The snow returns the next night, and a day later so does the farmer, who Rumple now knows is called Fort, short for Forthworth. As before, he enters without knocking, but this time he seems to perceive that their acquaintance gives him certain rights, because he helps himself to tea before Rumple has had time to grab his walking stick and rise from the spinning wheel.

"Hello, Fort," Rumple greets him. He really doesn't mind the man's pushiness.

"Mornin'," the farmer grunts. He reaches across the table to grab the slice of pork that Rumple had intended for breakfast. He tears off a big bite with his teeth, then says around it, "How's the cat?"

"She's doing well. I think."

The farmer peers under the kitchen table, then raises his head to report, "She'll be deliverin' before the week's out."

Rumple nods thoughtfully. "Anything we should do to make it easier for her?"

"Just stay out of her way." Fort chomps down on the remainder of the pork.

"How many is she likely to birth?"

Fort chomps. "This bein' her first litter, a couple. Probably no more'n three. She'll be fine." He washes the meat down with tea, then wipes his mouth with his sleeve. "Listen, I hear your kid can read."

Rumple keeps his eyes fixed on his own mug. He says nothing.

"If that be the truth, I'm askin' if he can write too."

Rumple just stirs his tea.

Fort leans forward, as if concerned that someone on the outside could hear through the hut's walls. He's probably right. "'Cause if it be the truth, I might be needin' him to write somethin'." He reaches into his pocket to produce a silver coin, which he slaps onto the table.

That coin could buy all the fleece Rumple needs to start the year.

"He'd be doin' some good. Maybe preventin' a feud."

Rumple says slowly, "I taught him."

Fort's eyes go round, then narrow and his voice drops. "You ain't friends or relation to the Rowntrees, are ya?"

Rumple raises an eyebrow.

"Nah, I guess not." Fort brushes the thought away. "Their farm borders on mine. Though we don't see eye to eye about where his ends and mine starts. We've been pushin' and shovin' over it for years. Last week my boy got into a fight with one of his. There was a knife involved, some blood. So my wife says it's got to end now. I gotta agree. Land ain't worth a son's life."

"Aye. Rowntree—does he see it that way too? Is he ready to put it down in writing?"

Fort shrugs. "I ain't talked to him yet. I figure, you could go with me. I mean, a little guy like you, in the middle, if either of us was to start swingin' punches, you'd get crushed. Guys as big as us, it would be embarrassin' to beat up the likes of you. No offense."

"Indeed." A gleam grows in Rumple's eyes. What would Bae think of him, if he stepped in to settle a feud? What might the village think? But then again, Fort towers over Rumple like Leopold Mountain towers over Daisy Valley. The farmer's fist is as big as a hog's head. Rumple stares at the silver coin. He's not used to negotiating; the buyers he's sold to, ever since he got back from war, tell him to take what he's offered or starve. But this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, because no one else in this village can write, so he draws in a breath and taps the coin. He knows Fort has very little cash, but he has plenty of fresh meat on the hoof and Rumple has a growing boy.

Rumple pushes the coin back at Fort. "I'll do it but I want three chickens and four pounds of pork every month for a year." He's tempted to add and not your rejects either, but he knows how proud Fort is; the farmer will not give him castoffs. The meat won't be his best, but it'll come close.

Fort whistles between his teeth—then gives him the courtesy of bargaining back. He understands it's for Bae that Rumple has found the nerve to push. "I seen that roof of yours—first big wind will take it away. You got a roof that needs thatchin', I got three strong sons. Your writin' for our work."

Rumple doesn't want to press his luck, but he's got a growing son too. "New roof and two chickens a month for a year."

Fort sticks his hand out. "Deal. But you got to help me talk to Rowntree. You talk like a smart guy."

"We'll go right now."

"Now?" Fort starts to object, then nods. "Yeah."

Rumple allows himself a grin as he shakes the farmer's hand. Bae's going to eat well this year—if Rumple survives the meeting with Rowntree.

