All Fall Down by Sally Nicholls

Ned.
    â€œMaybe. But we couldn’t have left him on his own, could we?”
    â€œNo-o,” says Ned, but he doesn’t look sure. “Do you think we’ll catch the pestilence off him, though?”
    â€œOh, Ned, how should I know?” I run a little way forward, to get away from his questions. “I’d rather die than turn Robin out!” I call over my shoulder, but I’m not sure if I’m telling the truth.
    Back in the house, Alice has Robin sitting on a stool by the fire, with a bowl of bean pottage and a hunk of bread. He still hasn’t said anything. His face is very white in the dimness.
    â€œCome in and get something to eat!” she says, when we appear. She stands up and takes my buckets of water from me. As she tips the first bucket over the cauldron, the cauldron swings, casting high shadows over Edward, who starts to wail in his crib. Alice drops the bucket down on the earth.
    â€œWhist, child, can’t you, for once in your blessed life? Here –
Isabel, take him for me. It’s just wind,” she says, thrusting him into my arms as his screams grow louder. So maybe she’s more fussed about Robin coming to us than she pretends.
    Â 
    We give Robin the warm place in the middle of our mattress, next to Mag. Mag wants to whisper and show him all her things – “This is my dolly – look, Robin! – and those are the bags where Father keeps the barley, so the rats don’t eat it. And that’s—”
    â€œHush up , Mag.” I reach over Robin and shove her. “Robin doesn’t care about Father’s barley.”
    Mag’s face crumbles.
    â€œDon’t be so cruel, Isabel! I’ll tell Alice!”
    â€œOh, be quiet.” Ned is in bed already, curled up in a ball with far more than his share of the blankets. “It’s time to sleep .” Ned would sleep all day if you let him.
    He and Mag fall asleep almost immediately – you can tell from the slow in-and-out of their breath. I’m not used to sleeping by Robin, so I’m not sure if he’s sleeping or not. I’ve been this close to him before, but I’ve never been so aware of the warm, dark shape of him, lying on his side beside me. It makes me feel bigger and clumsier than usual, and I’m very aware every time I turn over or tug on the blankets. I lie awake for what seems like hours. Father and Alice are awake too – I can hear them mumbling to each other through the solar floor, the old, quiet, comforting sound of their voices. It reminds me of being small, listening to Mother clattering around the house, putting the cover over the hearth, washing out the pans, tidying things away or working at her loom, me up here between Geoffrey and Ned, too awake to sleep, watching by the orange candlelight from the chink between the blanket-curtains.
    At last, Father and Alice’s voices stop. The house is silent except for the occasional sigh from the oxen, and the others’ snuffly breathing in the dark. I lie on my side with my eyes open and this bedfellow fear, the fear that kept Father and Alice awake beneath me, which made Agnes tell us to leave a fourteen-year-old alone in an empty house. What will happen when this thing comes to us? I think, and I don’t have an answer.
    I roll over on to my stomach, and see Robin’s eyes, open and white and watching in the darkness.
    â€œYou’re awake.”
    â€œYeh.”
    â€œRobin . . .”
    â€œWhat?” I reach out my hand and touch his arm, but I don’t answer. “What, Isabel?”
    â€œI thought you were going to die,” I say.
    â€œSo did I.”
    I lie there on my stomach beside him in the dark, very still, and after the longest time I hear his voice catch in the darkness, so I know he’s crying, and I shuffle closer to him on the mattress and bump my forehead against his, but he doesn’t respond, and he hardly feels like my Robin