A/N : [From this point onwards, you'll start to see the action taper off as I begin to place more focus on character development. Bear with me, if you don't like CD as much as I do, but if you do, enjoy hearing about our eponymous trio of SU characters whom you'll hear about in this chapter :) ]

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

The first thing the boy Steven would remember was the kitchen at Alger's Farm. For the rest of his life, he would always have a special, warm feeling for kitchens and those peculiar sounds and smells that seemed somehow to combine into something bustling with life. A life that had to do with love and food and comfort and security and above all, home. No matter how far Steven would rise in life, he would never forget that all of his good memories began in a kitchen.

The kitchen at Alger's farm was a large, low-beamed room filled with ovens and kettles and great spits that turned slowly in cavernlike arched fireplaces. There were long, heavy worktables where bread was kneaded into loaves and chickens were cut up and carrots and celery were diced with quick, crisp rocking movements of long, curved knives. When Steven was very small, he played under those tables and soon learned to keep his fingers and toes out from under the feet of the kitchen helpers who worked around them. And sometimes in the late afternoon when he grew tired, he would lie in a corner and stare into one of the flickering fires that gleamed and reflected back from the hundred polished pots and knives and long-handled spoons that hung from pegs along the whitewashed walls and, all bemused, he would drift off into sleep in perfect peace and harmony with the world around him.

The centre of the kitchen and everything that happened there was Aunt Pearl. She seemed somehow to be able to be everywhere at once. The finishing touch that plumped a goose in its roasting pan or deftly shaped a rising loaf or garnished a smoking ham fresh from the oven was always hers. Though there were several others who worked in the kitchen, no loaf, stew, soup, roast, or vegetable ever went out of it that had not been touched at least once by Aunt Pearl. She knew by smell, taste, or some higher instinct what each dish required, and she seasoned them all by pinch or trace or a negligent-seeming shake from earthenware spice pots. It was as if there was a kind of magic about her, a knowledge and power beyond that of ordinary people. And yet, even at her busiest, she always knew precisely where Steven was. In the very midst of crimping a pie crust or decorating a special cake or stitching up a freshly stuffed chicken she could, without looking, reach out a leg and hook him back out from under the feet of others with heel or ankle.

As he grew a bit older, it even became a game. Steven would watch until she seemed far too busy to notice him, and then, laughing, he would run on his sturdy little legs toward a door. But she would always catch him. And he would laugh and throw his arms around her neck and kiss her and then go back to watching for his next chance to run away again.

He was quite convinced in those early years that his Aunt Pearl was quite the most important and beautiful woman in the world. For one thing, she was taller than the other women on Alger's farm-very nearly as tall as a man and her face was always serious-even stern-except with him, of course. Her hair was long and very dark-almost black-all but one lock just above her left brow which was white as new snow. At night when she tucked him into the little bed close beside her own in their private room above the kitchen, he would reach out and touch that white lock; she would smile at him and touch his face with a soft hand.

And watch over him she did. Many a night he would wake from restful slumber, conscious but not yet shaken entirely from the vestiges of sleep, to crack open an eye and see his Aunt Pearl in the far corner of the room, reclined in a rocking chair, eyes locked onto his sleeping form.

Every. Single. Time.

It made him feel warm. It made him feel loved. He would let that feeling wash over him, and ride its currents back into the world of dreams.

Once, though he wasn't sure, he thought he saw in place of Aunt Pearl, a snowy white owl preening itself at the windowsill. He blinked and it disappeared, Aunt Pearl in her place at her rocking chair. He wrote it off as a dream.

Alger's farm lay very nearly in the centre of Delmarvia, a misty kingdom bordered on the west by the Sea of the Winds and on the east by the Gulf of Wy-Ate. Like all farmhouses in that particular time and place, Alger's farmstead was not one building or two, but rather was a solidly constructed complex of sheds and barns and hen roosts and dovecotes all facing inward upon a central yard with a stout gate at the front. Along the second story gallery were the rooms, some spacious, some quite tiny, in which lived the farmhands who tilled and planted and weeded the extensive fields beyond the walls. Alger himself lived in quarters in the square tower above the central dining hall where his workers assembled three times a day-sometimes four during harvest time-to feast on the bounty of Aunt Pearl's kitchen.

