Alred begins to see

Little though he liked Cedric as a possible suitor for Gwynn—for little he liked the idea of having mutual “grandrunts” with Leofric—Alred was nevertheless annoyed to see Eirik’s blond head rear up in the place where Cedric’s had been for a moment: beside his daughter’s.

He had taken Kraaia to the far end of the line to permit Gwynn to dance with the partner of her choosing. Now the only pleasure in it for him was in the knowledge that it would seem a punishment to Kraaia, and that was a pleasure both unworthy of and unflattering to him. Therefore he was somewhat relieved when Margaret interrupted them after only a dance or two.

“Papa?” she asked with babyish sweetness. “Where is Hetty?”

Margaret had reached an age where the name “Papa” was resurrected whenever she wanted something he was not otherwise likely to grant, but she was not yet old enough to realize he knew it.

He smiled indulgently. “Margaret, poor Hetty has gone to bed a little early, and we can hardly blame her.”

“But I need her,” she pleaded.

“What do you need, my dear? Perhaps I can help you.”

“I don’t think you can…” She bit her lip and looked away.

“Why not?” he asked softly. He was beginning to worry. Margaret did not often show distress.

“Because… come over here, Papa.”

She put her hand—still as tiny as a child’s—into his and led him over to the wall.

“What is it?” he breathed.

Suddenly she doubled over, clutching her stomach. Her wistful face twisted into a grimace of pain, jolting him with a pain of his own that slipped between his ribs like the thin blade of a knife.

“Because it’s a female problem!” she squeaked.

“Oh my—my…”

He could hardly tell her she was not a female… but she was not! She was nothing but the tiny baby he had held on his lap when he worked, and carried in a sling when he rode, and held in his arms when he napped. His tiny baby could not have reached the age where she could have tiny babies…

But it would explain the strange pallor and thinness of her face lately—her babyish softness was simply melting away, revealing the woman’s face beneath. It would explain her recent bouts of brooding. It would explain her sudden willingness to submit to the long tedium of ironing her wild hair smooth and flat “like Mother’s”.

It would also explain the constant presence of Conrad at her side all evening. He would never again look at the boy—at the young man—with quite the same eye.

“Are you… certain?” he whispered.

She gave him a look that proved she was no longer too young to find her father exceedingly stupid.

Perhaps it was worth waking Hetty after all. Perhaps she was not even yet asleep… how many dances had they had?

Then he remembered how affected she had been when Gwynn had crossed that threshold. Could he ask that of her now, when she had barely had the strength to stand up straight and ask him whether she might retire? Could it not wait until morning?

He was but a man, and in such matters men seldom failed to do the wrong thing, but he could not allow Hetty to make a martyr of herself, even for his own daughter.

“Well, Margaret, let us suppose you talked to Eadie for tonight? Or your sister? Could you not?”

Her face seemed to grow round and babyish again, though perhaps it was only that her pouting lips and pleading eyes—both unmistakably his own—reminded him of her toddler’s face.

“And you and Hetty may… ah… dress your dolls in the morning.”

She gave him that look again: as he had feared, he had said something stupid. It was true that Margaret might no longer have any dolls with sufficient limbs remaining to make them dressable.

“Or… whatsoever is done on such… occasions,” he mumbled.

“But I want Hetty now,” she whined.

“Margaret, please,” he begged. “Simply talk to Eadie, and if Eadie thinks Hetty should be woken, we shall certainly wake her. But we must think of Hetty, too. She seemed so tired…”

Margaret’s eyes flashed, appearing for a moment more like her mother’s than his. “In a hurry to get to bed?”

“Margaret!” he gasped.

Margaret turned on her heel and stormed back to the bench—and to Conrad—looking very much like a tiny Matilda from behind, with her long, straight hair, her lifted nose, and most unmistakably her stomping.

Alred very nearly went after her, but then he recalled that women were known to be peevish and irrational at such times. Instead he stumbled back to Kraaia, grateful to have nothing more complicated to do than dance.

He thought he had solved Hetty’s problem gracefully enough, but Gwynn’s seemed to have unsolved itself with the retreat of Cedric, and Margaret’s was only resolved insofar as he had prevented Hetty from being disturbed.

He was just thinking that he was grateful to have no other ladies in his family besides three-​year-​old Brunhilde when another problem showed up, in a very different guise.

“Oh, no!” he groaned. “You’re not my wife, you’re not my daughter, and you won’t be my son for at least a few more years yet, so I hope you aren’t here looking for my assistance in some delicate matter.”

Conrad blanched. “No, my lord…”

“Very well, then,” Alred laughed in relief and some slight embarrassment. Gwynn was right—Kraaia did have a tendency to smirk.

“I was simply wondering…” Conrad began slowly, “whether you—or Kraaia!—might have… might know where Leofric may be.”

“I?” Alred gasped.

“Or Kraaia!” Conrad said, smiling reassuringly.

“I haven’t seen him since supper,” Kraaia sniffed.

“Jupiter!” Alred snorted. “I nearly forgot he was here. He’s probably playing with Haakon and the boys. Wheresoever grandrunts are found, there doting Leofric is sure to be.”

“I wish you would find him,” Kraaia said to Conrad, with a meaningful glance at her dancing partner.

“I already checked with Haakon and Heaf and the Old Man,” Conrad said. “He isn’t there.”

“Then look in the kitchens,” Alred snapped. “There are mead and maids aplenty there, which will surely attract Leofric if grandchildren don’t. I’m certain I don’t know where he is.”

“Yes, my lord,” Conrad said meekly.

“And nor do I care,” Alred muttered as he lifted his arms and turned back to Kraaia.

But Conrad had scarcely seated himself beside Margaret when Alred’s arms slowly dropped again and his dancing feet came dragging to a stop.

“My dear,” he said coolly to Kraaia, “I beg your pardon, but young Squire Cedric seems to lack the wherewithal to steal a partner for himself, so I feel duty-​bound to surrender mine.”

Kraaia did not await further instruction but danced straight over to Cedric’s chair.

Alred meanwhile walked straight to the door. It was another of Sigefrith’s axioms that there was no such thing as inexplicable behavior—only unseen explanations. Alred was beginning to see.