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gently in the nest. She is certain that the bird can count at least to five. She selects the largest rock, the one closest to the size of the egg, and steals it from the nest, so that the number the goose sits on will be constant. She looks around. The ground is scattered with goose feathers. She takes a few and rubs them on the true egg. Perhaps they will cover the scent of her humanity.
    Mother nods in approval. “Come, Zel. Bedtime.”
    Zel and Mother enter the cottage. Mother’s kiss is sweet and cool. She unravels Zel’s braids and combs her hair till it’s smooth as water. Zel yields herself to the small bed.
    Mother sprinkles lavender on the foot of Zel’s bed; then she plays the fiddle. Every night of her life Zel has gone to bed on the sound of Mother’s fiddle.
    When Mother is convinced Zel sleeps, she leaves to do chores. Her rapid footsteps cover the kitchen.
    Zel lies with her eyes closed. Her fingers reach under the edge of the bedroll and touch the paper that holds the lettuce seeds she convinced the vendor to give her today while Mother was bargaining with a passing traveler for an exotic fruit.
    Zel tosses and turns. She can’t get comfortable. What would it be like to be balled up inside a shell? Can the gosling hear the world outside? Zel listens.
    Finches, starlings, chickadees, cuckoos. The birds chirp loudly. Birds and waterfalls, those are the sounds of summer. In winter the rage of storm winds and the deafening crack of ice alternate with total quiet. But summer is always noisy. Zel lies in the coverlet of summer noise. Her ears ring with the cowbells she heard on the way to market. And now she hears the pop of the tick at the smithy. It turns her stomach. She hears the almost deep voice of the youth. Something within her lurches.
    She sees him chewing the bread. Rubbing his neck. Shifting his head from side to side. Her skin comes alive as she thinks of him. Her fingers lace together as though combing the mare’s mane. The star on the chest of the mare twinkles in the skies of her dreams.

Chapter 6
Mother
    wake early. It is barely dawn.
    I make a bread dough, kneading extra long so that the texture will be extra fine. I set it to rise. When next I punch it down, I will work in raisins. I think of the small noises of enjoyment Zel made yesterday eating the sweet buns at the market. I will add nuts as well. The chores of the morning satisfy more than usual today.
    I go outside and milk the first nanny I catch. Only a small bucketful today. But no matter. Zel and I are still overfull from market day. I uproot a lone edelweiss, taking care to keep the dirt packed around its roots.
    When I come back inside, I place the edelweiss in a cup on the table. I give a twist to the press on the new cheese I am making. Then I pick the snails from the meal I set them in last night. They have gorged themselves. I dump the bucket, slapping the bottom hard, then put the snails back in. In a day or two they will pass the meal, and their digestive tracts will be empty of all impurities. They will be ready to eat. I can steam them and serve them with chives. I can fry the mushrooms that make Zel smile.
    I check: Zel sleeps still. This is a moment for private work. I will finish the ordinary chores later.
    I shut myself in the kitchen. I can’t remember when the door to the kitchen was last closed in summer. In winter we often sleep in the kitchen with a fire going, our bedrolls on the floor. But in summer that door stands open.
    I spread the materials on the table and smooth them with hands that flutter, I am so excited. Zel has never had a real dress. She has worn children’s smocks all her life. Zel will be stunning in this dress. And it won’t be the traditional dirndl of the land of my childhood. It will be unique, more beautiful a garment than even I have ever made before, though its beauty will never rival the beauty of Zel. Still, it will be befitting of her.
    I sew the skirt first. I am fast at