At seventeen, Bryndis has managed to elude the fate of most girls in the village. No longer, the ax has fallen. Sligo has asked for her hand in marriage and Father consented. It is the way of things here. Sligo’s wife died this winter. Gerda had drowned in two feet of water in the old fountain. As a widower, it is Sligo’s privilege to choose any girl in the village for his bride. As a member of the council, it’s his right not to be refused. Father has no choice but to consent.

“I’m sorry, Bryn.” I don’t know what else to say by way of condolence.

My sister is level-headed and even-tempered. Already she is drying her eyes. She looks at me.

“What am I to tell Calder?”

Her sweetheart. Calder is a year older than Bryndis, a fisherman’s son who lives near the wharf. He is almost as penniless as we are. I like Calder. He has always been kind to me.

“The truth,” I say. “He’ll understand. He’ll have to.”

***

The stew turns out awful. A sour gruel with a strange taste that must have come from the blackfish. Bryndis grimaces while slurping it down and Pip won’t touch it, but Pip rarely eats anything at all. He sits slouched in his chair with his nose running into his soup.

“Pip, wipe your nose,” my sister says with annoyance.

Pip continues to stare at the wall in that absent way of his. He startles when I kick him under the table, and then stirs the spoon in his bowl.

Father sits at the head of the table, lapping his stew up without comment. His eyes are on the open book before him. He only looks up to scold us to be quiet. Mealtimes are like this, these grim and silent affairs. It wasn’t always this way.

Bryndis is tired, her hands raw from the day’s toil. She is heartbroken but hides it. Pip sits as thoughtless as a turnip. I remark how paltry the tithe from the fishermen is, but everyone has heard this complaint already. The Reverend Uriah continues to read and loudly slurp up his stew. Does he even taste it?

Our small family is four in number, but a fifth place is always set at our table. An empty plate and the good spoon, the pewter one. Pip was the one who insisted we set a place for Mother in case she returns. My sister and I went along with it to keep him happy. We have tried to shield him from the gossip about mother’s disappearance as much as possible. Pip has been setting this fifth, empty plate for so long that it is simply routine, and we take little notice of it anymore.