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argument that was these days. "People are saying they'll be here any day now."
    "Are they? How soon?"
    She frowned. "I don't know, it's hard to know what to believe. Some people say ten days, some people say five, they're just guessing."
    "Then there's nothing to worry about, is there?"
    The panic glowed brighter in her eyes; at last, some sign of life. She looked better for it. "But the savages really are coming, everybody knows that," she said. "And suppose they shut the gates, and you can't get back in? And what happens when you run out of money? You can't go, it'd be dangerous." She'd wanted to use another word. He wondered: is this love? Or just a habit, unwanted but now unbreakable; a dependency, which is what love always becomes. Like alcohol, or smoking hemp; the need increases as the pleasure fades into pain. Better to be abstemious, to indulge only occasionally, socially, among friends.
    "Fine," he said, making a show of resentful concession. "I'll stay here, then, if you're that worried. But you've got to find me another place."
    "All right."
    All right, not I'll try. "And a new coat."
    She nodded. "There's his old winter coat he never wears any more. There's a hole, but I can darn it. If he misses it, I'll say the moths got at it. He'll be angry at me for not looking after it, but…" She realised he wasn't listening, and added, "I love you, Maris."
    "I love you too." She turned to leave. The child was playing with the remains of a rotten sack, pulling threads out of a frayed hole; she grabbed it by the hand and it stood up. "Don't forget the coat," he added, because women never heard anything unless they were told at least three times.

    She left him and walked quickly up the narrow alley until she reached Chairmakers'
    Street. Moritsa was tugging at her hand. "Are we going to see the doctor now?" she asked.
    "No."
    "Oh. I thought…"
    "It's all right. You don't have to see the doctor."
    "Oh. Does that mean I'm better?"
    "Yes."
    That seemed to make sense to her, and they walked in silence for a while. Then she asked, "Mummy, who was that man?"
    "Just a friend." She frowned, and went on, "He's been very unlucky and lost his home and all his money, so we're looking after him until things get better for him."
    "I see. He sounded very unhappy."
    "Yes. But you mustn't tell anybody about him, do you understand? It's very important. There are bad people looking for him, and if they find him they'll hurt him, and we don't want that to happen, do we?"
    "No." A pause, then: "Did he do something wrong?"
    "No. Just remember, not a word to anybody. All right?"
    At the top of Chairmakers' Street, left into Spangate. A fine drizzle, just enough to be annoying. She'd been longer than she'd expected to be, but she could explain that by saying she'd had to wait for the doctor. With luck, he wouldn't have noticed anyway. Most likely he'd be asleep in his chair, like an old man. She found the thought of him mildly disgusting, and considered whether she could get away with taking one of his shirts as well as the coat. She decided she probably could, if she let it get burnt while it was drying in front of the fire. Stealing from him pleased her; it was like winning, like achieving something positive.
    He wasn't asleep when she got home; but he was sitting at the table with a pile of papers and his counting-board, and he didn't look up as she closed the door behind her. She sent Moritsa straight off to bed, then stood over him until he looked up.
    "The doctor says she's fine," she told him. "Just a tummy bug, it'll clear up in a day or two."
    He frowned, then said, "That's good."
    She didn't move. "You could at least make it sound like you cared." She saw him wince. It meant he didn't want to fight, couldn't face the aggravation that would follow if he answered her back. "Of course I care," he said. "But you said yourself it wasn't anything serious. I just—"
    "It's all right," she snapped. "But I'll need six quarters to pay the