All in all, it was quite a happy and harmonious place. Farmer Alger was a good master. He was a tall, serious man with a long nose and an even longer jaw. Though he seldom laughed or even smiled, he was kind to those who worked for him and seemed more intent on maintaining them all in health and well-being than extracting the last possible ounce of sweat from them. In many ways, he was more like a father than a master to the sixty-odd people who lived on his freeholding. He ate with them-which was unusual, since many farmers in the district sought to hold themselves aloof from their workers-and his presence at the head of the central table in the dining hall exerted a restraining influence on some of the younger ones who tended sometimes to be boisterous. Farmer Alger was a devout man, and he invariably invoked with simple eloquence the blessing of the Diamonds before each meal. The people of his farm, knowing this, filed with some decorum into the dining hall before each meal and sat in the semblance at least of piety before attacking the heaping platters and bowls of food that Aunt Pearl and her helpers had placed before them.

Because of Alger's good heart, and the magic of Aunt Pearl's deft fingers- the farm was known throughout the district as the finest place to live and work for twenty leagues in any direction.

Whole evenings were spent in the tavern in the nearby village of Upper Geralt in minute descriptions of the near-miraculous meals served regularly in Alger's dining hall.

Less fortunate men who worked at other farms were frequently seen, after several pots of ale, to weep openly at descriptions of one of Aunt Pearl's roasted geese, and the fame of Alger's farm spread wide throughout the district.

The most important man on the farm, aside from Alger, was Bismuth the smith. As Steven grew older and was allowed to move out from under Aunt Pearl's watchful eye, he found his way inevitably to the smithy.

The glowing iron that came from Bismuth's forge had an almost hypnotic attraction for him. Bismuth was a strong, muscled man with rainbow-coloured hair and a slightly cherubic face, both turned a ruddy brown from the heat of his forge.

He was somewhat tall and stout in figure, which made his figure very imposing. Many a shady traveller greeted by Aunt Pearl, Bismuth and Alger would think twice before thinking to try anything. He was sober and quiet, and like most men who follow his trade, he was enormously strong. He wore a rough leather jerkin and an apron of the same material. Both were spotted with burns from the sparks which flew from his forge. He also wore tight-fitting hose and soft leather boots as was the custom in that part of Delmarvia.

At first Bismuth's only words to Steven were warnings to keep his fingers away from the forge and the glowing metal which came from it. In time, however, he and the boy became friends, and he spoke more frequently.

"Always finish what you set your hand to," he would advise. "It's bad for the iron if you set it aside and then take it back to the fire more than is needful."

"Why's that?" Steven would ask.

Bismuth would shrug. "It just is."

"Always do the very best job you can," he said on another occasion as he put a last few finishing touches with a file on the metal parts of a wagon tongue he was repairing.

"But that piece goes underneath," Steven said. "No one will ever see it."

"But I know it's there," Bismuth said, still smoothing the metal. "If it isn't done as well as I can do it, I'll be ashamed every time I see this wagon go by and I'll see the wagon every day."

And so it went. Without even intending to, Bismuth instructed the small boy in those solid Delmarvian virtues of work, thrift, sobriety, good manners, and practicality which formed the backbone of the society.

At first Aunt Pearl worried about Steven's attraction to the smithy with its obvious dangers; but after watching from her kitchen door for a while, she realized that Bismuth was almost as watchful of Steven's safety as she was herself and she became less concerned.

"If the boy becomes bothersome, my dear blacksmith, send him away," she told the smith on one occasion when she had brought a large copper kettle to the smithy to be patched, "or tell me, and I'll keep him closer to the kitchen."

