He shrugged. “I have a tent name, a camp name, and a hinterland name, but Dag is easier to shout.” The smile glimmered by again. “Short is better, in the field. Dag, duck! See? If it were any longer, it might be too late. Ah, that’s better.”

She realized she’d smiled back. She didn’t know if it was his talk or his bread or just the sitting down quietly, but her stomach had finally stopped shuddering. She was left hot and tired and drained.

He restoppered his bottle.

“Shouldn’t you use that too?” she asked.

“Oh. Yeah.” Cursorily, he turned the cloth again and swiped it over his face. He missed about half the marks.

“Why did you call me Little Spark?”

“When you were hiding above me in that apple tree yesterday, that’s how I thought of you.”

“I didn’t think you could see me. You never looked up!”

“You didn’t act as though to wanted to be seen. It only seemed polite.” He added, “I thought that pretty farm was your home.”

“It was pretty, wasn’t it? But I only stopped there for water. I was walking to Glassforge.”

“From Lumpton?”

And points north. “Yes.”

He, at least, did not say anything about, It’s a long way for such short legs. He did say, inevitably, “Family there?”

She almost said yes, then realized he might possibly intend to take her there, which could prove awkward. “No. I was going there to look for work.” She straightened her spine. “I’m a grass widow.”

A slow blink; his face went blank for a rather long moment. He finally said, in an oddly cautious tone, “Pardon, missus…but do you know what grass widow means?”

“A new widow,” she replied promptly, then hesitated. “There was a woman came up from Glassforge to our village, once. She took in sewing and made cord and netting. She had the most beautiful little boy. My uncles called her a grass widow.” Another too-quiet pause. “That’s right, isn’t it?”

He scratched his rat’s nest of dark hair. “Well…yes and no. It’s a farmer term for a woman pregnant or with a child in tow with no husband in sight anywhere. It’s more polite than, um, less polite terms. But it’s not altogether kind.”

Fawn flushed.

He said even more apologetically, “I didn’t mean to embarrass you. It just seemed I ought to check.”

She swallowed. “Thank you.” It seems I told the truth despite myself, then.

“And your little girl?” he said.

“What?” said Fawn sharply.

He motioned at her. “The one you bear now.”