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spine. At the front door I hug her and she remains stiff for drawn-out seconds before she relaxes against me.
    “I’m sorry,” she whispers in my ear. “I’m sorry. I owe you so much, I should be more grateful. Forgive me.”
    “There’s nothing to forgive.” I stand back. “Just keep an eye on Flora. Remind her there’s more than her own life at stake if she goes back to the old mill. And your houseguest . . .”
    “Master Cotton, out of Breakwater.” She makes a face.
    “Why has he come?”
    “A partnership. Karol wishes to reopen the old mill, have it working in concert with the new. Bringing more farmers to us, increasing profits, creating a monopoly. He wants to grow an empire to leave to . . . any child he and Flora might have.”
    “So, Cotton is an investor? His man was looking over the property.”
    “Karol cannot see how he looks at Flora.” She licks her lips. “He wants his association too ardently. My brother’s like a troll, blinded by the lure of gold.”
    We laugh at the image of short, fat Karol Brautigan as a dweller beneath the bridge, then stop abruptly at the sound of the garden gate. A youngish man, not much past thirty, with mid-brown hair, light green eyes, and a sweet face presents himself nervously, pushes through and comes towards us.
    “Good morrow, Sandor,” I say and am rewarded with a smile. There’s a parcel under his arm and I remember my books. “Are those for me?”
    “Yes, Mistress Gideon. I thought you might have forgotten them,” he says, voice caught between high and deep. There is nothing of the dandy nor the rogue about Sandor, neither flash nor dash, nothing to tempt the eye of a silly, shallow lass, but he is gentle-tempered and clever and kind. He is solid and stable, his heart is stout and true. “Good morrow, Miss Brautigan.”
    “You’re wise, my friend. Thank you. I’ll visit in a day or two to settle my account and order more books, if that is soon enough? Or perhaps I could send Gilly?” His pale skin turns pink at the suggestion, but he nods.
    Oh, my
Gilly
-girl, why can’t you love
this
man?
    I take the bundle of volumes from him and he and Ina bid me farewell, moving off together. Sandor holds the gate open for her and I hope again for Gilly to give him more than a dismissive glance. But I remember all too well that one cannot put an old head on young shoulders.

Chapter Nine
    The next afternoon, we are in the garden. I turn over soil, replanting beds that have lain fallow for their allotted season, trimming the rose bushes and doing my best not to be caught on their thorns. Fenric is dividing his time and energy between snoring in a patch of sun and chasing his tail until he falls over. Gilly scythes grass from corners that have become overgrown, and pulls weeds away from the pickets of the fence. I could pay a lad to do this, but prefer to do it myself so I know what’s growing there, and how things are tended. In the forest there are spots where I’ve cultivated the more dangerous plants, out where they cannot be easily found, and no one might know them for mine. As we work, I quiz Gilly to see how much she’s retained of my teaching.
    “Lady’s mantle?”
    “Stays vomiting and bleeding and fluxes of all kind; it can help ruptures and bruises.”
    “And how is it taken?”
    “Both within and without, as a decoction or a wound wash.”
    “What of sopewort?”
    “Bruised leaves laid on cuts will aid them to heal quickly, a tincture taken internally acts as a diuretic and may help flush out stones of the kidney or gall.”
    “White lily roots.”
    “Give two to a woman having a difficult labour and bid her eat them. The child will come with ease.”
    “And gentian?”
    “As a tea it resists poison and aids digestion. It may counter putrefaction, and restore appetite as well as stamina. It may combat scabs and fretting sores, clear excess phlegm, and kill worms.”
    “Brava!” I laugh and she gives a flourishing curtsey.
    The sun