Rumple has discovered the power of pacing, particularly when one is walking with a stick that makes a rhythmic, calming tap tap tap. He's also finding that spinning wool isn't the only activity that mesmerizes; spinning words can do that too. As he paces, he avoids looking at Fort, Fort's three boys, Rowntree and Rowntree's five boys. He focuses his vision inward, imagining the village that could result if this negotiation works. Instead of punching, stabbing and stealing from each other, maybe citizens can settle their differences with writing. Maybe small guys with limps and old guys who can't make a fist any more and young mothers and widows can start to have a chance in this world, if every village would have what cities like Avonlea have: scholars knowledgeable in the law and mediation, scribes to record and archive contracts and wills and deeds, and sheriffs to enforce the written word. So sure is he that the written word can make the world more livable and more humane that he forgets to be scared. He just talks, and whenever one of Rowntree's boys tries to interrupt, all of Fort's boys square their jaws, and Rowntree's progeny back down.

Rumple talks until he's out of breath and out of words, then he simply stops and sits down. "Gentlemen, the welfare of your families and this village is in your hands." He folds his own hands and waits.

"How do I know that what you put on that paper is what we tell you to?" Rowntree demands.

""Cause I'll feed him to the hogs if he don't." One of the Rowntree sons thrusts his fist into his palm, but one of his brothers shoves him and hisses at him to shut up.

"Can any of you read?" Rumple asks quietly.

"Of course not!"

"The tax man will be here on Monday. Suppose we invite him here at dinnertime and ask him to read for his supper."

"How do we know he won't lie for you?"

Every man, except the asker, in the room snorts. Fort's eldest scans the room with a pointed finger. "You ever knowed a farmer who was friends with the tax man?"

That seem sufficient for Rowntree. "All right then, but the spinner stays home. I don't want him around when the tax man's readin' the paper to us."

That suits Rumple just fine. Fort will send him word when the matter is settled, one way or another.

Two mornings later, as he and Bae wash dishes, Fort's eldest arrives, pushing a handcart through the snow. He sets a crate down inside the hut (not bothering to knock first) and walks away without saying anything.

"A present!" Bae exclaims, returning the kitten to its mother. He reaches into the crate and brings out package after brown-paper package. Peeling the paper from one, he exclaims, "It's meat!"

"I guess they signed," Rumple smiles. "Bae, while we cook up this chicken, I'd like to tell you what I did the other day when I went off with Forthworth. I think you'll be proud of your old man. . . ."

Rumple opens his door to the dawn and shuffles onto his snowy lawn. He has a bucket in each hand, so he's left his walking stick inside the hovel. His ankle will support him on the short distance he has to travel. He's headed for the community well—he usually fetches the day's water before the village awakens, because he's found that waiting in line for his turn at the dipper can be an invitation to harassment. He bends his head in determination and trudges toward the well.

But suddenly he regrets leaving his walking stick behind, because a hand as big as a hog's head shoots out and grasps the handle of one of his buckets. He steps backwards, searching the dark for his assailant, and then he has cause to wish his ankle were whole so he could run, because the man staring down at him is as broad as a bull and as tall as an oak. Rumple steps backwards again, onto his bad ankle, and it twists and he starts to go down, until another ham hand grabs his elbow and straightens him. "You all right, Stiltskin?"

"Sorry, sir. I wus jus gonna carry the bucket for ya," his first assailant explains, releasing the bucket.

Catching his balance and his breath, Rumple squints through the dusk until he recognizes the face attached to the hand holding his elbow. "Fort! It's you!"

"Yeah." The big farmer removes his hand from Rumple's elbow and instead rubs his neck. "Mornin'." He nudges the assailant, and that young worthy snatches off his cap and echoes, "Mornin', sir. Let me get that water for ya." Rumple surrenders the buckets. Then two other voices echo, "Mornin', sir."

Rumple can barely make out the forms in front of him now. "Uh, mornin'. Mornin', Tarrin, Jarin, Rulf."

"We kinda forgot you city folk sleep in late," Fort continues. "We figured we'd get a jump on that roof." He nods toward the shortest of his sons, who's pushing a cart full of reed and straw. A ladder and three large cutters are stretched out on top.

"It's only been two days," Rumple points out. "I hadn't expected payment until the end of the month."

