“That would put him entirely on his own, and he’s too young for that. I wanted to bring him in.”

They heard the sound of running, and, looking out, saw Roman approaching. When Roman saw them, he stopped and stared, as if undecided, and then backed away. Having missed the first chance, no one spoke a greeting until Sarah called to him.

“Roman, are you looking for me? Here I am. Come in.”

He made no answer and showed no evidence of having heard her.

“I was just about to go and look for you.”

He began to edge away, but Sarah stepped out of the shed and took his arm. They stared at each other before he said, “I was working in the field. I’m clumsy with my hands. Even the little ones do it better than I can. Then my papa came and told me I was to stop—and I wasn’t to live at the house any more. The ones that heard him laughed, like they knew why, but I didn’t know. He said come and find you.”

Sarah looked at Floyd, but he looked away and turned to his work again. Ezra had stopped working the forge and stood facing her, but his eyes were closed, and he frowned as if remembering an old pain.

“Come with me,” Sarah said. “I want a walk.”

She took Roman by the hand and together they made a wide circle around the big house. It was early afternoon, and most of those who were not working in the fields were indoors taking an hour’s rest. Sarah guided them to the orchard, where the blossoms had given way to small knotty fruit, and the foliage was thickening to provide shade for the fruit to ripen without undue forcing by the sun.

She suggested that they sit under the peach trees and found a patch of tufty grass to drop down upon. Roman sat down carefully beside her. He was a thin boy. The bones of his head and hands were prominent; his elbows and knees showed a sharpness that clothes did nothing to soften.

“You are fourteen,” she said.

He looked at her and waited.

“You know who your mother is.”

He nodded. The way she put the question was formal, as if they were strangers.

“Do you know who your father is?”

“Yes. No.” She saw the rush of blood under the warm brown skin of his neck and face. “Roscoe Elk is supposed to be, but I don’t see how he can be. I’ve been made fun of. I used to think it was account of my legs and hump. Then I thought it was because I’m lighter than most of them. I looked at her and him and knew I couldn’t be his.”

“Did the ones who made fun of you say who your father was?”