Grethe did not remember what happened after the Master told her, in a wobbly voice, that her house had fallen into the lake with her family still inside. She was later told that she had run toward the site, and that Hamish had grabbed her arm just in time to keep her from falling into the churning, bubbling rubble. They were down there. Somewhere in that roiling cauldron was Mama, and Papa, and her own dear Bain. Bain could hold his breath longer than anyone Grethe knew. Perhaps he would bob to the surface in a minute, scared and hurt but alive.

"You stayed on the walk for two hours," Mistress Grundel informed her later. "If any dared try to move you, you screamed and struck. I'm afraid you've taken cold, sweet."

"I was waiting for Bain to come back up," said Grethe numbly. At the sound of his name, Lisette began to sob again, flinging herself in Grethe's lap.

Mistress Grundel tactfully transferred her daughter to her own lap and sat patting her hair.

"There, there, Lizzie, there now."

Grethe did not cry. She thought that if she cried she might feel better. Then again, she might feel worse, or the same. So she just sat quietly. When anyone spoke to her, she gazed at them blindly. She did not eat.

On the second day, after she had failed to get more than an hour's sleep at a time in Lisette's bed, Mistress Grundel took her aside.

"Of course you'll stay with me and Lizzie," she said kindly. "But there's...oh, dear. How shall I say it?"

Grethe looked at her hands and waited.

"Your finances are not well," Mistress Grundel said delicately. "You've lost everything."

Why was she saying this? Of course Grethe had lost everything. How could she possibly fail to perceive that?

Bain'll come up, he must come back up...

"Very little of it will be recoverable, I'm sorry to say. His books were your father's most valuable property, and...well, you know how fragile such things are. They will be quite worthless, even if they can be got back from the Lake."

"Yes," said Grethe. Then, remembering something through her fog of misery, "P-Papa told me he had some books of rare worth, which he stored in the Treasury. If I sold those, couldn't I have enough to live on?"

"Well…" said Mistress Grundel. "Oh, dear. My poor sweet girl, the difficulty is that the collapse caused a great deal of damage to the town. The shockwaves might have weakened other foundations. It was your father's duty to ensure his own foundations were firm, and you know the legality of it is that...is that…"

"The Master won't give me my father's books," said Grethe, comprehending. Mistress Grundel sighed.

"Exactly so," she said, seeming relieved that Grethe had understood so quickly. "The sale of the books will pay for fortifications under the whole town. But as I said, of course you may stay with me until a suitable marriage can be arranged. I've already begun making inquiries on your behalf and I'm happy to say that your troubles will soon be at an end, my sweet."

"What do you mean?"

"My brother, the Master, regrets most keenly that the law prevents you having the proceeds from your father's books, but of course he has the good of the town to think of. But he does not wish to leave you with nothing. My dear Grethe, he has offered to marry you himself."


Was it only two months ago—three?—when Bard had promised that if aught changed, he would ask Grethe if she'd meant it when she said that she would have him? He had known that nothing would ever come of it, for how could his fortunes ever right themselves?

It had never occurred to him that such a change might slant both ways.

Bard had never been one for frequenting taverns, but in the evenings following the tragedy, when all his work was done and the Sindra tied up outside, he would lurk in the corner of The Dormer and listen to the chatter.

"Master's left the wee lass with not a ha'penny," said one codger over the foam of his pint. "Pulled the law on her."

"A law her own clot-head Da wrote," sneered Cidery Pummas. "An' serve 'im right, too!"

"Eh, be that the lass's fault?" threw in old Sorgen from the other side of the room. "She's as nice a lass as she is bonny. It's a fell shame what Masterbones is fixin' to do to her."

Bard's heart hammered under his coat.

"What's Masterbones fixin'?" asked Pummas, an eager glint in his eye. Bard leaned forward to hear.

"What I heard from Hamish down south-a-ways, who heard it from the Master's own valet, is that the law mighter protected Miss Grethe, only he'd ruther protect 'er hisself."

"I bet he would," roared someone behind Sorgen.

"Aye," sighed Sorgen sadly, "she'll marry 'im, see if she don't, with it all fixed so she has to or starve. An' her too good for a man o' three times his worth. The world is full o' shit, friends, an' it lands on all alike."

"Lands on us more than her," put in the drunken codger.

"Well," said Pummas scathingly, "let 'er marry the Master, an' see how she likes it. Swimming in silks and jools, she'll be, and all for a very reasonable cost."

"An' what cost is that, Pummy?" shouted a fellow with a serving-girl in his lap.

