The number of times old Benek had asked about his granddaughter's father: Once.
The number of times Daine had asked about her Da: Too many.
Sarra sighed. The question had come up - once again. The girl seemed to be the most curious around Beltane and around her name day.
"Someday I'll tell you," she told her daughter, pulling the heavy pot off the fire.
Daine frowned. "You say that every year, Ma. Why won't you tell? Is it someone that was married?"
Sarra shook her head. "No. Come help me with the washing, miss."
Daine followed her, obedient but sullen. "Even if it's just his name." Her eyes were pleading. "If you knew his name, why'm I Sarrasri and not named for him? He didn't want me?"
Sarra looked away. She couldn't tell her child the truth, but she was fair tired of telling the same lie again and again. "No, dearheart." She hugged Daine around the shoulders. "Don't think like that."
"Ma, if he wasn't a trader and he wasn't a married man, who was he?" Daine was old enough to have been hurt by the villagers' talk - and she was too clever for her own good. She was no longer happy with the story of a Beltane night in the wood.
Sarra shook her head, sadly. If she told the truth, her child would never believe her. Who would? Daine, like everyone else, would think she'd run mad. How many times was she to tell the same lies?