By the festival of Imbolc, which the Christians call Candlemas, I had finished the fourth shirt. I kept them now in the wooden chest in my room, with dried herbs layered between. Liam, Diarmid, Cormack, Conor. Now there was no starwort left. The sharp-eyed lady Anne had observed I no longer had my own work to do, and she found me a tedious piece of plain sewing to keep me occupied. I worked slowly, for my hands no longer had the fine control such tasks required, if indeed they ever possessed such skill. Putting stitches in human flesh, or easing a child into the world was one thing. Plying a needle so small you could hardly see it, making the tiniest even stitches was a quite different matter. Lady Anne watched, brows raised, as my frustration increased. When we were finished for the day, she drew me aside. I felt that, since the birth of Margery’s child, she had cooled toward me still further. This was odd. Something was bothering her, I could see it from the way she watched me under her lids. And yet, I had done nothing to offend her. I almost thought she seemed in some way afraid of me. I could not think why.

“You’re finding this hemming difficult,” she observed, picking up my work and dropping it again with a sigh. “Yet this is a task I would entrust to an eight-year-old. Your education in matters domestic has clearly been quite limited. It seems you lack the skill for even such basic work. And yet, if you are to remain under our roof for so long, you must make yourself useful, Jenny. Perhaps I can find something rather simpler for you.”

It was an opportunity, of sorts. There was still one stem of starwort left in my basket, saved for such a purpose. I swallowed my annoyance and showed her what I wanted. No, not your work. This. I must do this work. But I need more of the plant. I—go out—gather this plant. Cut—gather.

Lady Anne’s lips tightened. “I can’t help you. There’s no place for such—such deviance in my household. I have tolerated your self-imposed madness because I was given no choice. But I will not assist you to keep on with it. Enough is enough. If you wish for acceptance here, you must strive to be more like us, Jenny. If indeed you are capable of it.”

It did not seem to matter at all, that I had saved Margery’s life, and the baby’s. I turned to go. I had enough pride left not to beg. Besides, I could see it would be useless.

“And don’t go running to Lord Hugh with your problems,” she said to my back, with an edge to her voice that suggested some other message, not put into words. “He has more than enough to do, without bothering with such as you. Keeping you here is a burden to him.”

Nonetheless, there was nobody else to turn to. Red was busy, I could see that. There was plowing to do, and preparation for seeding, and in addition, there were disputes to settle, the sorts of quarrels that arise when folk are cooped up too close in winter, and start to dwell on the small injustices of their lives. There was a system for dealing with this. Regularly, about ten days after full moon, a hearing would be held which they called the folkmoot. The aggrieved parties would come to the great hall of Harrowfield, and set out their arguments before Lord Hugh, and he would arbitrate between them.