straw poking his face, but he didn’t mind. He listened to the crackle of the fire and the small rustle of the animals in their pens.
After a short sleep, he rose. The day didn’t have the bite of the last and yet he wrapped his arms about himself. He focused on a tree so he could avoid an accidental sighting before he was ready. When he sensed he’d drawn close, he looked down upon what he’d done. Their home lay in ashes that the wind had smeared across the snow, as though the house were slowly escaping. The four thick posts that had formed the perimeter of the house remained, charred and shrunken. In what had once been his parents’ bedroom, in a far corner, the bones of his father had been scattered into disarray. Stark white, in a smaller circle of ash no more than a yard from where he stood, rested the skeletons of his brothers and sisters. They had fallen in on one another, arms wrapped in arms, legs hooked around legs, rib cages intertwining like hands in prayer.
I N THEIR BED that night, Elspeth had pulled the quilt close to her chin. Jorah knew. He entered the room without a lamp. His weight settled on the edge of the mattress, but he didn’t lie down. He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry,” he said. Elspeth’s body became confused, her heart trembling an uneven beat and her mind racing and then slowing. “I don’t know,” he continued, “whether this is because of some wrong I have committed.” She could feel him undoing the buttons of his shirt and peeling it off. Marring his uncovered back, she knew, were the crisscrossed, ropelike scars from his beating at the hands of her father and Mr. van Tessel. When she doubted how he could love her, she remembered these scars and the torn fists that had held his meager belongings when he had found her in the woods, his knuckles split nearly to the bone, the cuts so deep they hardly bled. He’d read the Bible to her at night as they searched for a land to house their new life together, and had renamed himself for her and for God, to show his new dedication. He’d liked how it had sounded, Jorah, so smooth and unlike the ugliness of Lothute. Those memories held small comfort for her in their bedroom, his broad back to her.
“I don’t know if perhaps I made you feel some necessity or urge,” he said. Elspeth tensed, fearful that he might strike her, thinking of the flash of his eyes as he demanded she hand him Amos while he fought against the raging creek, the water piling up and around his torso, the white foam spectral in the dark.
One of the children cried in the other room and they both held their breath. Elspeth pictured herself making the journey down the hillside, her effects secure on her back, her customary letter of reference folded among her things. She only hoped that he would allow her to spend the night before leaving.
When it seemed enough time had passed and the children had resumed their sleep, Jorah spoke again, his voice even softer. “I also know that I made a promise to you, to keep you safe and protected. Haven’t I done that?” Elspeth’s feet tingled. She’d gripped the quilt tight enough to cut off her circulation and yet her fingers clenched ever harder, the material gathering in her hands, where it quickly grew damp. Jorah sighed, his shoulders rising and falling. A milky stream of moonlight washed over the bedroom. “I’ve protected you. And I will continue to do so.” He reached back and took one of her hands, cupping her fist much as he had Mary’s heels. Elspeth relaxed, and he turned to her—everything about him soft—and tugged on her arm. She heard the tender pat of his feet hitting the floor. The quilt slid from her and she felt levitated, like her own feet never met the ground, and hand in hand they walked into the next room, where Amos slept in his crib, his belly protruding, his tiny hands clenched beside his head, and Mary slept also, her brown hair splashed against her pillow in the bed Jorah had
After a short sleep, he rose. The day didn’t have the bite of the last and yet he wrapped his arms about himself. He focused on a tree so he could avoid an accidental sighting before he was ready. When he sensed he’d drawn close, he looked down upon what he’d done. Their home lay in ashes that the wind had smeared across the snow, as though the house were slowly escaping. The four thick posts that had formed the perimeter of the house remained, charred and shrunken. In what had once been his parents’ bedroom, in a far corner, the bones of his father had been scattered into disarray. Stark white, in a smaller circle of ash no more than a yard from where he stood, rested the skeletons of his brothers and sisters. They had fallen in on one another, arms wrapped in arms, legs hooked around legs, rib cages intertwining like hands in prayer.
I N THEIR BED that night, Elspeth had pulled the quilt close to her chin. Jorah knew. He entered the room without a lamp. His weight settled on the edge of the mattress, but he didn’t lie down. He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry,” he said. Elspeth’s body became confused, her heart trembling an uneven beat and her mind racing and then slowing. “I don’t know,” he continued, “whether this is because of some wrong I have committed.” She could feel him undoing the buttons of his shirt and peeling it off. Marring his uncovered back, she knew, were the crisscrossed, ropelike scars from his beating at the hands of her father and Mr. van Tessel. When she doubted how he could love her, she remembered these scars and the torn fists that had held his meager belongings when he had found her in the woods, his knuckles split nearly to the bone, the cuts so deep they hardly bled. He’d read the Bible to her at night as they searched for a land to house their new life together, and had renamed himself for her and for God, to show his new dedication. He’d liked how it had sounded, Jorah, so smooth and unlike the ugliness of Lothute. Those memories held small comfort for her in their bedroom, his broad back to her.
“I don’t know if perhaps I made you feel some necessity or urge,” he said. Elspeth tensed, fearful that he might strike her, thinking of the flash of his eyes as he demanded she hand him Amos while he fought against the raging creek, the water piling up and around his torso, the white foam spectral in the dark.
One of the children cried in the other room and they both held their breath. Elspeth pictured herself making the journey down the hillside, her effects secure on her back, her customary letter of reference folded among her things. She only hoped that he would allow her to spend the night before leaving.
When it seemed enough time had passed and the children had resumed their sleep, Jorah spoke again, his voice even softer. “I also know that I made a promise to you, to keep you safe and protected. Haven’t I done that?” Elspeth’s feet tingled. She’d gripped the quilt tight enough to cut off her circulation and yet her fingers clenched ever harder, the material gathering in her hands, where it quickly grew damp. Jorah sighed, his shoulders rising and falling. A milky stream of moonlight washed over the bedroom. “I’ve protected you. And I will continue to do so.” He reached back and took one of her hands, cupping her fist much as he had Mary’s heels. Elspeth relaxed, and he turned to her—everything about him soft—and tugged on her arm. She heard the tender pat of his feet hitting the floor. The quilt slid from her and she felt levitated, like her own feet never met the ground, and hand in hand they walked into the next room, where Amos slept in his crib, his belly protruding, his tiny hands clenched beside his head, and Mary slept also, her brown hair splashed against her pillow in the bed Jorah had
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