"Never let it be said that Forthworth and his family don't pay their debts," the farmer grinned broadly.

The biggest son raises the filled pails. "Where you want these, sir?"

"Just leave them inside the door." Rumple gestures toward his hovel. "Thank you, uh—"

"Rulf, sir."

"You other two, get started on cuttin' that fresh thatchin'," Fort instructs. He looks back at Rumple. "Unless you and your boy want to eat breakfast first? You'll wanna be out of the house whilst we work. It's gonna be chilly."

"Well, I—"

"I know you don't wanna waste the day. Tell you what: grab your cloaks and you and me and your boy'll go back to the farm for a while. Your boy can ride one of my plowhorses and visit the piglets, and if you've a mind, I can show you how to get more out of that garden you got out back. By suppertime, my boys'll be finished with that roof." He plants his fists on his hips and watches his sons unload the cart. The first thing they unload—and with great care—is a large wicker basket. Fort nudges Rumple. "That's their lunch. Three growin' boys got be to kept fed."

Rumple opens and closes his mouth. He doesn't know what to say; it's just a day at a farm, but it's the first social invitation he's ever received, from someone other than Gretchen and Lucas. What will they talk about? Rumple knows nothing about farming and he's pretty sure that if anyone in Forthworth's household knows anything about spinning, it's the missus, not Fort.

Fort catches the hesitation and guesses, "'Less you got other plans?"

Rumple begins to collect his wits. Between Bae's curiosity and Fort's chattiness, Rumple might find an occasional "Uh huh" and "Is that so" would hold up his end of the conversation.

"Uh, no, Fort, no plans. Give me a minute to wake Bae. Then let's go fishin'."

Fort waves a hand toward the house, granting him leave, and turns his attention to the contents of the cart. The sun is fully risen now. Rumple limps into the hut, grabs his walking stick, then bends to shake Bae's shoulder. "Waken up, son. Our friends are here and we're going on a visit."

Others hear of the contract he drew up for Fort and Rowntree, and they come with small jobs: Leofrik wants a bill of sale for wagons he's selling to the army. Isolde's mother wants a letter informing her sister, who lives in Aureum, that their uncle has died. A priest in Aureum will be paid to read the letter aloud, since the sister doesn't read. Borin just wants to see his name in print: he pays with two marbles.

The writing money isn't enough to live on, but it provides a bit extra for emergencies and more importantly, it provides hope.

Rumple gives Bae's shoulder a shake. Bae groans, opening one eye; the only light in the house comes from the fire and a single candle that Rumple has saved for an emergency. Realizing that, Bae sits upright, dashing a sleeve over his crusty eyes. "What's wrong, Papa?"

"Nothing wrong. I know you don't want to miss this." He directs Bae to the clothes cupboard. They drop to their knees. The cupboard door's open, so they're able to peer inside. "Quiet now."

"It's too dark. I can't see. Bring the candle—"

"No, Bae, bright light would bother her right now. Your eyes will adjust to the dark. Now, shhhh."

They hear the cat meow with the same protesting sound she makes whenever Bae accidentally steps on her tail. "Papa, she's hurt!"

"No, she'll be okay. The kittens are being born."

"Ohhhhh." Bae's eyes do adjust and now he sees something that disgusts him. "What's she doing? Ewww, she's licking her butt. Why's she doing that?"

"She's helping them come out. See that little tiny black shape? That's a kitten."

"I see another one coming out. They're both black."

They can see a tiny form emerge from its mother. The process is very quick, compared to the work of delivering human babies. Rumple's never actually seen a baby being born, but he's certainly heard it, several times, from neighbors' huts.

Midnight is panting, but she goes to work immediately licking the kittens clean.

"She's giving them a bath. It also helps them breathe," Bae says. After his father explained to him the hows and whys of birth, he's made a study of it with Fort's piglets and Lucas' goats. "I'm going to make sure my wife won't ever have to go through that."

Rumple pats his back. "It's a temporary pain."

"Guess that's it. She's feeding them now, so it must be over. Two kittens." Bae knows from their inquires at the castle that a small litter is normal for a first-time mother. He also knows they can't keep the kittens; still, the question is in his eyes.

