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care of her midwife, too, I see. Here, ch—Miriam, have some bread, and I'll be back as soon as I've seen to Esau.” She put the basket of fragrant loaves by the small woman and went back out into the yard. Miriam heard the creak of the cart and the whinny of the pony as he was unharnessed and led away to a full manger.
    She was hungry, but she left the bread untouched and stood up, blanket clutched around her shoulders. The house was like any other—hearth and kitchen, barrel and bench—and as such could not but remind her of the home she had left eight years ago. She did not remember it very well: it was no more than a vague recollection of a kinder time. But she did not require specific memories, for to describe it she needed only to enumerate those things that she wanted and did not have. Safety. Continuity. Surety. Company. And—if she dared even think of such a thing—love.
    Still wobbly, Miriam moved about the house, peering at walls, hangings. Smoked hams dangled from the kitchen beams, and the pantry was stocked not only with roots and sacks of grain but (yes, Jeanne had been here, too) with apples fresh out of storage, wrinkled but sweet, and a large Bergren cheese. One wall was all shelves crammed with pots and jars capped with parchment and leather, each neatly labeled in a firm, even hand. Miriam squinted at the letters for a moment. She could not read, but she guessed that they were Mika's medicines.
    The idea of resorting to herbs and infusions seemed strange to her. She had always been able to heal by a touch. For a moment, she smiled wryly. If she had used herbs, if she had only clumsy and inconsistent methods with which to work, she would not have been hunted, her legs would be unmarked, and she would have to worry far less about winding up at the stake. As it was, her gift demanded no effort, on her part or that of the sick, and the cure was instantaneous. Such efficiency was not rewarded.
    She sat down on a stool, bandaged hands to her face. She could not hope. She had given up hoping. Oh, she might hide for a time, but before long her reputation would spread—as it always did—and the Church would hear about her. Aloysius Cranby would arrive with his court and his questions, and she would be taken . . . back to Hypprux. . . .
    She cried out involuntarily, wishing she could kill a certain churchman.
    Don't hope, Miriam. Just survive.
    “Miriam?” Mika stood in the doorway.
    “I was just remembering something.”
    “The Chateau?”
    She shrugged. “And Bishop Cranby.”
    Mika closed the door, went to the hearth, and stirred up the fire. “I meant what I said on the road. You're safe here. You can stay.”
    “And you want to train me as a midwife.”
    Under Mika's hand, the flames quickened, stirred, crackled among the dry sticks. “If you'd like that,” she said. “My last apprentice went off to Belroi with a new husband before the snows came.”
    “It won't work.”
    “What makes you so sure of that?” Mika opened the pantry door and smiled. “That Jeanne.” She took out the apples and cheese and began slicing them.
    “I told you: I can't control my power. If I see any illness, I have to cure it. Don't you understand? I have no choice. People talk.”
    “Not if they love you.”
    “Don't talk to me about love.” Miriam pulled at her bandages, examined the raw skin of her hands, wrinkled her nose. “People can't love someone who does miracles.”
    “They can love someone who heals.”
    “There's a difference. A big one.”
    Mika let the argument hang. “Do you want to study midwifery?”
    Miriam stood, made her way back to the cushions by the fire, accepted a plate of bread and cheese from Mika. “I'll do what I have to to earn my keep.” Hopes and fantasies swam in her mind. She shoved them down with an effort. “Will that be enough?”
    Mika smiled softly. “I suppose it will have to do.” She sounded disappointed. “I suppose it would be difficult to train a porcupine