"The child isn't ill." The cook folded all of his arms and looked at Laur, unblinking. "Three months ago Biara's suckle-mate disappeared, with her womb-child. Now Kalen is gone. She's very worried."

Laur put her hand on the table and lowered herself into a chair.

"Surely they've just wandered off," she said without conviction, "gone visiting. They'll be back."

The kasir shook his head. "We've searched. Kalen was only five weeks out of pouch. He couldn't have wandered off by himself. And no one took him."

Laur's hands clenched. She put them in her pockets. The kasir sat, balanced on his thick tail, and watched her.

"How many?" she said finally.

"Eight. Biara's suckle-mate and child, Kalen, Palen's pup, Alanet who came visiting, two borrow-pups, and Altemet's latest."

"Where are they?" Laur whispered. The kasir did not reply. Laur sighed and put her hands on the table, then put her head against them. "Go home, Pao.

I'll take care of the baking. And tell Biara that I'm sorry. Please."

Pao folded his apron and put it on the table, then touched Laur's hair and left.

Laur closed her eyes. The image of Hart rose unbidden, and she stood and moved about the kitchen. The image refused to leave, appearing between herself and stove, pantry, table, window.

I was sick that day, she thought. Too much sun, too much standing. I imagined things. I didn't see that. I was ill. And Hart helped me, Hart took care of me. Hart said that ... Hart said that I was ill.

Was I?

She grabbed a pad and scoured the triple sinks. The pad made a grating, unpleasant noise, and scratched at her fingers. Her chest felt tight.

It can't be Hart. Surely not my Hart, my little boy. He's been led astray. By Gren. He's just a child, still a child. It's all Gren's doing.

Hart cut the pup's head and smiled. Laur dropped the pad in the sink, turned, and put her hand to her breast.

It's Mish and Jason. They should never have let him leave home, they should have known what Gren would do. I told them so, I told them and they didn't listen to me. And now he's in trouble, and I have to help him. Before it gets worse. Before he's found out. I'll go to him and...

I can't. He won't pay attention, he'll tell me that I'm sick and old and tired. He won't listen to me.

Kalen, Biara's pup. Palen's child. Eight heads in the basement? Eight bodies? Hart?

Laur ran outside and vomited into the bushes. She returned to the kitchen, washed her face and hands and, taking her hat and coat from the peg by the door, moved down the hill toward Haven.

Hoku waved Laur toward a chair. The child on the exam table squirmed and stared while Hoku bandaged the injured knee.

"There you go," Hoku said, applying the last length of bandage. The thin material flowed over the knee and molded itself to the flesh. "Out with you."

The child hesitated. "My mother said you would tell me something."

"What?"

"She said you would tell me not to climb trees." The child looked miserable.

"Nonsense. Climb all the trees you want. But don't land on your head next time, stick to your knees. Go on, get."

The patient grinned and scampered from the room. Hoku washed her hands.

"You're not due for your medicines yet," she said over her shoulder.

"Back still bothering you?"

"That's not why I came," Laur said. "Where's Quilla?"

"How should I know? In the fields, most likely. Why?"

"I want to talk to her. To both of you."

"Something wrong with the twins?" Hoku said.

"No, of course not. I Just want to talk."

"All right. Talk."

"To both of you -- together."

The doctor shrugged. "I'll come up to the Tor this evening, if you want. I can't leave the clinic now."

"After dark, then. And come round the back way. Don't tell anyone but Quilla."

Hoku frowned. "You want to tell me what this is all about?"

Laur shook her head and rose. "No. This evening. And be careful, hear?"

"Laur, are you feeling all right?"

Laur looked at the doctor. "No. But you can't help me."

Hoku reached toward her, and Laur avoided her hand and went out of the room. The street was warm and filled with the sounds of kasirene and humans.

Farmers and houseworkers mingled in the streets, talking with the tired cheerfulness of after-work hours. The smell of cooking filled the air. Laur straightened, remembering that dinner was not yet cooked; tonight she and Mim would have to do it themselves. Much to be done, she thought with distraction.

Much to do yet. She started up Schoolhouse Road toward the Tor.

Then Hart walked up to her and took her arm. She stared at him. Her chest hurt. He slid his arm through hers.

"You're out in the sun again," he said with gentle surprise. "I thought you were going to take it easy, Laur. I saw you coming out of the clinic, are you sick?"

"It's my back," she whispered. She wet her lips and tried again. "My back. And my chest They bother me. I had to see the doctor. I'm all right, Hart, Really."

"I'm sure Hoku will take good care of you." He pulled at her arm, guiding her away from the Tor.

"I have to go home! I have to cook dinner, there's too much to do. Let me be, Hart, let me get my work done!"

She tugged her arm, but he didn't let her go.

"You have time for a cup of tea, don't you? The kassies will take care of dinner, as usual."

Kassies. Laur closed her lips, afraid of saying anything suspicious, and let him urge her down the street. But when they reached his house she jerked her arm away.

"I must go home!" she said. "There's too much to do. Let me go, Hart, be a good boy. You let me go, hear?"

He grinned and took her arm again, hurting her, and almost dragged her to the door. "Come on, Laur, I make great tea. And I've cakes that my cook made this morning. They're still fresh." He unlocked the door and pulled her inside. The sharp sound of the door locking behind her made her jump. Her skin felt cold.

