Spinning Silver
BOOK DESCRIPTION:
NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER • “One of the year’s strongest fantasy novels” (NPR), an imaginative retelling of the Rumpelstiltskin fairy tale from the bestselling author of Uprooted.
NEBULA AND HUGO AWARD FINALIST • NAMED ONE OF PASTE’S BEST FANTASY BOOKS OF THE DECADE • NAMED ONE OF THE TEN BEST BOOKS OF THE YEAR BY THE NEW YORK PUBLIC LIBRARY AND ONE OF THE BEST BOOKS OF THE YEAR BY The New York Times Book Review • NPR • Time • Tordotcom • Popsugar • Vox • Vulture • Paste • Bustle • Library Journal
With the Nebula Award–winning Uprooted, Naomi Novik opened a brilliant new chapter in an already acclaimed career, delving into the magic of fairy tales to craft a love story that was both timeless and utterly of the now. Spinning Silver draws readers deeper into this glittering realm of fantasy, where the boundary between wonder and terror is thinner than a breath, and safety can be stolen as quickly as a kiss.
Miryem is the daughter and granddaughter of moneylenders… but her father isn’t a very good one. Free to lend and reluctant to collect, he has loaned out most of his wife’s dowry and left the family on the edge of poverty–until Miryem steps in. Hardening her heart against her fellow villagers’ pleas, she sets out to collect what is owed–and finds herself more than up to the task. When her grandfather loans her a pouch of silver pennies, she brings it back full of gold.
But having the reputation of being able to change silver to gold can be more trouble than it’s worth–especially when her fate becomes tangled with the cold creatures that haunt the wood, and whose king has learned of her reputation and wants to exploit it for reasons Miryem cannot understand.
Naomi Novik once again creates a wonderfully rich, multilayered fantasy world that readers will want to return to again and again.
PRAISE FOR SPINNING SILVER
“A perfect tale . . . A big and meaty novel, rich in both ideas and people, with the vastness of Tolkien and the empathy and joy in daily life of Le Guin.”—The New York Times Book Review
“Gorgeous, complex, and magical . . . This is the kind of book that one might wish to inhabit forever.”—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“Cool and clever and . . . dire and wonderful.”—Laini Taylor
“The Rumpelstiltskin fairy tale has never been as captivating. . . . Spinning Silver further cements [Novik’s] place as one of the genre greats.”—Paste
SPINNING SILVER ART TOOLKIT
Since Naomi’s fans create some of the best fan art, Del Rey Books has equipped them with some fun tools to create more top-notch work inspired by Spinning Silver. Below is a link for downloading individual Adobe Photoshop PSD files of isolated elements from the cover. Fans can either use these as a reference, or incorporate them in their work. If you’d like to use these, feel free to download them here:
Спиннинг silver by naomi novik
© Сагалова А.Л., перевод на русский язык, 2019
© Издание на русском языке, оформление. ООО «Издательство «Эксмо», 2019
Сказки – это сказки, а по-настоящему все не так уж распрекрасно. По-настоящему какая-нибудь мельникова дочка-златовласка желает заполучить себе в мужья герцога, или князя, или хоть сыночка богатого папаши. Она идет к заимодавцу, берет у него денег на колечко с ожерельем и прихорашивается к празднику. Если она и впрямь красотка, герцог, или князь, или богатейский сынок охотно с ней потанцует, а потом они вдвоем прогуляются в дальний закуток сеновала. Ну и дальше герцог, князь или кто он там едет домой, а дома семейка уже поджидает его с богатой невестой. На ней-то он и женится. А разобиженная мельникова златовласка объявляет на весь свет, что заимодавец, мол, стакнулся с самим дьяволом. И тут уж вся деревня готова на заимодавца накинуться, а то и камнями побить. Девице же только и остается, что приберечь драгоценности для приданого да поскорее выскочить замуж за кузнеца, пока живот не слишком видно.
Сказки – они на самом-то деле о том, что долг платежом красен. А все эти истории про «жили они долго и счастливо» – это так, ерунда. Я-то знаю, как оно бывает. Потому что мой отец был заимодавцем.
