Chapter 8 One Bite of It

Scarlett’s POV (Before the War)

I'd set a place for Ash next to mine three times before supper and moved it back twice. Naomi said if I touched his cup again, she'd tell Father why.

He was already at the head of the table when we came in. He stayed seated and pointed his knife at the chair on his right.

"Sit."

Ash sat before I could say that I'd put his cup somewhere else. Father liked having people beside him when he wanted to question them. I moved my own chair closer to Ash's while the bread was being passed. Caleb noticed and lowered his head over his plate.

"Where did you get that wound?" Father asked.

"On the ridge above the west gap."

"Where were you before that?"

"I moved around. I didn't stay anywhere long."

"Which pack are you from?"

Ash lowered his fork without having taken a bite. "I don't belong to one now."

Father tore his bread in half and passed some down the table. "I asked where you're from."

Ash looked at him but said nothing. I glanced at the food cooling on his plate.

"Caleb checked the wound," I said. "He says it's healing well."

Father turned toward me briefly, then looked back at Ash. "How long have you been without a pack?"

"Long enough that I've stopped counting."

"He eats like a river wolf," I said. "Look at the way he—"

"I asked him, Scarlett."

I sat on my hands to stop myself reaching for something to pass Ash. Father pushed his cup aside.

"And if someone comes looking for you?"

"They won't."

"You're sure?"

"Yes."

My face was growing hot. Ash hadn't complained, but he hadn't managed to eat, either.

"Papa, his food's going cold."

Father paused, then picked up the dish he'd made himself: roasted roots with honey and a great deal of black pepper. He pushed it toward Ash.

"Try that."

Ash served himself and took a bite while Father watched. He chewed, swallowed and set down his fork.

"That's good. Thank you."

"Papa, you only ate one bite of it yourself."

For a moment nobody spoke. Then the miller laughed into his cup, and the boy beside him began to laugh too. Others joined in while Father glared at me. I tried not to smile quite so much, but I wasn't going to pretend I hadn't noticed his plate.

I moved the dish away from Ash and pushed the bowl of stew closer to him.

"That one's better."

Caleb passed him the salt without looking up. Father watched me serve Ash some stew, then reached for his cup.

"He's your guest. You see that he gets enough."

I was happy to do that. At least he could eat now. I kept the stew near enough for him to take more and tried to leave him alone long enough to finish it.

Near the end of the meal, the miller's younger daughter dropped the wooden wolf she'd been playing with. It rolled beneath the long table and struck one of the supports. Her sister tried to scramble after it, but their mother caught her by the collar.

Two men bent down to look. Neither could reach the toy from where he sat, and there wasn't much space beneath the table.

"I'll carve you another," Father said.

"No. I want that one."

Her mouth trembled. Ash put down his cup and got up. Before anyone else moved, he lowered himself onto the floor, lay on his side and edged beneath the table on his good shoulder. Father watched with his cup halfway to his mouth. I leaned forward, trying to see under the table without getting in the way.

The lamplight didn't reach far enough. We heard him bump a support, then scrape a boot against the boards. I was about to ask whether he could reach it when he began backing out, the wolf in his hand.

His hair stuck up where he'd caught it against the table. I nearly laughed, then noticed how carefully he got to his feet, keeping his injured arm close to his body.

He turned the wolf over before handing it back, running a thumb along its carved legs.

"These are a bit thin. You'll have to be careful with them."

The girl took it in both hands and examined the legs. The other children began climbing down from the bench to look. One asked whether Ash could carve another. Someone else wanted a bear, and a third wanted a wolf with its legs bent as though it were running.

"He can make them," I said before he'd answered.

Ash looked at me. I'd volunteered him for rather a lot, but he didn't refuse. The smallest child climbed back onto the bench to get nearer, asking how soon he could start. I moved a cup out of the way before it could be knocked over.

Father sat drinking at the head of the table. I glanced at him to see what he made of Ash being surrounded by children, but he gave me no help.

"Scarlett. See him out."

I stood so quickly that my chair shifted, and I caught its back to steady it.

Someone from the family always walked a guest to the gate, with a servant carrying the lamp. I took the lamp myself and led Ash outside. I wanted to ask him about supper without everyone listening.

"Did you have enough? There's more stew."

"Plenty."

"You didn't have to eat those roots."

"He'd made them himself."

"Papa likes you. He doesn't offer that dish to just anyone."

Ash didn't answer. I held the lamp a little higher so I could see his face.

"He does ask a lot of questions. Did it bother you?"

"It was his table."

"That doesn't tell me whether it bothered you."

For a while we walked without speaking. Then he said, "He's careful about who he lets near his family."

"He's like that with everyone. You should hear him questioning Caleb."

"I can imagine."

We passed through the gate and stopped at the fork where the track led between the birches to the lodge. It was dark down there. Ash would have to get the fire going when he returned. I wondered whether I should have kept him at the table longer, or sent some hot food back with him after all.

"I'd come again," he said. "If he'd have me."

"Next time I pick the food."

He laughed and started down the track. I held up the lamp until he disappeared behind the birches, then turned toward the house. The wind caught me as I came around the corner, and I hurried inside.

He'd said he wanted to come again. I'd been so busy answering about the food that I hadn't thought to ask what he'd liked. Perhaps he hadn't minded Father's questions as much as I had. I hoped he'd liked sitting next to me, too.

The dining room lamps were still lit, and the dishes hadn't been cleared. Father's roasted roots sat where I'd left them, more than half uneaten, the honey drying around the edges. I took a piece to see whether Ash could possibly have meant what he'd said.

It was awful. Far too much pepper, and even the honey couldn't cover the burnt taste. Nothing else on the table had been that bad.

I put the dish back where I'd found it and went upstairs to my room.