"Why, there's but one reason a man'd take a wife half his age," laughed Pummas. Bard stood up quickly, knocking his stool back. In the din, no one noticed. "Who wants to saddle up a nag when ye kin ride a filly bare?" He stood up and began thrusting his hips obscenely against the drunken codger beside him. "If anyone kin get that cold fish o' the Master's to flop on a line, it's wee Grethe. An' if she gets tired o' fishin for his sardine, I got a trout she might try—"

Pummas was flying over the trestle table and into the fireplace before he even realized Bard had struck him. Bard vaulted over the table and lay into the man blindly, till his fist was bloody and the teeth were loose in Pummas's head. Dimly he was conscious of someone plucking at his arm on every upswing, but he did not stop beating the prone and bleeding man until Sorgen upended a whole bucket of steaming urine over his head. Bard leapt to his feet and spun around, teeth bared, to face a roomful of riled, well-sauced men standing silently with their hands on their knives.

"Come, now, Bard," Sorgen muttered, taking Bard by the shoulder and hustling him out the door. "Come along, ye stink of piss. Ye'd better get those clothes off, and a bite of stew in you. Time to sober up."

"I've not been drinking," said Bard through clenched teeth.

"Then what were ye thinkin', ye great lout?" said Sorgen. "Pickin' fights in broad public an' all… I allus took ye fer more sensible than that, lad. I heard what he was sayin', an' if he'd gone on a mite longer I'd ha' tossed the bucket o' piss in his face. He'd ha' been shamed, and everyone'd ha' had a good laugh, if I'd ha' done it. But you, Bard, you… Ye'd best watch behind yer back for a while, lad, fer all it pains me to have to say. I did think you'd more sense."

Sorgen steered Bard to his own front door. "Sal'll gut me an' you both if I let you in smellin' like that, laddie, so ye'd best strip t'yer skivs out here. There's an empty bucket ye kin fill with Lake water, and cram yer clothes in to soak. Mind ye don't use the rainbarrel, or we'll ha' naught to drink but ale till next storm." He went inside.

Bard stood shivering in the cold and the dark. Then he did as Sorgen had said, and stooped to dip a large wooden bucket in the lake. He stripped out of his coat and boots and tunic and shirt and breeches, dropped them all in the bucket, and went into the house.

"Ye poor, soddin' fool," Sal clucked, draping a blanket on Bard's bare shoulders. "Sorgen told me what ye did. Ye know she's not your'n, lad."

"Aye," said Bard, shivering. "I do know."

But there were things you could change, and things you couldn't; and Bard had made a promise.


When several days after the tragedy Grethe finally woke from her hollow dream-state, she wanted more than anything to cry. But she could never be alone to do it, and she couldn't bring herself to cry in front of Lisette or Mistress Grundel.

And the Master wanted to marry her. It was all Mistress Grundel ever talked about.

"He's not so very much older than Bain...er, would have been," she said. Lisette ran out of the room, her face in her handkerchief. Grethe smoothed the skirt of her borrowed dress and pretended to be deaf while Mistress Grundel detailed an endless list of what she must have thought were the Master's virtues.

"...Provide for you, Grethe, and well." She seemed to be nearing the end of the list. "And you must realize, my dear, that you are unlikely to have any other suitable offers. It is really very good of my brother to do this for you."

Grethe let her eyes drift to the window and stared blankly at the empty gray Lake. There was only one boat on the water now: a tiny ketch, little more than a black speck on the water.

"You should not leave him waiting, but should answer as soon as may be. You know he was a great friend of your father's, dear."

The boat was turning toward Southpier, drawing near enough for her to begin to make out its details. Its sole occupant was someone tall and black-haired and rough.

"I think I may say that your father, rest his soul, would have been overjoyed at the union."

"Pardon me," said Grethe, rising quickly. "I feel ill."

"Of course, dear," said Mistress Grundel. "Why don't you go and have a lie-down, and I'll have Marta bring you some chamomile."

Grethe walked up the stairs to Lisette's room. Lisette was sleeping on top of her covers, her fist clenched around a wrinkled and tear-stained letter.

Grethe quietly unlaced her bodice and stepped out of her borrowed skirt. She pulled her own clothes from Lisette's wardrobe where they sat neatly folded, and began to dress herself. On went the woolen stockings and chemise—the boots—stays and hip roll—two petticoats and green skirt—dark red bodice—shawl, cloak, fur muff. Last of all Grethe tied her yellow ribbon around the knot of her hair, closed the door softly behind her, and slipped silently down the stairs and through the front door. She walked down the front path to the gate, where the gatekeeper was assiduously denying someone entrance.

"What is this?" she asked.

