Bard woke with a terrible need to urinate. He was warm—that was good, he'd not been warm since summer—and there was a smell of food, with a slightly burnt twinge to it which did nothing to prevent his mouth from flooding with saliva. How long had it been since he'd ate? How long had it been since he woke from sleep to smell food already cooking? And who was cooking it? Had Da gone to bed sober enough to pour a handful of grits in a bowl to cook by the fire overnight?

"Salt...salt…" a distracted female voice said quietly, somewhere out of view, and Bard woke the rest of the way up, remembering.

"I'sin the brown bowl by the window upstairs," he said. There was a stifled shriek of startlement, and pattering feet, and Grethe's head came into view.

"Oh, Bard," she half-sobbed, taking his hand and squeezing it. "You haven't said a word in days, I thought your brain was touched by fever and you'd been addled…"

"How long has it been?"

"Three days since you...since…"

Three days since he'd been beaten worse than ever he'd been beaten in his life. Three days since he'd been married. And what a sorry start he'd made, not that he expected the marriage to last…

Which meant he'd missed three days of work. Bard sat bolt upright, and his whole midsection seized with agonizing cramps. Grethe tried, unsuccessfully, to push him back down. Bard struggled to his feet, cringing involuntarily with every movement. By the time he was standing more or less upright, he was breathless from the effort of not screaming.

Grethe slid her shoulder under Bard's arm. "You shouldn't be standing," she said. "You were very badly hurt."

"I have to pi—make water," he said through clenched teeth. Holding it in was half the cause of his cramps.

"I put a bowl next to you," she said. "You didn't have to get up."

"An' make ye clean it up?" he responded, taking a tentative step. Oh, mercy but that hurt. It made the water slosh inside him so he almost wet himself standing there.

"I've been cleaning it up for days," said Grethe patiently. "You had blood in your urine the first few times, but it came out more clean after that."

To his horror, Bard realized that he was wearing a pair of Da's ancient breeches, the ones too riddled with holes to be used outside the house. He certainly did not remember putting them on, which meant…

"Bard, you're blushing," said Grethe.

Bard struggled the few steps to the cubby in one corner. He did not have the energy or the time to unfasten the breeches, and simply fished around for a hole large enough to piss through, leaning on the palm of his hand against the opposite wall. As the muscles in his gut relaxed, much of the pain did, too.

Grethe was bobbing around behind him, trying to peek. Bard shifted so his shoulder blocked her.

"Bard, I must see what color it is," she said reproachfully.

"En't I got eyes?" said Bard. "It's yellow. Same color it always is."

"Dark yellow or light?"

"Middlin'."

"Any orange to it, or brown?"

"Grethe…" he groaned.

"Well?" He heard one small foot tapping impatiently behind him.

"No," he said, beaten. "Just ordinary piss."

"I do wish you'd let me see. Is there an odor to it, Bard?"

"Too late," said Bard, "I'm finished." He'd never been so glad to be done pissing in all his life.

"Come and sit," said Grethe, steering Bard over to the table. He was relieved to sit down again; he was starting to feel dizzy after his exertions in the water-cubby.

Grethe spooned him a bowl of mush from the old iron kettle hanging over the fire. "Let it lie a minute," she instructed. "I'll get the salt." She clambered up the ladder to the second story, and came back down again with the small saltpot cradled in her arm. She placed it on the table, sprinkled a pinch of salt from it onto Bard's bowl, stirred it vigorously for him, and finally slid the breakfast over.

"Eat it slow," she cautioned. "You've had naught to eat but water and arnica tea for three days or more."

"I have to hurry," said Bard. "I've missed so much work it'll be a miracle if I have any contracts left I haven't broken."

"Your contracts are fine," said Grethe. "Your Da took over for the first two days, while you were in the Cage and then the day after. Then he said he couldn't go so long sober and disappeared, so I got Goffried to do it. He's on the Sindra now."

"An' what am I to pay him with? The last o' the coin went to sturdying the foundations," Bard said without thinking. Grethe's face crumpled, and Bard realized what he'd said. "Grethe, I'm sorry," he said, "I didn't mean to remind ye…" He reached across the table to take her hand.

