was falling asleep in the warmth of the fire. Then Elena's right hand moved up to the bird's neck. In one deft movement, she twisted and pulled sharply. The pigeon flopped limp in her lap.
She began to pluck it at once. It is always easier when the body is still warm. She ripped the feathers out, letting them drift into a soft mound on a rag she had spread out at her feet. When the bird was clean, she took her knife and ripped open the belly, pulling out the guts before tossing the carcass whole into the iron pot that was already bubbling on the hearth.
Then she went outside to the little wicker cage where the second bird still cooed, its hope undiminished, as if expecting an answering call from its mate. Elena reached inside and gently removed it, soothing it in her hands as she carried it back to her stool next to the steaming pot.
Preparing meals was something she had done ever since she could walk, like every girl in Gastmere. Her mam had taught her, just as her mother taught her before that. Most days Elena hardly wasted a thought on it, as long as there was food to be prepared. Her hands worked steadily as her mind drifted off to other places. But now she suddenly recalled how as a tiny child she had watched her own mother cleaning a bird. The picture was as clear in her head as if she was still there in her mother's cottage, though she had never remembered it before. Fascinated, Elena had pulled herself up on to her wobbly little legs by clutching her mother's skirts. Then, standing unsteadily, she had watched, with the wonder that only a child can know, as the soft grey feathers drifted down in dizzy spirals over her mother's legs, only to be caught by the breeze and lifted again, like a thousand tiny birds in flight. She remembered how she'd reached out her chubby hand to catch them and had overbalanced and tumbled on to the rushes. Her mother, laughing, had bent down to haul her upright again, with big red-raw hands smelling of feathers and onions and blood.
Tears suddenly poured down Elena's face and she realized that she would never feel her own son's dimpled little hands clinging to her skirts as he pulled himself up, never hear him laugh as she blew a dandelion ball for him so that the seeds danced in the shaft of sunlight, and never fashion a little boat of bark for him to bat across a puddle. There were a thousand inconsequential things she would never do for him, trivial things that did not put food in his belly or warm clothes on his back. Silly, time-wasting things, that somehow at this moment mattered more than anything else in her life.
She heard the sound of voices outside and hastily scrubbed the tears from her eyes as the door opened. She tried to compose her face, pressing her hands together to stop them shaking. But she need not have troubled, for Joan didn't bother to glance at her.
'What possessed you to shut the door?' Joan snapped. 'That cooking fire'll have us all roasted alive.'
The older woman sank wearily down on the stool, looking every one of her forty-five years and more. Her face was caked with dust and sweat, and her grey-streaked hair had come loose from its bindings and clung damply to her forehead. Elena, still trembling, pushed a beaker of ale into her hand, while Joan fanned herself with the other. Her mother- in-law just about managed a curt nod, which Elena was willing to believe might be a thank you.
Joan gulped thirstily at the ale, draining the beaker before she spoke. You want to be grateful, my girl, you could work in the shade of the barn today. It was as hot as a baker's oven out in those fields, not so much as a pant of wind all day.' I
Joan glanced out of the open door. The light had almost faded, and in the cottages opposite theirs, rushlights were already being lit.
'They'll have finished the shearing for the day. I thought my son would be home by now.'
'He's probably stopped off at the alewife with his friends,' Elena suggested quietly.
Joan immediately bridled. 'Would you begrudge him a drink to quench his thirst? You want to be thankful you don't have the husband I had. He'd have slept in the inn if I