wouldn't do right," he said.
She frowned. He wasn't smiling. He didn't seem to be taunting her. Yet … no, it couldn't be. She didn't trust her own judgment.
Yet he appeared to be trying her plant-singing out.
He sang his own song to the plant and the stars and the dark, his tune echoing hers, though his voice carried the rhythm into more of a melody. With his hand, he rustled the leaves of the hedge that shaded the primroses, as she had. Then, stranger still, he looked at her and sang the words to her.
To her.
"I hope tomorrow is easier, and I get something right," he sang, his words so soft that she had to strain to hear them.
Edwina didn't know how to react to his appropriating of her foolishness. She said nothing.
He stopped. They stared at each other. He opened his mouth as if to speak.
But all she could do was turn quickly and walk toward her back door.
She didn't want him to explain or make excuses, if he was being kind. If he was being something else, she didn't want to know.
* * *
Mick watched as the tall woman with delicate-like feelings marched away. The moon was just behind the house, so he saw her only for a few seconds before she fell into house's shadow. She was movement in the dark, then the latch of her back door clicked, and she was gone.
Begger me, he thought, but she was an easy girl to chase away. What an odd one Win was.
She sang to the moon. Or to plants or to something out here. She wouldn't sing to him, even though he'd invited her to. He didn't think he would ever see anything more tender or sad than the way she told her problems to no one: to leaves. And he couldn't think of anything more brave than carrying on anyway with a such a load. She was strong, Winnie Bollash. As strong a woman as he knew. Capable-like.
And the most vulnerable creature he'd ever met.
----
Chapter 7
« ^ »
T hey spent all the next day doing tests. It was late in the evening when they began the last of these, with Edwina striking a tuning fork into vibration. "Tell me when the sounds stops for you."
She went to touch it behind Mr. Tremore's ear, but he pulled back sharply. "What you be doin'?"
"It's a hearing test. Though let's fix some of your grammar while we do it. Two birds with one stone. I'd like you to stop using be with every pronoun—"
"Every what?"
"It doesn't matter. It's not What you be doing. It's What are you doing. You are, we are, I am, he or she is."
He wasn't listening. He tilted his head, watching her, frowning as she bounced the tuning fork again in her palm.
She reached toward him. "Say when you stop hearing it—"
He drew back again the moment the fork touched his mastoid. "What you got there?"
She paused, looked across the table at him. "It's a way of testing your hearing. Everything I have to teach you is based on your ability to hear it, so I have to be sure you can hear what I say."
He pulled his mouth to the side, slanting his mustache. "So I could do this wrong, too? Hear things wrong?"
"No." She laughed. "You could have poor hearing, I suppose, but there would be nothing you could do about it."
He interpreted her answer as yes, he could fail here, too. He shook his head, then caught her hand when she reached to touch him again with the tuning fork. He said, "Let's do somethin' else. Let's talk. That's what you said we'd be doin' a lot of." From nowhere, he said, "Milton says you be gentry. Are you a"—he hesitated—"a baroness or somethin'?"
"No." What in the world? "I have no title." Then, yes, she thought. Conversation to distract him. Absently, she corrected herself as she set the fork humming again. "Oh, I'm still technically, I suppose, Lady Edwina Bollash, daughter of the sixth Marquess of Sissingley." He withdrew slightly, but let her put the fork on his bone. "Say, will you, when it stops humming."
After a few seconds, he nodded.
She quickly put the fork to her own ear. Nothing. "Good," she said, then struck it again, holding it this time to her ear
She frowned. He wasn't smiling. He didn't seem to be taunting her. Yet … no, it couldn't be. She didn't trust her own judgment.
Yet he appeared to be trying her plant-singing out.
He sang his own song to the plant and the stars and the dark, his tune echoing hers, though his voice carried the rhythm into more of a melody. With his hand, he rustled the leaves of the hedge that shaded the primroses, as she had. Then, stranger still, he looked at her and sang the words to her.
To her.
"I hope tomorrow is easier, and I get something right," he sang, his words so soft that she had to strain to hear them.
Edwina didn't know how to react to his appropriating of her foolishness. She said nothing.
He stopped. They stared at each other. He opened his mouth as if to speak.
But all she could do was turn quickly and walk toward her back door.
She didn't want him to explain or make excuses, if he was being kind. If he was being something else, she didn't want to know.
* * *
Mick watched as the tall woman with delicate-like feelings marched away. The moon was just behind the house, so he saw her only for a few seconds before she fell into house's shadow. She was movement in the dark, then the latch of her back door clicked, and she was gone.
Begger me, he thought, but she was an easy girl to chase away. What an odd one Win was.
She sang to the moon. Or to plants or to something out here. She wouldn't sing to him, even though he'd invited her to. He didn't think he would ever see anything more tender or sad than the way she told her problems to no one: to leaves. And he couldn't think of anything more brave than carrying on anyway with a such a load. She was strong, Winnie Bollash. As strong a woman as he knew. Capable-like.
And the most vulnerable creature he'd ever met.
----
Chapter 7
« ^ »
T hey spent all the next day doing tests. It was late in the evening when they began the last of these, with Edwina striking a tuning fork into vibration. "Tell me when the sounds stops for you."
She went to touch it behind Mr. Tremore's ear, but he pulled back sharply. "What you be doin'?"
"It's a hearing test. Though let's fix some of your grammar while we do it. Two birds with one stone. I'd like you to stop using be with every pronoun—"
"Every what?"
"It doesn't matter. It's not What you be doing. It's What are you doing. You are, we are, I am, he or she is."
He wasn't listening. He tilted his head, watching her, frowning as she bounced the tuning fork again in her palm.
She reached toward him. "Say when you stop hearing it—"
He drew back again the moment the fork touched his mastoid. "What you got there?"
She paused, looked across the table at him. "It's a way of testing your hearing. Everything I have to teach you is based on your ability to hear it, so I have to be sure you can hear what I say."
He pulled his mouth to the side, slanting his mustache. "So I could do this wrong, too? Hear things wrong?"
"No." She laughed. "You could have poor hearing, I suppose, but there would be nothing you could do about it."
He interpreted her answer as yes, he could fail here, too. He shook his head, then caught her hand when she reached to touch him again with the tuning fork. He said, "Let's do somethin' else. Let's talk. That's what you said we'd be doin' a lot of." From nowhere, he said, "Milton says you be gentry. Are you a"—he hesitated—"a baroness or somethin'?"
"No." What in the world? "I have no title." Then, yes, she thought. Conversation to distract him. Absently, she corrected herself as she set the fork humming again. "Oh, I'm still technically, I suppose, Lady Edwina Bollash, daughter of the sixth Marquess of Sissingley." He withdrew slightly, but let her put the fork on his bone. "Say, will you, when it stops humming."
After a few seconds, he nodded.
She quickly put the fork to her own ear. Nothing. "Good," she said, then struck it again, holding it this time to her ear
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