"It's all right," she said in a small voice. "I'm glad that's been done. I'd rather have sturdy foundations than money."

"But I can't pay Goffried," said Bard. "I haven't got enough."

"I agreed to mend some things for him," said Grethe, shaking off her sadness with a visible effort. "I mended his shirt and breeches for the first day, and then patched up his coat for the second. And I found your Da in The Dormer and dragged him home, and he's sobering up to take over for Goffried tomorrow. You can't think of poling a barge, not in the shape you're in. And why aren't you eating?"

Bard obediently took a bite. It tasted richer than he could remember it tasting before.

"Butter?" he asked, swallowing.

"Aye," said Grethe. "I traded Auld Bettine a wreath of paper flowers for butter and cheese. Young Bettine's getting married and needed a headdress still."

"Where'd ye get the paper flowers?" asked Bard.

"I made them."

"Out of what paper?"

"Some scrap I found in the office upstairs, and some colored paper from Gentle Lou."

"Go on, then," said Bard, "what'd ye trade to Gentle Lou?"

"A kiss," said Grethe matter-of-factly. Bard fumbled his spoon and spattered himself with porridge, and Grethe laughed. "Nay, Bard, I'm only teasing. I darned a pair of socks for him, he gave me the paper, I made the paper into a flower wreath for Young Bettine, Auld Bettine gave me butter and cheese, and here you are eating a good wholesome breakfast because of it."

"Seems a powerful lot of work just for butter," said Bard. "Have ye run yourself ragged, then?"

"Not at all," said Grethe. "I was glad of a chance to meet people. Sally Ague introduced me to Auld Bettine and it went from there. And I could mend clothes and make paper flowers right here by the fire, and keep an eye on you at the same time." She twisted her fingers anxiously. "And I...I was glad to have something to keep me busy, or I'd have gone mad. I'm so relieved you're mending, Bard, I could dance."

"Well, I couldn't," he said, trying to keep the heartache out of his voice. He hated that she should break her back just to keep his sorry soul in his body.

"Not for a while yet," she agreed. "Your Da has promised he can man the Sindra two days in a row if I give him the third to himself. And Goffried has agreed to do three whole days if I broider something pretty for his sweetheart's birthday. I've already found someone who will trade me colored floss and linen for a stomach tonic, and I got the ingredients for the tonic from Sally Ague in exchange for one of Mama's remedies she hadn't heard before." Grethe's voice caught, but she pushed on, "So you see, I'll not be a burden to you. I want very much not to be a burden."

"You couldn't be a burden to me if you tried," said Bard unhappily. How was he ever to give her up if she insisted on twining herself into the weft of his world? He tried to believe it was only that he didn't want to get used to luxuries like butter in his porridge. To distract himself, he said, "So you've met my Da, then?"

"Yes, he came in the first night I was here. I don't think he even saw me, or you. I had to wake him the next morning, nor was he too pleased about it; but I did manage to convince him that you weren't well enough to barge the Sindra. I still don't think he believes we're married, but at least he does what I tell him as long as I feed him first."

"Aye, that'll be Da," said Bard. "I'm sorry, Grethe. I know ye can't have wanted this…"

"He's still better than Mistress Grundel," said Grethe. "I'm allowed to talk back to him."

"Not just Da," Bard said, "I mean I'm sorry about everything. Getting arrested and losing three days of work—"

"You didn't lose them," pointed out Grethe. "I got them back for you. So you see there's some benefit to having a wife."

Bard found he couldn't finish his porridge. "About that…" he said.

Grethe's eyes narrowed. "If you're thinking of saying something foolish, Bard, you'd better swallow it fast, for I've not nursed you through three days of will-you-die-or-won't-you just to have you talk nonsense at me."

"I've only been thinkin'," said Bard, "I went to you at Grundel's awful fast, and maybe if I'd but given you more time you'd ha' seen you had other options. Better ones, an' all. And I don't want to hold you to something you were rushed into."

"Well, it's a little late for that, Bard, for we're married now, and it's stamped and signed and filed. You can't get out of it now."

"I'll never want to get out of it," said Bard. "But you might, with time."