"We have three months with them," Rumple assures him. "So why don't you name them?"

This is a satisfactory compensation. "After they finish eating. Then I'll pick them up and find out if they're boys or girls."

"One of them will go to Mistress Enndolyn. I made a deal. But you can choose who to give the other one to."

The choice of owner requires little thought. "Morraine. But not if they're both boys." They've discussed this, and Bae understands why Midnight can't have her son living next door. "If they're both boys, we'll give one to Borin. Morraine will get her pick from the next litter."

"Very good, son. Let's watch them a while, then we need to go back to bed." Rumple is pleased. His son has made a difficult decision, an adult decision. Neither of them wants to disappoint Morraine, but they have to think of the greater good.

Between her babies, her hunting and all the kids who come to stare at her, Midnight has her paws full. She gets put out sometimes when the kids want to interrupt the kittens' mealtime with play, but a snap of Bae's fingers reminds her not to bite the visitors. Bae supervises the visits, permitting only two kids at a time, for only an hour at a time. Some of the kids bring gifts for the kittens: arrowheads, sticks, interesting rocks. The kittens are of course most interested in Rumple's spindle and thread. As the weeks go by, Bae becomes very busy training the kittens to keep off the wheel and out of Rumple's work baskets. When Isolde, Borin or Morraine come to play, Bae can be found with two sleek shadows trailing behind.

Enndolyn stops in to inspect her merchandise. She prefers the female, she reiterates, but Bae stand firm: that kitten belongs to Morraine. The smaller kitten, a male, will go to the baker's family. "I know the male's a bit small right now," Bae strokes his chin as if in thought, "But may I remind you, Midnight will be training him how to hunt. And we could make a second deal: I'll provide obedience training."

"Hmm." Enndolyn sounds doubtful, but Bae demonstrates. He whistles and Midnight suddenly appears at his feet, looking up at him. He taps his shoulder and with a flying leap she lands there. He points at the food cupboard. "Midnight! Mouse!" In two bounds she's in the cupboard rooting around.

The demonstration closes the deal. "A basket of scones every week for a month."

"Two baskets every week for two months."

"One basket a week for two months."

"Throw in a jar of clotted cream every week and we've got a deal."

Listening from his wheel, Rumple has to cough to keep from laughing aloud.

"Every father goes through this," Rumple points out as he sets Tiny into the basket that Bae had once woven for Midnight. Bae adds a bit of yarn and Tiny's favorite chasing stick to the basket.

"At least Guinevere will live next door." Bae picks up the basket, gives Tiny a warning shake of his finger when the kitten starts to climb out.

"Are you sure? I can take him."

"I'll do it. I'd like a little alone time with him anyway." He pauses in the doorway and promises, "When I come back I'll have scones and cream."

"And tonight we'll have Morraine over for dinner and you can present her with Guinevere. I'll fry the chicken."

"Thanks, Papa."

"Good lad," Rumple murmurs, watching his shoulder-slumped son trudge up the road to the bakery. "Growing up."

The first snowstorm comes. Rumple surveys his home: warm and tight, with a new roof and a cupboard full of food and another cupboard full of warm newly made clothes for a boy who's growing, thanks to the chicken, bread and cheese, and soft rolls that his father's earned for him this year, and scones that the boy earned for himself. In the hiding place under his pallet, the leather bag in which RUmple keeps his earnings from writing has grown heavier. Next spring, Rumple will make a deal with for two lambs. The Stiltskin men are making their way in the world.

Well, the men and the cat. Rumple leans on his cane to bend down to stroke her back. He wonders if she misses her babies. She doesn't act any different than before they left, but he's seen mother animals mourn when their babies die, so he supposes they have some capacity for sentiment. And yet in their wisdom, the mothers know when it's time for the youngsters to leave home and start lives of their own, and they don't cling the way some human mothers and fathers do.

"My day will come," he informs the cat. "And I won't cling, though it'll kill me to let him go. Fortunately it's years away."

The cat sets her paw on his face. He's not sure if she wishes to comfort him or push him away. Maybe both. That's what parenting is, after all: pulling in and pushing away at the same time.