По правде сказать, в этом деле мастер он был невеликий. Если кто не возвращал нам деньги вовремя, отец об этом даже не заикался. Но рано или поздно в кладовой становилось вовсе шаром покати и башмаки начинали просить каши. И тогда мама, дождавшись, когда я уйду спать, что-то тихонько говорила отцу. Он нехотя плелся к заемщикам, стучался в разные двери и чуть ли не умолял вернуть то, что они у нас взяли. А если в доме вдруг заводились деньги и кто-то являлся, чтобы одолжиться, отец ненавидел отказывать. Хотя нам самим-то едва хватало. Так что все его деньги – впрочем, по большей части это были мамины деньги, из ее приданого – уплывали в чьи-то чужие руки. И все вокруг были довольны – а лучше постыдились бы! – и трезвонили всякое о моем отце направо и налево, даже меня не стесняясь. Или нарочно, чтобы я слышала.
Отец моей матери тоже был заимодавцем, только очень хорошим. Жил он в Вышне, милях в сорока по старому торговому тракту. Тракт этот, весь в колдобинах, тянулся от одной деревни к другой словно веревка с грязными узелками. Мама часто брала меня с собой к деду, если у нас находилось несколько пенни заплатить за провоз бродячему торговцу. Мы устраивались на задке его повозки или саней и ехали – раз пять или шесть приходилось пересаживаться. Иногда по пути меж деревьев мелькала другая дорога – та, что принадлежала Зимоярам. Она блестела, как заснеженный речной косогор под зимним солнцем. «Не смотри, Мирьем», – всегда говорила мне мама, но я все равно краешком глаза подглядывала и пыталась запомнить. Потому что, кто бы ни вез нас с мамой, он всегда в этом месте стегал лошадей и погонял их, пока Зимоярова дорога не скрывалась из виду.
Однажды мы услышали позади стук копыт, точно лед трескался, – кто-то съехал с Зимояровой дороги. Наш торговец хлестнул лошадей, и те припустили что было мочи к ближайшему укрытию. Повозка встала за деревом, а мы съежились внутри среди тюков, и мама обхватила мне голову рукой, чтобы я не подглядывала. Всадники проскакали мимо не останавливаясь – что им повозка бедного жестянщика с котелками да кастрюлями? Зимояры охотятся только за золотом. Нестройный перестук копыт стих вдали, а нас как ножом полоснуло резким порывом ветра. Когда я выпрямилась, оказалось, что моя тощая косичка вся заледенела, и прикрывавший меня мамин рукав, и наши спины тоже. Но мороз мигом спал, и жестянщик говорит маме: «Ну, отдохнули – и будет, пора в путь». Он вроде бы и не помнил, почему мы остановились.
Мама ему в ответ: «Верно», – и кивает, и тоже будто бы позабыла, зачем мы ждали среди деревьев. Жестянщик забрался на козлы, цокнул лошадям, и мы поехали дальше. Я в ту пору была уже не такая маленькая, поэтому кое-что запомнила. Но, правда, и не слишком большая, и потому мне было не до Зимояров: куда больше меня заботили кусачий холод и ноющий голод. Мне не терпелось добраться до города и очутиться в дедушкином доме, и я помалкивала. А то ляпнешь что-нибудь невпопад – и снова придется останавливаться.
Бабушка всегда припасала для меня новое платье: совсем простого кроя и уныло-бурого цвета. Зато теплое и сшитое на совесть. И каждую зиму меня ждала новенькая пара кожаных башмаков – без заплаток и трещин по краям, и они мне не жали. Бабушка кормила меня до отвала трижды в день, и в наш последний вечер она неизменно пекла творожный пирог – ее особенный творожный пирог, весь такой золотистый снаружи, а внутри белый, и рассыпчатый, и сытный. На вкус он немножко отдавал яблоками, а сверху бабушка клала для красоты сладкие золотые изюмины. Я не спеша смаковала каждую крошечку – а мне всегда доставался кусок шире моей ладони. И после творожного пирога меня укладывали спать наверху, в просторной уютной спальне, где мама с сестрами спали в детстве. Я ложилась на мамину узкую кровать – деревянную, изукрашенную резными голубками. А мама садилась со своей мамой возле камина и клала голову ей на плечо. Они не разговаривали, но когда я чуточку повзрослела и перестала засыпать в первую же минуту, я смотрела на них и видела, что на щеках у обеих в отсветах камина блестят слезы.
