Why would he admit it? I ask the hearth stones. Why not just take the Simple Eating and be forgiven pride, envy, miserliness, lies?

The stones answer, The Maker would know. The Maker would punish him to live in Eve’s land under the earth.

Why would the family cook the food? I ask the wood floor.

The wood says back, A family’s duty. They deliver him out of this world as he was delivered into it: as blemishless as can be.

The jug hits the floor, fallen from her hand. I turn to it, then her. She is badly drunk. Or mayhap I am. Her eyes flutter like a toad’s in the sun. They flash open suddenly, and her hand shoots out to my cheek, pushing my eyes away.

It’s me, I think stupidly. She growls, then laughs. She grabs at my collar, her thick fingers following it around until they find the S in front. Her face gets calm. Then she hiccups and falls off the stool.

She’s laughing. Her humping body shakes and cackles. Her great breasts heave above her belly. Yes, she is broken in a way I think even Da couldn’t fix. I touch his ring on my finger. With what I’ve done can I still call myself his daughter? Mayhap I’m something different now.

I lie back on the wood floor. The ceiling is wooden too. Am I on the ceiling or am I on the floor? I try to lift my head, but it falls back with a crack. My feet are very warm. They must be close to the hearth. I’m still asking my questions, mumbling them to the wood planks, when I fall asleep.

Sometime in the night after the fire’s gone cold, I feel her against my back. My eyes are wet, and my chest aches with ragged breaths. I must be crying. Her arms come around mine, cradling me. She holds me there, like you do an animal when you want to make it calm, soft shushes coming from her lips. My breath comes smoother, and I fall back into sleep with her holding me.

In the morning we stagger about like lepers, unsure our limbs will hold. My belly is empty and nettled. She drinks a gallon of water direct from the ewer in unending gulps. It turns my belly just to see. Only horses and pigs drink plain water. She burps and gropes for her woollen shawl. But she waits for me. Hands me my own shawl. Something has changed. We’re together now. We are us.