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fondly. He was proud to have her – a mere child of eight and twenty and still a beauty, by God! He was a lucky man.
    Osric grunted and moved a weight one last time. His brow furrowed as he thought about his plans for the mill. Aeffe was right, he would be dancing with Death before she. She did right to look to her future. With Alfwold running the mill as he, Osric, would teach him, Aeffe would be safe. Aye, it was only natural for a woman to plan ahead in this way.
    ‘It’s no good.’ He shook his head. ‘We really need Alfwold. I thought we’d get another day’s work out of these stones, but they’re ground out. Where the devil has he got to?’
    Rosamund turned and stared blindly through the window slit overlooking the millpond. It was as though a fog had blown in off the sea, she saw nothing – not the dawn light shining in the millpond, not the road past the mill. Nothing.
    ‘Rosamund?’ Her father’s voice finally penetrated. ‘Rosamund?’
    Her eyes refocused. ‘Father?’
    ‘Well? Do you see him?’
    She tried to gather her wits. What had her father been asking? His words seemed to drift past, as vague and insubstantial as dandelion seeds. ‘See who?’
    ‘Heaven help me, the Lord has seen fit to bless me with a lackwit instead of a daughter!’ He gave a heavy sigh. ‘I thought you were looking out for Alfwold. Do you see him?’
    The path running past the mill was empty. ‘There’s no sign of him, Father.’ Her lips felt oddly stiff, as if they didn’t belong to her.
    Osric made an impatient noise, like a growl. ‘Go down the road a ways and see if you can find him. Drag him from the hostelry if needs be, that man of yours has work to do.’
    Rosamund closed her eyes.
    ‘Did you hear me, Rosamund?’
    ‘Yes, Father.’ She put her foot onto the top rung of the ladder.
    ‘And Rosamund?’
    ‘Father?’
    ‘Be nice to Alfwold. You know what I mean. Nice. He told me how much he’s been looking forward to seeing you, don’t disappoint him.’
    ‘No, Father,’ she said, outwardly the dutiful daughter. Inwardly...
    Be nice to Alfwold . She went down a step. She knew what that meant. Another step. Being nice to Alfwold meant doing all those things that Aeffe did for Osric in the still reaches of the night. She wasn’t sure she could be nice to Alfwold.
    Last week she would have taken it for granted. Even the day before yesterday. She hadn’t been brimming with joy at the thought of marrying him, but she’d managed to accept it. She’d told herself there was a chance that, given time, Alfwold would come to like her and that he’d treat her well. That he’d act as a buffer between her and her father...
    Leaving the mill, Rosamund set off down a road rutted by cartwheels. She was making for the tavern situated a little downstream. The sun was painfully bright after the shade of the mill. She screwed up her eyes, inhaled deeply, and told herself it was another beautiful day.
    However, today wouldn’t be like yesterday, it would be like all the other days – the ordinary, dreamless, hopeless days. A blackbird was singing in a nearby hawthorn bush, it was a happy sound, promising warmth in the coming summer. But Rosamund was not of a mind to listen to blackbirds, she was steeling herself to meet Alfwold.
    If Alfwold liked her, he might cherish her. After all, even her father cherished Aeffe. In return, Rosamund would care for Alfwold. A little cherishing wouldn’t go amiss, it had been a long time since she had had any cherishing. Not since her mother died of the coughing sickness. Her eyes prickled and the path blurred. Rosamund frowned, she couldn’t abide self-pity. Blinking hard, she shook the image of her mother’s face out of her mind, and continued down the way.
    Until yesterday, she’d imagined that if she succeeded in pleasing Alfwold, they might find love. Alfwold wasn’t handsome – with his features ravaged by flying stone chips, how could he be? But how many men were