he rusty old tools left behind by the previous tenant of the farm included a scythe, the long-handled reaping tool that enabled a person to cut the crop without stooping. Edgar cleaned the iron, sharpened the blade, and affixed a new wooden handle. The brothers took turns reaping the grass. The rain held off and the grass turned to hay, which Ma sold to Bebbe for a fat pig, a barrel of eels, a rooster, and six hens.

Next they reaped the oats, then came the threshing. Edgar made a flail from two sticks—a long handle and a short swipple—joined by a strip of leather that he had failed to return to Bebbe. On a breezy day he tried it out, watched by the dog, Brindle. He spread some ears of oats on a flat patch of dry ground and began to flog them. He was no farmer, and he was making this up as he went along, with Ma’s help. But the flail seemed to be doing what it should: the nutritious seeds became separated from the worthless husks, which blew away in the wind.

The grains left behind looked small and dry.

Edgar rested a moment. The sun was shining and he felt good. The eel meat in the family stew had made him stronger. Ma would smoke most of the creatures in the rafters of the house. When the smoked eel ran out they might have to kill the pig and make bacon. And they should get some eggs from the chickens before they had to eat them. It was not much to last four adults through a winter, but with the oats they probably would not die of starvation.

The house was habitable now. Edgar had mended all the holes in the walls and roof. There were fresh rushes on the ground, a stone hearth, and a pile of deadfalls from the forest for firewood. Edgar did not want to spend his life like this, but he was beginning to feel that he and his family had survived the emergency.

Ma appeared. “I saw Cwenburg a few minutes ago,” she said. “Was she looking for you?”

Edgar felt embarrassed. “Certainly not.”

“You seem very sure. I had the idea she was, well, interested in you.”

“She was, and I had to tell her frankly that I didn’t feel that way about her. Unfortunately, she took offense.”

“I’m glad. I was afraid you might do something foolish after losing Sungifu.”

“I wasn’t even tempted. Cwenburg is neither pretty nor good natured, but even if she were an angel I wouldn’t fall for her.”

Ma nodded sympathetically. “Your father was the same—a one-woman man,” she said. “His mother told me he never showed interest in any girl except me. He was the same after we were married, which is even more unusual. But you’re young. You can’t stay in love with a dead girl for the rest of your life.”

Edgar thought he might, but he did not want to argue the point with his mother. “Maybe,” he said.

“There will be someone else, one day,” she insisted. “It will probably take you by surprise. You’ll believe you’re still in love with the old one, and suddenly you’ll realize that all the time you’re thinking about a different girl.”

Edgar turned the tables on her. “Will you marry again?”

“Ah,” she said. “Clever you. No, I shan’t.”

“Why not?

She was silent for a long moment. Edgar wondered whether he had offended her. But no, she was just thinking. At last she said: “Your father was a rock. He meant what he said and he did what he promised. He loved me, and he loved you three, and that didn’t change in more than twenty years. He wasn’t handsome, and sometimes he wasn’t even good-tempered, but I trusted him utterly, and he never let me down.” Tears came to her eyes as she said: “I don’t want a second husband, but even if I did, I know I wouldn’t find another like him.” She had been speaking in a careful, considered way, but at the end her feelings broke through. She looked up at the summer sky and said: “I miss you so much, my beloved.”

Edgar felt like crying. They stood together for a minute, saying nothing. At last Ma swallowed, wiped her eyes, and said: “Enough of that.”

Edgar took her cue and changed the subject. “Am I doing this threshing right?”

“Oh, yes. And the flail works fine. But I see the grains are a bit stunted. We’re going to have a hungry winter.”

“Did we do something wrong?”

“No, it’s the soil.”

“But you think we’ll survive.”

“Yes, though I’m relieved that you’re not in love with Cwenburg. That girl looks as if she eats heartily. This farm couldn’t feed a fifth adult—let alone any children that might come along. We’d all starve.”

“Perhaps next year will be better.”

“We’ll manure the field before we plough again, and that should help, but in the end there’s no way to get rich crops out of poor earth.”

