, and not at all at night. So I walked around the room until I came back to my chair. I sat down in it again. The cup of brandy was still there. After a time I picked it up, just to make the feeling of wanting to pick it up go away. But once I held it in my hand, he changed it. He made me think about drinking it. How warm it felt in my belly. Just drink it quick, and the taste wouldn’t last long, just the warm, good feeling in my belly.
    I knew what he was doing. I was beginning to get angry.
    Just another small sip then.
Soothingly. Whispery.
Just to help you relax, Fitz. The fire is so warm, you’ve had food. Burrich will protect you. Chade is right there. You needn’t be on guard so much. Just another sip. One more sip.
    No.
    A tiny sip, then, just getting your mouth wet.
    I took another sip to make him stop making me want to. But he didn’t stop, so I took another. I took a mouthful and swallowed it. It was getting harder and harder to resist. He was wearing me down. And Burrich kept putting more in my cup.
    Fitz. Say, “Verity’s alive.” That’s all. Say just that.
    No.
    Doesn’t the brandy feel nice in your belly? So warm. Take a little more.
    “I know what you’re trying to do. You’re trying to get me drunk. So I can’t keep you out. I won’t let you.” My face was wet.
    Burrich and Chade were both looking at me. “He was never a crying drunk before,” Burrich observed. “At least, not around me.” They seemed to find that interesting.
    Say it. Say, “Verity’s alive.” Then I’ll let you go. I promise. Just say it. Just once. Even as a whisper. Say it. Say it.
    I looked down at the table. Very softly, I said, “Verity’s alive.”
    “Oh?” said Burrich. He was too casual. He leaned too quickly to tip more brandy into my cup. The bottle was empty. He gave to me from his own cup.
    Suddenly I wanted it. I wanted it for myself. I picked it up and drank it all off. Then I stood up. “Verity’s alive,” I said. “He’s cold, but he’s alive. And that’s all I have to say.” I went to the door and worked the latch and went out into the night. They didn’t try to stop me.
     
    Burrich was right. All of it was there, like a song one has heard too often and cannot get out of one’s mind. It ran behind all my thoughts and colored all my dreams. It came pushing back at me and gave me no peace. Spring ventured into summer. Old memories began to overlay my new ones. My lives began stitching themselves together. There were gaps and puckers in the joining, but it was getting harder and harder to refuse to know things. Names took on meanings and faces again. Patience, Lacey, Celerity, and Sooty were no longer simple words but rang as rich as chiming bells with memories and emotions. “Molly,” I finally said out loud to myself one day. Burrich looked up at me suddenly when I spoke that word, and nearly lost his grip on the fine-plaited gut snare line he was making. I heard him catch his breath as if he would speak to me, but instead he kept silent, waiting for me to say more. I did not. Instead I closed my eyes and lowered my face into my hands and longed for oblivion.
    I spent a lot of time standing at the window looking out over the meadow. There was nothing to see there. But Burrich did not stop me or make me go back to my chores as he once would have. One day, as I looked over the rich grass, I asked Burrich, “What are we going to do when the shepherds get here? Where will we go to live then?”
    “Think about it.” He had pegged a rabbit hide to the floor and was scraping it clean of flesh and fat. “They won’t be coming.