Мы ведь всякий раз могли остаться. В дедушкином доме нам хватило бы места, и тут нам были бы рады. Но мы всегда уезжали назад, домой, потому что любили отца. С деньгами он обращаться не умел, зато был бесконечно добр и ласков и старался, как мог, загладить свои неудачи: он день-деньской торчал в холодном лесу, пытаясь раздобыть еды и дров. А дома он брался за что угодно, лишь бы помочь маме. Никакой женской работы не гнушался. Когда мы ходили голодные, отец голодал пуще всех нас; он все время подсовывал свою еду к нам на тарелки. И вечерами у очага он никогда не сидел без дела – все время что-то выстругивал и вырезал: то новую игрушку для меня, то узор какой-нибудь на стуле, то деревянную ложку.
Но очень уж долгими и безотрадными были зимы. Сколько я себя помнила, каждый новый год был хуже прошлого. У нашего городка стен не было, да и названия-то по большому счету тоже. Одни говорили, что наш город зовется Пакел, потому что он возле дороги. Но другие на них шикали и цыкали: слово «дорога» им не нравилось, напоминало, что мы живем возле Зимояровой дороги. И они утверждали, что имя города – Павис, потому что стоит он на берегу реки. Однако нанести наш городишко на карту так никто и не удосужился, поэтому спор закончился ничем. А меж собой мы называли наш город просто «город». Он располагался в трети пути из Вышни в Минаск; в месте, где дорогу с востока на запад пересекала небольшая речка. Так что путников у нас привечали, да и рынок всегда был полон товара, что привозили крестьяне на лодках. Правда, больше похвастаться нам было нечем. Знать нами особо не интересовалась, да и царь в Корони тоже. Я долго не могла сообразить, кому же мы платим подати, пока случайно в дедушкином доме не услышала, что герцог Вышни гневается, поскольку доход с нашего городка падает год от года. Холода подкрадывались из леса все раньше и раньше, губили наш урожай.
В год, когда мне минуло шестнадцать, нагрянули Зимояры. Они пришли на исходе осени, в последнюю неделю, когда зима уже стояла на пороге. Их рыцари, бывало, рыскали тут в погоне за золотом. У нас частенько рассказывали: будто бы блеснет что-то, а потом рядом лежит покойник, и что там блестело, толком никто не помнит. За последние семь лет зимы сделались свирепее, а Зимояры – ненасытнее. Еще не все листья упали с деревьев, а Зимояры уже сошли со своей дороги и напустились на богатый монастырь, всего в каком-то десятке миль от нас. Перебили дюжину монахов, выкрали золотые подсвечники, и золотую чашу, и все иконы, писанные золотом. И все это золото утащили в свое неведомое королевство – туда, куда ведет их дорога.
Спиннинг silver by naomi novik
Read on for an extract from Uprooted
The real story isn’t half as pretty as the one you’ve heard.
The real story is, the miller’s daughter with her long golden hair wants to catch a lord, a prince, a rich man’s son, so she goes to the moneylender and borrows for a ring and a necklace and decks herself out for the festival. And she’s beautiful enough, so the lord, the prince, the rich man’s son notices her, and dances with her, and tumbles her in a quiet hayloft when the dancing is over, and afterwards he goes home and marries the rich woman his family has picked out for him. Then the miller’s despoiled daughter tells everyone that the moneylender’s in league with the devil, and the village runs him out or maybe even stones him, so at least she gets to keep the jewels for a dowry, and the blacksmith marries her before that firstborn child comes along a little early.
Because that’s what the story’s really about: getting out of paying your debts. That’s not how they tell it, but I knew. My father was a moneylender, you see.
He wasn’t very good at it. If someone didn’t pay him back on time, he never so much as mentioned it to them. Only if our cupboards were really bare, or our shoes were falling off our feet, and my mother spoke quietly with him after I was in bed, then he’d go, unhappy, and knock on a few doors, and make it sound like an apology when he asked for some of what they owed. And if there was money in the house and someone asked to borrow, he hated to say no, even if we didn’t really have enough ourselves. So all his money, most of which had been my mother’s money, her dowry, stayed in other people’s houses. And everyone else liked it that way, even though they knew they ought to be ashamed of themselves, so they told the story often, even or especially when I could hear it.