"He's no bother, Miss Pearl," Bismuth said, smiling. "He's a sensible boy and knows enough to keep out of the way."

"You're too good-natured, Bismuth," Aunt Pearl said. "The boy is full of questions. Answer one and a dozen more pour out."

"That's how boys are," Bismuth said, carefully pouring bubbling metal into the small clay ring he'd placed around the tiny hole in the bottom of the kettle. "I was full of questions myself when I was a boy. Me father and old Boll, the smith who taught me, were patient enough to answer what they could. I'd repay them poorly if I didn't have the same patience with Steven."

Steven, who was sitting nearby, had held his breath during this conversation. He knew that one wrong word on either side would have instantly banished him from the smithy. As Aunt Pearl walked back smiling across the hard-packed dirt of the yard toward her kitchen with the new-mended kettle, he noticed the way that Bismuth watched her, and an idea began to form in his mind. It was a simple idea, and the beauty of it was that it provided something for everyone.

"Aunt Pearl," he said that night, wincing as she washed one of his ears with a rough cloth.

"Yes?" she said, turning her attention to his neck.

"Why don't you marry Bismuth?"

He felt her stiffen. "What?" she asked.

"I think it would be an awfully good idea."

"Oh, do you?" Her voice had taken on an iron edge, and Steven knew he was on dangerous ground.

"He likes you," he said defensively.

"And I suppose you've already discussed this with him?"

"No," he said. "I thought I'd talk to you about it first."

"At least that was a good idea."

"I can tell him about it tomorrow morning if you'd like."

His head was turned around quite firmly by one ear. Aunt Pearl, Steven felt, found his ears far too convenient.

"Don't you so much as breathe one word of this nonsense to Bismuth or anyone else," she said, her teal eyes burning into his with a fire he had never seen there before.

"It was only a thought," he said quickly.

"A very bad one. From now on leave thinking to grown-ups." She was still holding his ear.

"Anything you say," he backpedaled hastily.

Later that night, however, when they lay in their beds in the quiet darkness, he approached the problem obliquely.

"Aunt Pearl?"

"Yes?"

"Since you don't want to marry Bismuth, whom do you want to marry?"

He heard her sigh in the darkness. "Steven," she began.

"Yes?"

"Close your mouth and go to sleep."

"I think I've got a right to know," he said in an injured tone.

"Steven!"

"All right. I'm going to sleep, but I don't think you're being very fair about all this."

Unbeknownst to Steven, her face took on a resigned expression, knowing that her next move would change the way he saw her.

"Very well," she sighed. "I'm not thinking of getting married. I have never thought of getting married and I seriously doubt that I'll ever think of getting married. I have far too many important things to attend to for any of that."

"Don't worry, Aunt Pearl," he said, wanting to put her mind at ease. "When I grow up, I'll marry you."

She paused suddenly, before erupting into stifled laughter. She reached out to caress the side of his cheek.

"Oh no, my baby," she said. "There's another wife in store for you."

And Steven was left to wonder what was meant by that.

"Aunt Pearl?"

"What is it now, Steven?"

"Where..." Steven paused. "What happened to my mother?"

The darkness stayed silent for a long, long time. Then, another sigh.

"She died, Steven." she said softly.

Inexplicably, though he barely knew her, he felt a sudden wrenching surge of grief. He began to cry.

And then she was beside his bed. She knelt on the floor and put her arms around him in a warm embrace.

Finally, a long time later, after she had carried him to her own bed and held him close until his grief had run its course, Steven asked brokenly, "What was she like? My mother?"

Had he not known better, Steven would have thought that the sigh she gave then was one of longing.

"She was... lovely." Aunt Pearl said, "She was very brave and very kind and very beautiful. Her voice was gentle, and she was very happy."

"Did she love me?"

"More than you could imagine."

And then he cried again, but his crying was quieter now, more regretful than anguished.

Aunt Pearl held him closely until he cried himself to sleep.

A/N : [If you're wondering where the other two are, patience my friends :) ]