Beguilement by Lois McMaster Bujold Read Free Book Online Page B

thimbles and a collection of fine iron needles. Were the blight bogle’s—malice’s—mud-men all men then? Did it make any mud-women? It seemed not.
    She decided she would sew up some of the slashed feather ticks in payment for the food, so it wouldn’t feel so stolen. Sewing was not her best skill, but straight seams would be simple enough, and it would put an end to the messy, desolate feather wrack drifting about the place. She hauled the ticks out onto the porch, for the light, and so she could watch down the lane for a tall—for whoever. Needle and thread and fine repetitive work made a soothing rhythm under her hands. In the quiet, her mind circled back to this morning’s terror.
    Dwelling on it started to make her feel sick and shaky again. As an alternative, she wrenched her thoughts to Lakewalkers.
    Farmer to a Lakewalker didn’t mean someone who grew crops; it meant anyone who wasn’t a Lakewalker. Townsmen, rivermen, miners, millers—bandits—evidently they were all farmers in Dag’s eyes. She wondered at the implications. She’d heard a story about a girl from over to Coshoton who had been seduced by a passing Lakewalker, a trading man, it was said. She had run away north three times to Lakewalker country after him, and been brought back by his people, then hanged herself in the woods. A cautionary tale, that. Fawn wondered what lesson you were supposed to draw from it. Well, Girls should stay away from Lakewalkers was the one obviously intended, but maybe the real one was, If something doesn’t work once, don’t just repeat it twice more, try something else, or Don’t give up so soon. Or Stay out of the woods.
    The nameless girl had died for thwarted love, it was whispered, but Fawn wondered if it hadn’t been for thwarted rage, instead. She had, she admitted to herself, had some such thoughts after that awful talk with Stupid Sunny, but it wasn’t that she’d wanted to die, it was that she’d wanted to make him feel as bad as he’d made her feel. And it had been rather flattening to reflect that she’d not be alive to properly enjoy her revenge, and even more flattening to suspect he’d get over any guilt pretty quick. Long before she’d get over being dead, in any case. And she’d done nothing that night after all, and by the next day, she’d had other ideas. So maybe the real lesson was, Wait till morning, after breakfast.
    She wondered if the hanged girl had been pregnant too. Then she wondered anew how the tall man had known, seemingly just by looking at her with those eyes, their shimmering gold by sudden turns cold as metal or warm as summer.
    Sorcerers, huh. Dag didn’t look like a sorcerer. (And what did sorcerers look like anyhow?) He looked like a very tired hunter who had been too long away from home. Hunting things that hunted him back.
    A girl baby. Maybe he was just guessing. Fifty percent odds weren’t half-bad, for appearing right, later. Still, it was an encouraging thought. Girls she knew. A little boy, however innocent, might have reminded her too much of Sunny.
    She hadn’t meant to be a mother so soon in her life at all, but if she was going to be stuck with it, she would very well try to be a good one. She rubbed absently at her belly. I will not betray you. A bold promise. How was she to keep a child safe when she couldn’t even save herself? Also, from now on, I will be more careful. Anyone could make a mistake. The trick was not to make the same one twice.
    She eventually ran out of ripped fabric, patience to brood, and the will to stay awake. Her bruised face was throbbing. She hauled the repaired ticks back inside and piled them four deep in a corner of the kitchen, because the next room was still a disheartening mess and she hadn’t the energy left to tackle it. She fell gratefully onto the pile. She had barely time to register the musty scent of them, and reflect that they were overdue for an airing anyhow, when her leaden eyes closed. Fawn woke to the