Unable to pull out the oak splinter, he bent to pick up a stick of apple wood while keeping an eye to the avenue and the butcher's cart. One of the approaching strangers, a brawny man in unfamiliar military attire, wore an odd cloak that almost looked to Fitch like it was covered in patches of hair.

Each of the man's fingers was ringed, with a leather strap from each of those rings going over a knuckle to a studded black leather bracer around his wrists and forearms. Silver studs girded his boots, too. Fitch was stunned to see the glint of metal studs in the man's ear and nose.

The man's leather belts held weapons the likes of which Fitch had never even conjured in his nightmares. Riding in a hanger at his right hip was an axe with the great horns of its blade curling back around until they almost touched. A wooden handle, dark with age and use, had a spiked ball attached to its top via a chain. A long spike, like a single talon, capped the bottom of the handle.

The man's thatch of thick dark hair made him look as if he were possibly an Ander, but his thick brow spoke that he wasn't. The tangle of dark hair fell around a bull neck that must have been nearly as big around as Fitch's waist. Even at a distance, the sight of the man made Fitch's stomach go queasy.

As the stranger passed the slow butcher's cart, the man drank in a long look at the person on the other side of Brownie. He finally moved on, turning his attention back to the windows of the estate, searching them, too, with dark intent.

Knowing better than to stand and wait for the cart to make it the rest of the way up the avenue to the lane to the kitchen yard, Fitch hurriedly gathered up an armload of apple wood and lugged it inside. In his haste to be back outside, he heaved it all into the bin without thinking, but over the people talking and calling out, the sounds of myriad foods sizzling in pans, the crackle of the fires, the rapping of spoons in bowls, the grinding of pestles in mortars, the rasp of brushes, and the general clatter of everyone working, no one heard his wood carelessly thunking home. Some spilled out, and he was going to leave it, but when he spied Master Drummond not far off, he dropped to his knees and quickly stacked the wood in the bin.

When he rushed back out, his heart hammering, his breath caught up short when he saw who'd brought the butcher's cart.

It was her.

Fitch wrung his hands as he watched her leading Brownie into the turn round. His hand-wringing twisted the splinter lying under his flesh, making him grimace. He cursed under his breath, then snapped his mouth shut, hoping she hadn't heard. He trotted over to the cart, shaking the stinging hand to dispel the pain.

"Good day, Beata."

She only glanced up. "Fitch."

He groped for something to say, but couldn't think of anything meaningful. He stood mute as she clucked her tongue, urging Brownie to back up. One hand held the trace chain as her other hand stroked the horse's chest, guiding, reassuring, as he clopped backward. What Fitch wouldn't give to have that hand touch him in such a gentle manner.

Her short red hair, so soft, so lustrous, so fetching the way its fullness tapered to turn in and caress the nape of her neck, ruffled in the warm spring breeze.

Fitch waited beside the cart, fearing to say something stupid and have Beata think him a fool. Even though he thought about her often, he figured thoughts about him probably never passed through her mind. That was one thing, but to have her think him a fool would be unbearable. He wished he knew some interesting bit of news, or something to make her have pleasant thoughts about him.

Expressionless, Beata gestured as she walked back to the cart where he stood. "What's wrong with your hand?"

The shape of her, so close, paralyzed him. The dusky blue dress swept up from the top of the flare of the long skirt, hugging her ribs, swelling over her bosom in a way that made him have to swallow to get his breath. Worn wooden buttons marched up the front. A pin with a simple spiral head held the collar closed at her throat.

It was an old dress; she was, after all, a Haken, like him, and not deserving of better. Edges of the blue fabric were frayed here and there, and it faded a little at the shoulders, but Beata made it look somehow majestic.

With an impatient sigh, she snatched up his hand to look for herself.

"It's nothing… it's a splinter," he stammered.

She turned his hand over, laying it palm up in her other as she pinched up the skin to inspect the splinter's depth. He was stunned by the unexpected warm touch of her hand holding his. He was horrified to see that his hands, from being in the hot soapy water cleaning pots and cauldrons, were cleaner than her hands. He feared she would think he did no work.

"I was washing pots," he explained. "Then I had to bring in oak. Lots of heavy oak. That's why I'm sweating."

Without a word, Beata pulled the pin from the top of her dress. The neckline fell open a few inches, revealing the hollow at the base of her neck. His jaw went slack at seeing so much of her, so much she ordinarily kept hidden. He wasn't worthy of her help, much less to look upon the flesh at her throat she meant to be kept hidden. He made himself look away.

Fitch yelped when he felt the sharp pin probe. Frowning in concentration, she- absently muttered an apology as she dug at the splinter. Trying not to contort his face with pain, he instead curled his toes against the dirt as he waited.

He felt a deep, sharp, painful tug. She briefly inspected the long, needle-like oak splinter she'd pulled out, and then tossed it aside. She closed her collar and secured it once again with the pin.

"There you go," she said, turning to the cart. "Thank you, Beata." She nodded. "That was very kind." He followed in her steps. "Uh, I'm to help you take in the load."

He dragged a huge hind section of beef to the end of the cart and ducked under to hoist it onto his shoulder. The weight nearly buckled his knees. When he managed to get it wheeled around, he saw Beata already going up the path with a fat net full of pullets in one hand, and a section of mutton ribs balanced on the other shoulder, so she didn't see his mighty effort.

Inside, Judith, the pantler, told him to get a list of everything the butcher had sent. He bowed and promised he would, but inwardly, he cringed.

When they returned to the cart, Beata ticked off the cargo for him, slapping a hand to each item as she called it out. She knew he couldn't read and so had to commit the list to memory. She took care to make each item clear. There was pork, mutton, ox, beaver, and beef, three crocks of marrow, eight fat skins of fresh blood, a half-barrel of pig stomachs for stuffing, two dozen geese, a basket of doves, and three nets of pullets, counting the one she had already taken in.

"I know I put…" Beata pulled over a net of the pullets, looking for something. "Here it is," she said. "I feared for a moment I didn't have them." She dragged it free. "And a sack of sparrows. The Minister of Culture always wants sparrows for his feasts."

Fitch could feel the heat of his face going red. Everyone knew sparrows, and sparrow eggs, were consumed to stimulate lust-although he couldn't fathom why; lust hardly seemed to him in need of any more stirring. When Beata looked up into his eyes to see if he'd added it to his mental list, he felt the overwhelming need to say something- anything-to change the subject.

"Beata, do you think we'll ever be absolved of our ancestral crimes, and be as pure of heart as the Ander people?"

Her smooth brow twitched. "We are Haken. We can never be as good as the Ander; our souls are corrupt and unable to be pure; their souls are pure, and unable to be corrupt. We cannot ever be completely cleansed; we can only hope to control our vile nature."