Sect Year 8 · third month · night of day 3 · the silent life: the house on the third terrace, his eightieth year
It was a warm night at the end of summer, and the shutters of the house on the third terrace stood open on the river. Ossel lay on his back under a light blanket with the sound of the water coming up through the window. Anwen lay beside him. Her hand was on his, and her knuckles had thickened over the last ten years, so that he could feel each one when he moved his thumb. Outside, a late cart went down the valley road with its lamp swinging, and the light went along the wall of the house and was gone.
“Wax is up again,” she said.
“The factor said it would be.”
“The factor says everything will be dear.” She turned her head on the pillow. “He’s right about the wax, though. He’s wrong about the bean-growers.”
“The bean-growers would sell you their own goats and call it a gift.”
Anwen laughed in the dark. “Do you remember the swarm in the plum tree?”
“I remember you holding the sheet the wrong way.”
