One of the hardest lessons I had ever learned concerned honeybees and how they died when they stung. How they couldn’t leave just the stinger behind, so they had to leave some of themselves behind, too. And died. As the ones on my glove had. As the one who had stung my cheek had. Which made no sense to me.

I hadn’t taken a drop of honey. I was well away. And now a bee had died, regardless.

My cheek was on fire, no less when I pulled the soft, fuzzy bit of bee off my skin, but somewhat better when I pulled open the kerchief full of mud and pressed it against my face.

I told the bees I was sorry as I flicked their sad remains off my glove and dragged it through the dirt until it was clean.

Samuel came back down the path toward me.

“What’s wrong?” he said. “Why didn’t you come with me? And why do you have mud on your face?”

“Bee sting,” I said, wincing with the pain of it.

He came close, peering at my cheek. “You’ve got a big bump there.”

I nodded. “It’ll go away.”

“Why aren’t you crying?”

I shrugged. “Won’t help me to cry.” Though there were times when tears did me some good.

He looked thoughtful. Reached out to wipe away some mud that was dripping down my jaw. “Where’s the honey?”

“I didn’t take any.”

“What?! Why not? You got stung for nothing?”

I headed up the path. “The bees didn’t have enough to spare. Not yet.”

But Samuel wasn’t impressed. “You could have got a little for our porridge,” he said bitterly. Porridge without something sweet was unfortunate.

I didn’t tell him that the honey had not been meant for porridge. Instead, I told him what my father had told me. “The bees need it more than we do, especially in the winter and the spring. For their babies. And their queen. And themselves.”

I thought again of the egg I’d fed to Maisie instead of using it to gather stink.

“Let’s trade one of the fish to Mrs. Anderson for some eggs,” I said.

Samuel said, “As long as it’s your fish.”

But, as it turned out, a snake came first.

Chapter Eighteen

When we reached the yard, we found my mother and Esther taking turns at the butter churn.

“I caught fish for supper!” Samuel cried, rushing toward them while I lugged our catch the last of the way up from the river, tired now, wiping traces of mud from my cheek.

“We didn’t know where you’d gone,” Esther barked, but not at Samuel. At me. “We were worried, Ellie. You should tell us if you take him with you.”