Grethe stood up very fast. "Do you think I don't know my own mind?" she asked quietly.

"I think you know it as well as you can," he said, choosing his words carefully. "But you've never lived like this before, and I have. You might find, after the relief from bein' free of the Master wears off, that this life doesn't suit you, and that you can't be happy in it. An' if someone else were to notice you, someone with money and a bit of status in the town, an' you're tied to me permanently, you might start to be bitter, and regret you married me so quick. I'm not sayin' this to offend you, or to say I don't trust you to know your mind. But you don't know what life can be like, here. You can't know a thing like that in a day, or three days, or a month. Sometimes life gets so rough you'd do almost anything to get free of it, and it seems hunger and cold and the whole world's conspiring so to part you from living that you might as well let them. I know this, even if you don't, and it hurts me down to my bones to think of you suffering so."

Grethe sat back down. "I know things will be hard sometimes—but being rich didn't save me from hard things either. I don't believe anything will make me regret being your wife, but I understand that you have a different way of looking at it. So I ask you: what must I do to prove to you that I haven't married you lightly?"

Bard ran a hand through his tangled hair. This wasn't going at all as he'd meant it to. "There's not a thing you need to prove. I only want you to know, I'll do anything I can to help you, and you need not repay me by tying yourself to me forever."

"I say again, Bard, it's done. The contract has been filed. We are married now."

"Did you read the contract very close?" asked Bard. "Did you study the terms?"

"I read it twice," she said. "I know what I signed."

"And did you happen to make note of the part about, mm, about consummation?"

Grethe's face and neck turned pink. "Well, as I said, I read it twice," she answered.

"So then you'll know that if it's not consummated within a year, you can have the union dissolved?"

"Bard, what are you saying?"

"I wish I could give you more than a year to decide," said Bard, "but maybe it'll be enough."

"You mean to say," gasped Grethe, "you don't want to, to consummate?"

Bard's clothes felt suddenly very tight. "Wanting doesn't enter into it," he said. "I'm saying you have a year to see if you can be happy with me." He did not say that he was sure she could not. Not that he'd ever dream of blaming her for it. He wasn't even happy with him. It would hurt something terrible to see her go, but it would be worse, he thought, to see her grow to hate him as the years dragged out.

"Please reconsider," said Grethe urgently. "That provision is only there for people who marry because they think they have to, and find out later they were mistaken. It's not meant for us."

"But we can use it," argued Bard. "It can give you a way out, d'you see?"

"I don't want a way out!"

"But you might, later on." Bard took a deep breath. She was fighting this harder than he'd expected her to, and it was all he could do to press his point when he wanted so much to give in. Even with as much pain as he was in, the sight of Grethe with her eyes blazing and her cheeks apple-pink gave him a powerful yearning to pull her into his lap and rumple her dress for her. She was making this impossible.

"You asked what you had to do to prove you've not married me lightly," said Bard, playing the only card he had left. "If you'll prove it, do as I ask and wait a year. If you still want to be married then, I'll know you really mean it. And until then, I'll do everything in my power to make sure you're safe, and fed, and warm. You have my help freely, Grethe. You need not pay me for it with something so dear as your own life."

"You really mean to wait a whole year?" she asked quietly. Bard nodded. "And I cannot change your mind?" He shook his head, and Grethe sighed heavily. "If this is what I must do to prove myself," she said, "I'll do it. But you should know, I...I…" She bowed her head and didn't finish.

Grethe stood, shoved her feet into her boots and laced them with trembling fingers. "Finish your breakfast," she said quietly. "Drink nothing but water, and be sure to warm it by the fire to take the winter-chill off, or it'll curdle in your belly and give you cramps. If you think of stepping foot outside this warm house I'll hide you, and don't think I won't know. I've got to bring Goffried his lunch and collect the supplies to pay him for his work. The porridge will keep warm on the hearth, and the butter and cheese are both on the sill keeping cold." She flung her cloak over her shoulders and slipped her hands into her rabbit-fur muff. She looked him over once more. "Try to sleep some more if you can," she added, before ducking out the front door into the cold.

A/N: AhAHHahAHAHahHAHaHAhHAHahaa