She put her arm around him, and he snuggled into her. Although she favored George for reasons unknown, Margaret had never been unfriendly to Dickon. She admired his stoicism and his ability to forgive George, but he was still a baby. Now she attempted to cheer him. “Do you wonder what gift we shall receive on the morrow? ’Tis the feast of the Circumcision, you know,” she said. England had long abandoned the Roman tradition of celebrating the New Year on the first day of January and sensibly returned it to the vernal equinox, but the customary gift-giving of olden days had remained.

He knew he ought to wish for his father’s safe return, but he was a boy with a more material dream. “A new longbow,” he told his sister, adding proudly: “Master Blaybourne says I am too big now for my present one.” Cecily had always measured her children at Christmas, and this year Dickon had grown two inches and George only an inch, a fact that had greatly relieved Dickon. “And you, Meg?” He grinned. “What a silly question. I would venture to guess you want a book.”

“You read me like one, brother,” Meg agreed, smiling.

She was not disappointed, and neither was George with his exquisite pair of kid gloves.

“Look, Dickon,” George exclaimed, putting one on, “are they not handsome?”

But Dickon did not receive his wish. Perhaps she had misheard him, for instead of a bow Cecily gave him a large wooden bowl, “for putting your keepsakes in,” she told him, equably. “Look, it has your initials carved in the bottom.”

Dickon tried not to show disappointment as he cradled the bowl in his lap and stared at it. After all, he had been taught to be grateful for any gift no matter how small. “I thank you, Mam,” he said so quietly, Cecily did not hear.

“What did you say, Dickon?” Her tone sounded irritable, so Dickon tried again.

“Th…thank you, Mother. It is a very useful bowl.” He was chagrined to see George showing off his soft blue gloves to Meg and Lizzie and knew that his bowl paled by comparison. Well, what could he expect? After all, he was nobody’s favorite.

“I think you had better go to your room and find things to put into your bowl, my lad,” Cecily said sternly, “so I do not have to look at your disgruntled face. Run along now.”

Dickon did as he was told, but he was puzzled to hear laughter from behind the door he had just closed. He hurried to his chamber, grateful to escape, but when he pushed open the door, he gave a startled cry as a gray behemoth bounded off the tester bed, knocked him on his backside and dislodged the new bowl from his hands. The young wolfhound then proceeded to give Dickon’s face a thorough washing with its long, rough tongue. As he tried to sit up, Dickon knew this dog was not Ned’s Ambergris nor George’s Alaris, but all the same he tried the universal canine command, “Down, sir!” And immediately the dog quietened and lowered its lanky haunches to the floor in front of the astonished Dickon. “Traveller?” he said in disbelief, “Is it you?” Upon hearing its name, the dog’s head tilted to one side and the long tail thumped an assent.