My mother’s father was a moneylender, too, but he was a very good one. He lived in Vysnia, forty miles away by the pitted old trading road that dragged from village to village like a string full of small dirty knots. Mama often took me on visits, when she could afford a few pennies to pay someone to let us ride along at the back of a peddler’s cart or a sledge, five or six changes along the way. Sometimes we caught glimpses of the other road through the trees, the one that belonged to the Staryk, gleaming like the top of the river in winter when the snow had blown clear. “Don’t look, Miryem,” my mother would tell me, but I always kept watching it out of the corner of my eye, hoping to keep it near, because it meant a quicker journey: whoever was driving the cart would slap the horses and hurry them up until it vanished again.
One time, we heard the hooves behind us as they came off their road, a sound like ice cracking, and the driver beat the horses quick to get the cart behind a tree, and we all huddled there in the well of the wagon among the sacks, my mother’s arm wrapped around my head, holding it down so I couldn’t be tempted to take a look. They rode past us and did not stop. It was a poor peddler’s cart, covered in dull tin pots, and Staryk knights only ever came riding for gold. The hooves went jangling past, and a knife-wind blew over us, so when I sat up the end of my thin braid was frosted white, and all of my mother’s sleeve where it wrapped around me, and our backs. But the frost faded, and as soon as it was gone, the peddler said to my mother, “Well, that’s enough of a rest, isn’t it,” as if he didn’t remember why we had stopped.
“Yes,” my mother said, nodding, as if she didn’t remember either, and he got back up onto the driver’s seat and clucked to the horses and set us going again. I was young enough to remember it afterwards a little, and not old enough to care about the Staryk as much as about the ordinary cold biting through my clothes, and my pinched stomach. I didn’t want to say anything that might make the cart stop again, impatient to get to the city and my grandfather’s house.
My grandmother would always have a new dress for me, plain and dull brown but warm and well-made, and each winter a pair of new leather shoes that didn’t pinch my feet and weren’t patched and cracked around the edges. She would feed me to bursting three times every day, and the last night before we left she would always make cheesecake, her cheesecake, which was baked golden on the outside and thick and white and crumbly inside and tasted just a little bit of apples, and she would make decorations with sweet golden raisins on the top. After I had slowly and lingeringly eaten every last bite of a slice wider than the palm of my hand, they would put me to bed upstairs, in the big cozy bedroom where my mother and her sisters had slept as girls, in the same narrow wooden bed carved with doves. My mother would sit next to her mother by the fireplace, and put her head on her shoulder. They wouldn’t speak, but when I was a little older and didn’t fall asleep right away, I would see in the firelight glow that both of them had a little wet track of tears down their faces.
We could have stayed. There was room in my grandfather’s house, and welcome for us. But we always went home, because we loved my father. He was terrible with money, but he was endlessly warm and gentle, and he tried to make up for his failings: he spent nearly all of every day out in the cold woods hunting for food and firewood, and when he was indoors there was nothing he wouldn’t do to help my mother. No talk of woman’s work in my house, and when we did go hungry, he went hungriest, and snuck food from his plate to ours. When he sat by the fire in the evenings, his hands were always working, whittling some new little toy for me or something for my mother, a decoration on a chair or a wooden spoon.
But winter was always long and bitter, and every year I was old enough to remember was worse than the one before. Our town was unwalled and half nameless; some people said it was called Pakel, for being near the road, and those who didn’t like that, because it reminded them of being near the Staryk road, would shout them down and say it was called Pavys, for being near the river, but no one bothered to put it on a map, so no decision was ever made. When we spoke, we all only called it town. It was welcome to travelers, a third of the way between Vysnia and Minask, and a small river crossed the road running from east to west. Many farmers brought their goods by boat, so our market day was busy. But that was the limit of our importance. No lord concerned himself very much with us, and the tsar in Koron not at all. I could not have told you whom the tax collector worked for until on one visit to my grandfather’s house I learned accidentally that the Duke of Vysnia was angry because the receipts from our town had been creeping steadily down year to year. The cold kept stealing out of the woods earlier and earlier, eating at our crops.
And the year I turned sixteen, the Staryk came, too, during what should have been the last week of autumn, before the late barley was all the way in. They had always come raiding for gold, once in a while; people told stories of half-remembered glimpses, and the dead they left behind. But over the last seven years, as the winters worsened, they had grown more rapacious. There were still a few leaves clinging to the trees when they rode off their road and onto ours, and they went only ten miles past our village to the rich monastery down the road, and there they killed a dozen of the monks and stole the golden candl
esticks, and the golden cup, and all the icons painted in gilt, and carried away that golden treasure to whatever kingdom lay at the end of their own road.
