roll yer body like a barrel. But on a good day it’s wide and bright as the sea. And I think about the shack and the smoker and the sound of that old river breathin in and out on the shore. So if I was honest, and I don’t see why I should be, but if I was, then I miss it.’
Salter eyes were shining as the memory of his old life poured from his lips. Now Moss thought about it, it made sense that he missed the river that he’d rowed and fished all his life. She wondered how often his thoughts drifted back to those old ways.
‘So what about you, Leatherboots?’
‘Me?’
‘You said yerself, life is good here. So what’s the problem?’
‘It’s kind-of hard to explain. All my life I dreamed of being far away from the Tower and the Hill and, you know, the executions. To be free. To be with Pa, living somewhere just like this, in a village with fields and bluebell woods.’
‘So? Ain’t too many that get their dreams fer real.’
‘Yes, but now we’re here,’ Moss stared at the slow burn of the fire, logs shedding their feathery ash. ‘Now we’re here and everything’s fine, well, I guess there’s room to think of other things.’
‘Such as?’
‘Well, things . . . from our past. Do you ever think of your father and your mother?’
Salter blinked.
‘I was just wondering,’ she said.
Salter’s gaze dropped. He shuffled the embers with the toe of his boot.
‘Spend too long in the past,’ he said, ‘And you might not find yer way back.’
The fire spat. On his pallet, Pa shifted.
Salter stood up. ‘I’m turnin in. Much as I’d like to, can’t hang about all night chit-chattin.’
‘Night, Salter.’
But he didn’t reply. Moss watched him splash a little water on his face from the bucket. Then he disappeared into his corner, drawing the heavy wool curtain behind him.
‘Moss!’ Pa was calling from the forge.
‘Coming Pa!’ Moss beat the soil from her hands and clomped in from the vegetable patch where she’d been digging up skirrets. Pa was already pumping the bellows, sparks shooting out of the fire.
‘Here.’ She shook the skinny fist of roots. ‘Not too bad for a second crop. If Salter gets us some rabbits, we’ll have a good stew.’
Salter had gone at first light. Moss had heard him from her pallet in the little alcove by the fire. She’d said nothing, just listened to the sound of him pulling his boots on, munching on a hunk of bread while he dressed. She’d wriggled down under her blanket. These noises were as familiar to her now as the crackle of logs. It was as though Salter had always lived with them.
Pa was tying the beaten leather apron behind his back. She looked to the table. On it was a little jug with a sprig of hazel poking out of the top. She’d placed it there for Pa that morning before she’d gone out. All those months ago when she’d walked out of the Tower with no word of where she was going, Pa was so distraught it had almost killed him. A sprig of leaves or a few flowers left in the jug was her unspoken way of telling him that she was coming back. That she loved him.
‘Farmer Bailey’s bringing up Big Sal for shoeing this morning,’ said Pa. ‘She’s an old mare and no mistake. Most wouldn’t bother with an animal you can neither ride nor work. But Farmer Bailey’s got a soft spot for that horse.’
‘I’ve seen him,’ said Moss. ‘He leads her to the sweetest meadow grass. Talks to her while she eats.’
Pa smiled. ‘Would you say she listens?’
‘Yes, I’m sure she does. And you know, Pa, I think Big Sal talks to Farmer Bailey too.’
Pa nodded. ‘It’s a rare friendship, that one. Men like to think they are the master of beasts. But I don’t think Big Sal would agree.’ He took down the hammer, tongs and creaser from their hooks on the wall.
Moss watched him lay his tools neatly next to the anvil. Gentle, careful Pa. Who avoided the river if he could and liked to walk the woods at sunset. Moss had spent many evenings last autumn crunching through the leaves by his side. This way, little by little, Moss had learnt of her mother. That she was green-eyed and tangle-haired. That she had freckles on her nose and a dimple in her cheek and was so much like her daughter. That she sang when she was sad. That she’d once climbed to the top of a tree to pick a red-ripe apple, just for Pa.
Moss clutched at these fragments of her mother. But no matter how hard she tried to make Pa’s memories her own, she couldn’t. They were from a distant place that only he could reach. All the same, she clung to them. They were all she had.
‘There are still blackberries in West Woods,’ said Moss. ‘I’ll go up there now, see if I can catch Salter on his way back.’
‘Just a minute.’
‘What is it?’
‘Over there,’ said Pa. ‘There’s something for you.’
‘For me?’
There was a sackcloth bundle on the table, tied with string.
‘Open it,’ said Pa.
Moss pulled at the string and the sackcloth fell away. Inside was more cloth, a smooth, tightly-woven wool. Carefully, Moss picked it up, unfurled it.
‘Oh, Pa.’
It was a dress. Soft and green. The colour of new leaves.
‘Pa, how did you –?’
‘We’ve been plenty busy since we got here,’ he said. ‘Shod horses, mended hoes, made new knives for the innkeeper. Our first year was a good year, Moss. And you’ve outgrown those old rags you’ve had since goodness knows when.’
‘But this must have cost so much, Pa.’
‘Well, never mind that.’ He smiled and his tired face brightened, and Moss could see how happy it made him to give her this dress.
‘I’ll try it on,’ she said.
She tucked herself into her little alcove, pulled off her old dress and tugged the new one over her head. The wool was light
