arm for the walk down the hall. In the kitchen, she put the bottles into the cool-box by the door and then followed Mama Dietz to the table. Once they were seated, Papa Dietz set a bowl of soup and a plate of bird and vegetables before each of them.
“Goodness!” Mama Dietz exclaimed. “How many did they roast?”
“Three.”
“Three! Well, it is a day, after all. Forty and forty.”
“She’s so small,” Kari said. “Papa says she’s like me but my numbers were nothing like that. Her nose is different too. And her hair’s so dark.”
“Hair often changes colour,” Mama Dietz said. “Yours was red at first.”
“
Red
?”
Papa Dietz nodded. “Like wickerberry it was. And lots of babies start out fair then get darker.”
Kari reached for the end of Jena’s braid and ran her fingers through the dark strands. “How about Jena? Was she …
oh
.” She flushed. “Sorry.”
Mama Dietz put her hand on Jena’s. “You were never fair. I remember when you were born. You had this serious little face, all wrinkled and puckered, like a tiny old Mother. And dark eyes and dark hair, from the very first day.”
Of course Mama Dietz would know. She and Jena’s mama had been friends since they were children and even though Mama Dietz hadn’t lasted long as a tunneller, they had remained so. It was why Jena and Kari had been so close. It was why the Dietzes had taken Jena in when she had nowhere else to go.
Mama Dietz looked steadily into Jena’s eyes. “Your mama loved you so much, Jena. She would be very proud of you.”
“Your papa too,” Papa Dietz added quietly.
Something fragile seemed to hover between them. No one talked about Papa any more and, somewhere inside her, Jena had come to find that a relief. There was no way of explaining what he had done and no point trying. It was easier to simply forget, to move on and hope others would do the same.
Mama Dietz squeezed Jena’s hand, then released. “I heard it was a good harvest.”
“Better than good,” Papa Dietz said. “Perhaps we’ll be all right this year.”
We.
It was the slipperiest of words. Was it the family he meant, or the village? For most of the year they were nearly the same thing, everyone pulling together, making things work. But when the snow came, the world narrowed to four walls and a roof, to a “we” that spoke only of those within arm’s reach.
“Thanks be.” Mama Dietz finished the last of the soup and set her bowl to one side.
Kari slid hers across the table. “Here, have this.” The bowl was still close to half-full and she had scarcely touched the plate Jena brought.
“I’ve had enough.” Kari sat back, one hand patting her stomach.
It was an old gesture, a carryover from the past that had become something of a joke. People used to do this after meals, they said. Only instead of saying
enough
, they would say
full
. They would rub their stomachs, declaring,
I’m full
, as if it were something to be pleased about. As if taking more than you needed were something to be proud of.
Oh, I could just burst.
Sometimes they would loosen their belts so they could stuff more in.
“Enough?” Mama Dietz said gently. Even this was a word not often heard in the valley.
“I’m fine, Mama.”
“All right then.” Mama Dietz took up her spoon gratefully.
Kari exchanged a look with Papa Dietz. He leaned forwards, sliding his arms towards Jena across the table. “We thought to name her.”
Already?
Jena didn’t need to say it. To name a daughter barely a day old was an act of great faith or great folly. Perhaps both. Giving someone a name might pull them towards you, into the world. But if it did not, it would make their loss more difficult to bear.
Kari’s eyes met hers. “She’s strong, Jena.”
“Ailin,” Mama Dietz said. “That’s what we were thinking.”
Jena caught her breath. “It’s beautiful.” It was, but it was risky too, if risky was the right word.
Little stone.
It was a name that
“Goodness!” Mama Dietz exclaimed. “How many did they roast?”
“Three.”
“Three! Well, it is a day, after all. Forty and forty.”
“She’s so small,” Kari said. “Papa says she’s like me but my numbers were nothing like that. Her nose is different too. And her hair’s so dark.”
“Hair often changes colour,” Mama Dietz said. “Yours was red at first.”
“
Red
?”
Papa Dietz nodded. “Like wickerberry it was. And lots of babies start out fair then get darker.”
Kari reached for the end of Jena’s braid and ran her fingers through the dark strands. “How about Jena? Was she …
oh
.” She flushed. “Sorry.”
Mama Dietz put her hand on Jena’s. “You were never fair. I remember when you were born. You had this serious little face, all wrinkled and puckered, like a tiny old Mother. And dark eyes and dark hair, from the very first day.”
Of course Mama Dietz would know. She and Jena’s mama had been friends since they were children and even though Mama Dietz hadn’t lasted long as a tunneller, they had remained so. It was why Jena and Kari had been so close. It was why the Dietzes had taken Jena in when she had nowhere else to go.
Mama Dietz looked steadily into Jena’s eyes. “Your mama loved you so much, Jena. She would be very proud of you.”
“Your papa too,” Papa Dietz added quietly.
Something fragile seemed to hover between them. No one talked about Papa any more and, somewhere inside her, Jena had come to find that a relief. There was no way of explaining what he had done and no point trying. It was easier to simply forget, to move on and hope others would do the same.
Mama Dietz squeezed Jena’s hand, then released. “I heard it was a good harvest.”
“Better than good,” Papa Dietz said. “Perhaps we’ll be all right this year.”
We.
It was the slipperiest of words. Was it the family he meant, or the village? For most of the year they were nearly the same thing, everyone pulling together, making things work. But when the snow came, the world narrowed to four walls and a roof, to a “we” that spoke only of those within arm’s reach.
“Thanks be.” Mama Dietz finished the last of the soup and set her bowl to one side.
Kari slid hers across the table. “Here, have this.” The bowl was still close to half-full and she had scarcely touched the plate Jena brought.
“I’ve had enough.” Kari sat back, one hand patting her stomach.
It was an old gesture, a carryover from the past that had become something of a joke. People used to do this after meals, they said. Only instead of saying
enough
, they would say
full
. They would rub their stomachs, declaring,
I’m full
, as if it were something to be pleased about. As if taking more than you needed were something to be proud of.
Oh, I could just burst.
Sometimes they would loosen their belts so they could stuff more in.
“Enough?” Mama Dietz said gently. Even this was a word not often heard in the valley.
“I’m fine, Mama.”
“All right then.” Mama Dietz took up her spoon gratefully.
Kari exchanged a look with Papa Dietz. He leaned forwards, sliding his arms towards Jena across the table. “We thought to name her.”
Already?
Jena didn’t need to say it. To name a daughter barely a day old was an act of great faith or great folly. Perhaps both. Giving someone a name might pull them towards you, into the world. But if it did not, it would make their loss more difficult to bear.
Kari’s eyes met hers. “She’s strong, Jena.”
“Ailin,” Mama Dietz said. “That’s what we were thinking.”
Jena caught her breath. “It’s beautiful.” It was, but it was risky too, if risky was the right word.
Little stone.
It was a name that
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