The ground froze solid that night with their passing, and every day after that a sharp steady wind blew out of the forest carrying whirls of stinging snow. Our own little house stood apart and at the very end of town, without other walls nearby to share in breaking the wind, and we grew ever more thin and hungry and shivering. My father kept making his excuses, avoiding the work he couldn’t bear to do. But even when my mother finally pressed him and he tried, he only came back with a scant handful of coins, and said in apology for them, “It’s a bad winter. A hard winter for everyone,” when I didn’t believe they’d even bothered to make him that much of an excuse. I walked through town the next day to take our loaf to the baker, and I heard women who owed us money talking of the feasts they planned to cook, the treats they would buy in the market. It was coming on midwinter. They all wanted to have something good on the table; something special for the festival, their festival.
So they had sent my father away empty-handed, and their lights shone out on the snow and the smell of roasting meat slipped out of the cracks while I walked slowly back to the baker, to give him a worn penny in return for a coarse half-burned loaf that hadn’t been the loaf I’d made at all. He’d given a good loaf to one of his other customers, and kept a ruined one for us. At home my mother was making thin cabbage soup and scrounging together used cooking oil to light the lamp for the third night of our own celebration, coughing as she worked: another deep chill had rolled in from the woods, and it crept through every crack and eave of our run-down little house. We only had the flames lit for a few minutes before a gust of it came in and blew them out, and my father said, “Well, perhaps that means it’s time for bed,” instead of relighting them, because we were almost out of oil.
By the eighth day, my mother was too tired from coughing to get out of bed at all. “She’ll be all right soon,” my father said, avoiding my eyes. “This cold will break soon. It’s been so long already.” He was whittling candles out of wood, little narrow sticks to burn, because we’d used the last drops of oil the night before. There wasn’t going to be any miracle of light in our house.
He went out to scrounge under the snow for some more firewood. Our box was getting low, too. “Miryem,” my mother said, hoarsely, after he left. I took her a cup of weak tea with a scraping of honey, all I had to comfort her. She sipped a little and lay back on the pillows and said, “When the winter breaks, I want you to go to my father’s house. He’ll take you to my father’s house.”
The last time we had visited my grandfather, one night my mother’s sisters had come to dinner with their husbands and their children. They all wore dresses made of thick wool, and they left fur cloaks in the entryway, and had gold rings on their hands, and gold bracelets. They laughed and sang and the whole room was warm, though it had been deep in winter, and we ate fresh bread and roast chicken and hot golden soup full of flavor and salt, steam rising into my face. When my mother spoke, I inhaled all the warmth of that memory with her words, and longed for it with my cold hands curled into painful knots. I thought of going there to stay, a beggar girl, leaving my father alone and my mother’s gold forever in our neighbors’ houses.
I pressed my lips together hard, and then I kissed her forehead and told her to rest, and after she fell fitfully asleep, I went to the box next to the fireplace where my father kept his big ledger-book. I took it out and I took his worn pen out of its holder, and I mixed ink out of the ashes in the fireplace and I made a list. A moneylender’s daughter, even a bad moneylender’s daughter, learns her numbers. I wrote and figured and wrote and figured, interest and time broken up by all the little haphazard scattered payments. My father had every one carefully written down, as scrupulous with all of them as no one else ever was with him. And when I had my list finished, I took all the knitting out of my bag, put my shawl on, and went out into the cold morning.
I went to every house that owed us, and I banged on their doors. It was early, very early, still dark, because my mother’s coughing had woken us in the night. Everyone was still at home. So the men opened the doors and stared at me in surprise, and I looked them in their faces and said, cold and hard, “I’ve come to settle your account.”
They tried to put me off, of course; some of them laughed at me. Oleg, the carter with his big hands, closed them into fists and put them on his hips and stared at me while his small squirrelish wife kept her head down over the fire, darting eyes towards me. Kajus, who had borrowed two gold pieces the year before I was born, and did a good custom in the krupnik he brewed in the big copper kettles he’d bought with the money, smiled at me and asked me to come inside and warm myself up, have a hot drink. I refused. I didn’t want to be warmed. I stood on their doorsteps, and I brought out my list, and I told them how much they had borrowed, and what little they had paid, and how much interest they owed besides.