"It's only Mad Bard, here to beg," replied the gatekeeper, bowing slightly. "Will you be wishing an escort, Miss? As you see the Lake has yielded an unsavory catch today."

"Grethe," Bard said through the bars of the gate. "I promised that if aught should change, I would come to you and ask if what you said that day was true, and I'm here to ask it."

"If you like, Miss," said the gatekeeper, "I can call the mastersmen. The scoundrel will not come inside these gates while I stand watch."

"If you'll not let him in, then you must let me out," said Grethe coldly.

Too surprised to prevent her, the gatekeeper watched dumbly as Grethe pushed past him and through the gate. Bard had tied his boat to Mistress Grundel's own private dock; it was so small it was almost lost to view beside the larger craft there moored. Grethe walked over to it and climbed awkwardly down the ladder, her arms and legs feeling stiff. Bard dropped lightly in a moment later, and cast off. Behind them, the gatekeeper was running back toward the house yelling, his hand on his wig.

"Row faster, Bard," said Grethe quietly, without looking back again.


They had only a short time to talk; Bard knew that once Grethe's flight had been made known, he would be a hunted man. But some things must be said, and quickly. Before they reached the dock.

"Does the Master really want to marry you?" Bard asked.

"Yes," said Grethe.

"And will ye not change your mind about him?"

Grethe's only answer was a scowl of disgust.

"Can ye not find some lad better suited to ye in life?"

"You are perfectly suited to me in every way," Grethe said, "or at least I thought you were, before you started asking foolish questions."

"I only want to be sure, lass," Bard said gently. "Ye've lost everything ye ever had, and I'll not have ye throw your life away on me because you're desperate."

"If you turn me away now," said Grethe, "I will have lost everything."

"I'll not turn ye away," Bard said. "If you're sure, then we must act quickly. The Master'll have me in a cage as soon as he hears of this. I dare not put down at a clerk, but we can have a handfasting if we can rustle up two witnesses."

"That will be fine," said Grethe. Bard watched her face as he rowed. He'd never imagined she could look like this, with jaw set and eyes so stony. He wanted to reach out and touch her cheek, but didn't dare; and besides, he could not afford to stop rowing.

Bard did not tie up at a dock, but pulled his ketch alongside a deserted bit of boardwalk and helped Grethe onto it. He looped the boat's rope around a rotted piling and climbed up after her, and they ran as quietly as they could toward Sorgen and Sally Ague's house. Down every alleyway he heard shouting, and stomping boots. He hoped their pursuers would go to his house first.

Bard pounded on the door for what seemed an age before Sally finally opened it.

"What d'ye mean by—" she gasped, but Bard pushed Grethe past Sally into the house, and darted in after her.

"We want to be married," Bard said quickly. "Will you and Sorgen stand witness?"

Sally gaped, a brown wad of savvyroot visible in her cheek. Sorgen came bursting through the front door.

"Sal," he wheezed, latching it tight behind him, "it's all over town our Bard's just kidnapped—" He saw Bard standing with Grethe, and blinked, and looked as if he might faint, and then squinted at them just to be sure his first glimpse hadn't lied to him. "'Ere, Miss, are you kidnapped or what?"

"Bard says they want to be married," said Sally helplessly, "and will we stand witness?"

"Cor," said Sorgen. "Miss Grethe, is this all as Sal says, or 'as she been at the herb again?"

Grethe lifted her chin defiantly. "It is true," she said. "The quicker the better, if you please."

"Well, I allus did say short engagements were best," Sally averred. "All righty, then, take hands, and say what I say."

Grethe took Bard's hands in hers before he even had time to be ashamed of their roughness, and the dirt under the nails. She looked up into his eyes steadily.

"Are you quite sure, Grethe?" he asked again. She squeezed his fingers sternly.

"If you ask me one more time if I'm sure," she said, "I will never speak to you again, Bard, and our next fifty years together will be horrible. Now hush and let me marry you." Sally uttered the brief rite for them to repeat.

"Bard, I marry you in good faith, to be your wife and share your fate."

A face looked in through the front window and shouts sounded on the boardwalk outside. There was a jolt of violent pounding on the door.

"Grethe, I marry you in good faith—" Bard said, as the door flew off its hinges, and three mastersmen burst into the room.

"—to be your husband and share your fate," he finished in a rush, and then their hands were wrenched apart, and a knee in his gut made him double over, all the breath blown out of him.

"Let him go! Stop that at once!" Grethe shouted. Bard reflected, as he was dragged bodily from the house, that his wife had a good pair o' lungs on her, at that.


A/N: Thanks for reading! What do you think of this turn of events?

A/N 2.0: I should have mentioned sooner, but Grethe's name is pronounced "Gretta".