Edgar suppressed a grunt of relief.

He guessed that Blod had stolen Dreng’s dagger as a precaution in case she should meet dangerous men during her nighttime travels—a situation in which her own little knife would be of little use.

He opened the door slowly. It creaked, but not loudly.

He held it for Blod and she passed through, followed by Brindle. Fortunately the dog was intelligent enough to know when to be quiet.

Edgar glanced at the sleepers one last time. To his horror, he saw that Ethel’s eyes were wide open and she was watching him. His heart seemed to stop.

He stared at her. What would she do? For a long moment both were frozen. Perhaps she was working up the courage to yell a warning and wake Dreng.

But she did nothing.

Edgar stepped out and closed the door softly behind him.

He stood still and quiet outside, waiting for the shout of alarm, but all he heard was the quiet flow of the river. Ethel had decided to let them go. Once again Edgar slumped with relief.

He slung his ax from his belt.

The sky was partly overcast, and the moon peeped from behind a cloud. The river gleamed, but the hamlet was sunk in gloom. Edgar and Blod walked up the hill between the houses. Edgar feared that a dog would hear them and bark, but nothing happened: the village hounds probably recognized their steps, or smelled Brindle, or both. For whatever reason, they decided that no alarm was necessary.

As Edgar and Blod passed the church, Blod turned into the churchyard. Edgar was alarmed. What was she up to?

The grass had not yet grown over the grave of her child. On the turned earth, a pattern of smooth stones formed a cross, something Blod must have done herself. She knelt at the foot of the cross with her hands folded in prayer, and Edgar did the same.

Out of the corner of his eye, Edgar saw someone step out of the priest’s house.

He touched Blod’s arm to warn her. It was Father Deorwin, he saw. The old man stumbled a few yards then lifted the skirt of his robe. He and Blod froze in position. They were not invisible by any means, but he had to hope that they faded sufficiently into the darkness to elude an old man’s eyesight.

Like all children, Edgar had been taught that it was bad manners to stare at someone relieving himself, but now he watched Deorwin warily, praying that the old man would not raise his gaze. However, Deorwin was intent on what he was doing, and had no interest in looking around the hamlet as it slept in darkness. Finally he dropped his robe and slowly turned. For a moment his face was toward Edgar and Blod, and Edgar tensed, waiting for a reaction; but Deorwin seemed not to see them, and went back inside.

They went on, grateful for an old man’s poor eyesight.