They spluttered and argued and some of them shouted. No one had ever shouted at me in my life: my mother with her quiet voice, my gentle father. But I found something bitter inside myself, something of that winter blown into my heart: the sound of my mother coughing, and the memory of the story the way they’d told it in the village square so many times, about a girl who made herself a queen with someone else’s gold, and never paid her debts. I stayed in their doorways, and I didn’t move. My numbers were true, and they and I knew it, and when they’d shouted themselves out, I said, “Do you have the money?”
They thought it was an opening. They said no, of course not; they didn’t have such a sum.
“Then you’ll pay me a little now, and again every week, until your debt is cleared,” I said, “and pay interest on what you haven’t paid, if you don’t want me to send to my grandfather to bring the law into it.”
None of them traveled very much. They knew my mother’s father was rich, and lived in a great house in Vysnia, and had loaned money to knights and even, rumor had it, to a lord. So they gave me a little, grudgingly; only a few pennies in some houses, but every one of them gave me something. I let them give me goods, too: twelve yards of warm woolen cloth in deep red, a jar of oil, two dozen good tall candles of white beeswax, a new kitchen knife from the blacksmith. I gave them all a fair value—the price they would have charged someone else, not me, buying in the market—and I wrote down the numbers in front of them, and told them I would see them next week.
On my way home, I stopped in at Lyudmila’s house. She didn’t borrow money; she could have lent it herself, but she couldn’t have charged interest, and anyway no one in our town would have been foolish enough to borrow from anyone but my father, who would let them pay as they liked or didn’t. She opened the door with her practiced smile on: she took in travelers overnight. It came off when she saw me. “Well?” she said sharply. She thought I had come to beg.
“My mother is sick, Panova,” I said, politely, so she’d keep thinking it just a little longer, and then be relieved when I went on to say, “I’ve come to buy some food. How much for soup?”
I asked her the price of eggs after, and bread, as though I were trying to fit them to a narrow purse, and because she didn’t know otherwise, she just brusquely told me the prices instead of inflating them twice over. Then she was annoyed when I finally counted out six pennies for a pot of hot soup with half a chicken in it, and three fresh eggs, and a soft loaf, and a bowl of honeycomb covered with a napkin. But she gave them to me grudgingly, and I carried them down the long lane to our house.
My father had come back home before me; he was feeding the fire, and he looked up worried when I shouldered my way in. He stared at my arms full of food and red wool. I put my load all down and I put the rest of the pennies and the one silver kopek into the jar next to our hearth, where there were only a couple of pennies left otherwise, and I gave him the list with the payments written on it, and then I turned to making my mother comfortable.
After that, I was the moneylender in our town. And I was a good moneylender, and a lot of people owed us money, so very soon the straw of our floor was smooth boards of golden wood, and the cracks in our fireplace were chinked with good clay and our roof was thatched fresh, and my mother had a fur cloak to sleep under or to wear, to keep her chest warm. She didn’t like it at all, and neither did my father, who went outside and wept quietly to himself the day I brought the cloak home. Odeta, the baker’s wife, had offered it to me as payment in full of her family’s debt. It was beautiful, dark and light browns; she’d brought it with her when she married, made of ermines her father had hunted in the boyar’s woods.
That part of the old story turned out to be true: you have to be cruel to be a good moneylender. But I was ready to be as merciless with our neighbors as they’d been with my father. I didn’t take firstborn children exactly, but one week late in the spring, when the roads were finally clear again, I walked out to one of the peasant farmers in the far fields, and he had nothing to pay me with, not even a spare loaf of bread. Gorek had borrowed six silver kopeks, a sum he’d never repay if he made a crop every year of the rest of his life; I didn’t believe he’d ever had more than five pennies in his hand at once. He tried to curse me out of the house at first, casually, as many of them did, but when I held my ground and told him the law would come for him, real desperation came into his voice. “I have four mouths to feed!” he said. “You can’t suck blood from a stone.”
I should have felt sorry for him, I suppose. My father would have, and my mother, but wrapped in my coldness, I only felt the danger of the moment. If I forgave him, took his excuses, next week everyone would have an excuse; I saw everything unraveling again from there.
Then his tall daughter came staggering in, a kerchief over her long yellow braids and a heavy yoke across her shoulders, carrying two buckets of water, twice as much as I could manage when I went for water to the well myself. I said, “Then your daughter will come work in my house to pay off the debt, for half a penny every day,” and I walked home pleased as a cat, and even danced a few steps to myself in the road, alone under the trees.