"Look, Laur," Hart said. He turned her around to face the room.

Although sparsely furnished, it was clean and neat. The rug on the floor was pale with washing.

"It's very neat," she said, surprised.

"I'm an adult, Laur, and you were a good teacher. Here, come with me while I make the tea."

The tiny kitchen sparkled, countertops scrubbed, windows crystalline, floor shining. Hart filled a kettle and put it on the stove, then opened the firebox and blew until flames appeared. He put some wood into the fire and closed the door again.

"I'm hoping to get a generator in here soon, next year, perhaps." He measured dried leaves into the pot. "The methane tank doesn't generate enough to run the stove, not with just the two of us using it. But it's a cozy place.

Do you like it?"

"It's nice," Laur said. The tightness in her chest loosened. Surely nothing terrible could go on in such a neat, clean little house. Then she thought of Biara's pup and the basement window. She looked at the floor. It seemed solid; nothing on it resembled a door.

"The cook cleans the floor," Hart said.

Laur, startled, looked at him and flushed. "It's very clean," she said.

"It's a very good job."

"Do you want to look around?" Hart smiled. "It will take a while for the tea to brew. Go right ahead. My bedroom's to the left, and Gren's is to the right. He's not in now. The bath's on the other side of the hall." He turned toward the cupboards and made a great clatter with the cups. Laur stared at him, her lip caught between her teeth, then turned and walked into his bedroom.

A large bed almost filled the room. She glanced under it, but saw nothing. A neat blue cloth hung over the clothes niche; within it Hart's clothes were stacked or hung along the walls. Gren's room was no more than a closet, and filled with clothes, reels, and curious glass objects. If there was a hatch leading down, Laur thought, they'd never be able to find it in the mess. She pressed her lips together and closed the door behind her. The bathroom was even tinier than she expected. When she opened the door it banged against the toilet, and she had to squeeze between the shower and sink to reach the window. Nothing here, either. She closed her eyes and leaned her head against the glass. Her head felt light.

"Do you like my view?" Hart said.

She turned and held onto the shower's wall.

"I was looking for a garden. You don't have one? You should have one.

I'll bring you some plants, some vegetables. Seeds. You really should have a garden."

Hart laughed. "I suppose you'll be telling me what to do for the rest of my life, won't you?" he said. "The tea's ready. When we're done, you can have a look at the outside before you go."

Laur sat in the neat living room and sipped at her tea while Hart smiled and chatted. She muist have been hallucinating that day before the feast. Hart, who made tea and conversation, who showed her his house, who worried about her health, could not have done what she saw him do. Thought she saw him do. Not her little Hart.

Her cup was empty. She stared at it, confused, then stood and put her hat over her gray hair.

"Late," she said. "I have to get home before supper. The tea was very nice, and the cakes, but I have to go, Hart. I have to go now."

"Look at my garden first," he said, taking her arm again. "Or look at where my garden will be. I've tried to do a little work on it, but haven't had the time. Come see what I've done."

He guided her around the yard, pointing out future flowerbeds and vegetable patches. They passed the bush where she had left the fish basket that hot day before the feast, and her heart beat faster. But Hart seemed not to notice as he directed her to look here, or there, and brought her to a halt facing the wall of the house.

"I want some flowers here," he said, forcing her to look down, "right along this side so that they can climb up the house. I think that will look very nice, won't it?"

Laur glanced down and almost gasped. The window through which she had seen horrors, the curtained window close to the ground, had disappeared. The painted wood of the house wall extended without a break from eaves to earth.

"Do you think it will be a good place?" Hart said.

Laur nodded, holding onto his arm, and turned away.

"I have to go home. I'm an old woman, I'm tired. Let me go, Hart."

"Shall I walk you home?"

"No! No, thank you. I'll be fine. Please. I must hurry, see how late it is?" She moved toward the street.

"Aren't you going to give me a kiss, Laur?" he said, surprised.

She hesitated, then tiptoed. She kissed his cheek and ran from the garden.

Instead of entering Tor Kennerin through the kitchen, as she normally did, she slipped in through the front door and went upstairs to her room. She could hear a commotion in the kitchen, Mim's voice raised in complaint and Mish being both placating and exasperating. Tabor kept yelling for more vegetables for the soup. Laur locked her door, then took off her hat and jacket, put them away, and lay on the bed, holding her side. She could not decide whether she was more frightened of what she had seen or what she had not seen, whether Hart was misleading her or whether she was misleading herself. She bunched the coverlet in her fists. Old woman. How old am I?

Eighty standard? More? Less? Surely Hart isn't doing that. Surely I've not lost my mind. The window. Neat little house. Tea. Hart. She moaned and pulled at the coverlet.

Someone rapped at the door. She bolted upright and stared.

"Laur?" Meya. Laur gulped air.

"I've got a headache," Laur said. "Leave me alone. My head hurts."

"Oh. Do you want any dinner?"

"No. I'm going to sleep."

"Okay."

Meya is afraid of Hart. But Hart is gentle and kind. Biara's pup.

Palen. Eight of them. But not, not Hart. Not my baby Hart. She closed her eyes.

A quiet rapping on the door woke her. The room was dark, the house silent.

"Who is it?" she called as she fumbled with the lamp.