In the cool shade of the barn, Fawn culled two collections of long sturdy hairs from the tails and manes of Grace and Copperhead. Dag hung on the stall partition, eyes half-shut, gently reminding Copperhead of their agreement that the gelding would treat Fawn with the tender concern of a mare for her foal or become wolf-bait. Horses did not reason by consequences so much as by associations, and the rangy chestnut had fewer wits than many, but by dint of repeated groundwork Dag had at length put this idea across. Copperhead nickered and nuzzled and lipped at Fawn, endured having hairs pulled out while scarcely flinching, ate apple slices from her hand without nipping, and eyed Dag warily.

There were no water lilies to be had on the Bluefield acres, and Dag was uncertain that their stems would yield up flax the way the ones at Hickory Lake did anyway, but to his delight they discovered a cattail-crowded drainage ditch up beyond the high fields that sheltered some red-winged blackbird nests. He held Fawn’s shoes on his hook and murmured encouragement, grinning at her expression of revulsion and determination, as she waded out in the muck and gathered some goodly handfuls of both cattail fluff and feathers. After that, they tramped all around the margins and crossed and recrossed the fallow fields. It was not the season for milkweed silk, as the redolent flowers were just blooming, and the stems were useless, but at length they discovered a few dried brown sticks lingering from last fall whose pods hadn’t broken open, and Dag pronounced the catch sufficient.

They took it all back to Nattie’s weaving room, where Fawn stripped feathers and picked out milkweed seeds, and Nattie set out her own chosen mix of fibers: linen for strength, a bit of precious purchased cotton brought from south of the Grace River for softness and something she called catch, nettle flax for shine, all dyed dark with walnut stain. Fawn bit her lip and undertook the hair trimming, taking special care with Dag, not so much to avoid stabbing him with the scissors, he eventually realized, as to be sure his head wouldn’t look like a scarecrow’s on the day after tomorrow. She set up a small mirror to cautiously clip out some of her own curly strands. Dag sat quietly, enjoying watching her contort, counting the hours backward to when they’d last been able to lie together, and forward to the next chance. Three days…