Ma was as shrewd and forceful as ever, but Edgar worried about her. She had changed since the death of Pa. For all her spirit, she no longer seemed invulnerable. She had always been strong, but now he found himself hastening to help her lift a big log for the fire or a full pail of water from the river. He did not speak to her about his worries: she would resent the imputation of weakness. In that way she was more like a man. But he could not help thinking about the dismal prospect of life without her.

Brindle barked suddenly and anxiously. Edgar frowned: the dog often sounded the alarm before the humans knew anything was wrong. A moment later he heard shouting—not just noisy speech but furious, aggressive yelling and snarling. It was his brothers, and he could hear both voices: they must be fighting each other.

He ran toward the noise, which seemed to be coming from near the barn on the other side of the house. Brindle ran with him, barking. Out of the corner of his eye Edgar saw Ma bend to pick up the threshed oats, frugally saving them from the birds.

Erman and Eadbald were rolling on the ground outside the barn, punching and biting each other, screaming with rage. Eadbald’s freckled nose was bleeding and Erman had a bloody abrasion on his forehead.

Edgar yelled: “Stop it, you two!” They ignored him. What fools, Edgar thought; we need all our strength for this damn farm.

The reason for the fight was instantly visible. Cwenburg stood in the barn doorway watching them, laughing with delight. She was naked. Seeing her, Edgar was filled with loathing.

Erman rolled on top of Eadbald and drew back a big fist to punch his face. Seizing the chance, Edgar grabbed Erman from behind, gripping both arms, and pulled him backward. Off balance, Erman could not resist, and he toppled to the ground, releasing Eadbald.

Eadbald leaped to his feet and kicked Erman. Edgar grabbed Eadbald’s foot and lifted, throwing him backward to the ground. Then Erman was up again, shoving Edgar aside to get at Eadbald. Cwenburg clapped her hands enthusiastically.

Then the voice of authority was heard. “Stop that at once, you stupid boys,” said Ma, coming around the corner of the house. Erman and Eadbald immediately stood still.

Cwenburg protested: “You spoiled the fun!”

Ma said: “Put your dress back on, you shameless child.”

For a moment Cwenburg looked as if she might be tempted to defy Ma, and tell her to go to the devil, but she did not have the nerve. She turned around, took a step into the barn, and bent down to pick up her dress. She did so slowly, making sure they all got a good view of her rear. Then she turned around and lifted the dress over her head, raising her arms so that her breasts stuck out. Edgar could not help looking, and he noticed that she had put on weight since he saw her naked in the river.

At last she lowered the garment over her body. For a final touch she wriggled inside it until she was comfortable.

Ma murmured: “Heaven spare us.”

Edgar spoke to his brothers. “I suppose one of you was shagging her and the other objected.”

Eadbald said indignantly: “Erman forced her!”

“I did not force her,” said Erman.

“You must have! She loves me!”

“I did not force her,” Erman repeated. “She wanted me.”

“She did not.”

Edgar said: “Cwenburg, did Erman force you?”

She looked coy. “He was very masterful.” She was enjoying this.

Edgar said: “Well, Eadbald says you love him. Is that true?”

“Oh, yes.” She paused. “I love Eadbald. And Erman.”

Ma made a disgusted noise. “Are you telling us you’ve lain with both of them?”

“Yes.” Cwenburg looked pleased with herself.

“Many times?”

“Yes.”

“For how long?”

“Since you arrived here.”

Ma shook her head in revulsion. “Thank God I never had daughters.”

Cwenburg protested: “I didn’t do it on my own!”

Ma sighed. “No, it takes two.”

Erman said: “I’m the eldest, I should marry first.”

Eadbald gave a scornful laugh. “Who told you that was a rule? I’ll marry when I want, not when you say.”

“But I can afford a wife and you can’t. You’ve got nothing. I’m going to inherit the farm one day.”

Eadbald was outraged. “Ma has three sons. The farm will be divided among us when Ma dies, which I hope will not happen for many years.”

Edgar said: “Don’t be stupid, Eadbald. This farm can barely support our family now. If the three of us each tried to raise a family on one third of the land, we’d all starve.”

Ma said: “Edgar is the only one of you talking sense, as usual.”

Eadbald looked genuinely hurt. “So, Ma, does that mean you’re going to throw me out?”

“I would never do such a thing. You know that.”

“Do the three of us have to be celibate, like a convent of monks?”

“I hope not.”