When I turned my back, Stiddick struck. It was a doltish schoolboy attack.

He punched me squarely in the back, between my shoulder blades. I don’t know what he thought would happen. Perhaps he thought that because I was fat, I must also be weak or cowardly. I do know he wasn’t expecting it when I spun around and gave him a straight-from-the-shoulder fist to the face.

His head snapped back on his neck. Then he dropped like a rock. Time seemed to observe a long silence while he lay there, flat on his back and still. For one aching instant, I thought I’d killed him. Then he made a terrible retching sound, rolled over on his side, and curled up in a ball.

Blood was flooding from his face, through his cupped hands and curled fingers. He yelled wordlessly, and Sarla began shrieking. I turned and walked away. As I mounted Clove, my hands started to shake. I’d never struck a man that hard. Gravedigging builds up a man’s back and shoulders and arms. I thought of my defense: “I didn’t know my own strength.” Oh, that sounded good. I rode away, knowing that what I’d done was justified, but also that I felt queasy about it. All the way home, I wondered what consequences I might expect. An official rebuke was the least of my worries. I had no witnesses who’d take my part in telling the story. They could say anything. Sarla had already as much as accused me of killing Fala. Dropping her doorman scarcely made me look more innocent. I berated myself for rising to such a schoolboy goad. I could have walked away. But by the time I reached my cottage, I knew the truth.

No. I couldn’t have.

If I’d walked away once, those sorts of attacks would have become a constant in my life. I’d done nothing wrong. I hadn’t killed Fala, and when Stiddick had struck me, I’d only struck him back.

The night was mild, the air calm. I put Clove up and went to my cottage, thinking only that I’d wake the fire, eat something, and go to bed. When I reached my doorstep, I was alarmed to see the door ajar and light issuing from within. I reached for the door handle and almost fell over the basket there. It was a curious sort of basket, with a frame and handle of hard wood, but the sides woven of fresh green creeper, with leaves and flowers still on it. It looked very pretty and yet it filled me with dread. It could have come from only one place. I looked over my shoulder, across the graves to the forest edge. But no lone figure waited there in the dim shadows for me to find her gift. At least, my eyes could not pick out anyone.

I looked at the door. But surely if she were inside, she would not have left the basket outside? Cautiously, I eased the door open. I could see no one.