So, she takes the tablecloths to a tub, which is already prepared with water and wood ash. She kneels, scrubbing, and then beats each long linen sheet. When she is done and the cloths hung up to dry, the cook returns. In his hands, he holds a small object wrapped in a napkin.

He checks the tablecloths, studying them as one would a finely woven tapestry. He turns to her with a smile. “Here,” he says. “It is not what you wanted, but we can’t afford to be choosy, not in these times, can we?”

She takes it, disappointed. She slips the object into her pocket beside the knife and six pennies.

The cook only laughs at her. There are few who are as tall or taller than she is, and he is one of them. He pats her cheek kindly. “You are a good worker,” he says as he follows her out. “If you come back, there will be a position here waiting for you, and you won’t just wash the towels and the tablecloths. If you are interested in good food, one day I’ll teach you how to make the dish you wanted. That’s a promise!”

She leaves, her prize swaying inside the pocket of her dress. It is already dark when she reaches the house of white stone. Before the door she stops to catch her breath.

The priest comes out as she slips in. She greets him, but he gives her a strange look; he does not speak, only glances away as if she has baffled him.

Her brothers are here, and her mother and father. In the gloom, she cannot make out their faces. At the top of the stairs, Durand emerges from the shadows and she goes up to him, more slowly than usual. The muscles of her legs are tight, and she is sore.

“Where were you?” he asks, though she barely hears him. His voice travels to her from somewhere far away.

She walks toward their room, a space now lit by candles. Surprisingly, her legs don’t give out. She feels she will faint, but she doesn’t. She is, despite herself, as solid as a wall.

There is a stool where her mother and father, the priest, her three brothers, and her uncle have already paid their respects. Now it is her turn.