By late spring, the whole world beyond the hillocks north of Blackwater was a green ocean, its tide of grass forever drawn forward and never spent. It lay in clover and vetch, spangled with yellow petals, crisscrossed by the tiny footways of hare and child alike. In the yard at the edge of this living carpet, just before the sturdy brown log house, Laila ran—first a girl, then a blur, then a peel of laughter too quick for the eye.
Her brothers trailed her, two little colts with knees muddied and hair like wind-worried straw, eager for the chase but forever behind. She had a trick of darting sideways that none of them could catch, even when she let them close enough to tap at her blue skirt. At last she stopped, feigning exhaustion, hands on knees, and the boys toppled into her with theatrical groans.
"Not fair, you grew longer legs since yesterday," accused her eldest brother, Oren, who was only eight but believed in such things. He squinted at her like a suspicious goat.
"You could catch me if you took your boots off," Laila said. She waggled her bare toes, earth-caked and splendid. "You run faster when you feel the ground."
Oren pretended not to hear, inspecting his sole as if the problem could be found there. The youngest, Miko, was still sprawled in the grass, eating the sun with closed eyes. He was small for his age and often left behind, but he didn't seem to mind.
"Race you to the stump," Oren declared suddenly, and they were off again, arms flailing, feet flinging clods and laughter in equal measure. Laila let them go, turning slow circles in the yard, arms wide to the breeze that smelled of coming rain and—better—of pie, dense and golden, cooling on the kitchen sill.
The house itself was nothing special, unless you belonged to it. Three rooms stacked around a stone chimney, its roof gone soft with moss and the boards gone silver where the sun could reach them. The yard was rimmed with stones and the bones of last year's flowers, but every corner held something that was growing: a patch of cabbage, the ancient plum tree, the line of beans that curled eagerly up the fence posts.
From behind the house, the sounds of industry drifted: a rasping saw, the thud of wood dropped onto the splitting block, the sing-song whistle of someone working and content. Their father, no doubt, though she couldn't see him from here. The chickens muttered near the back step, plump and hopelessly gossipy, while cows lowed a distant greeting from the far field. Even the birds seemed to have opinions, darting in and out of the berry bramble with indignant scolds.
Laila ambled toward the pie, fighting a smile and losing, and let herself be lost for a moment in the fragrance. Rhubarb, tart and sweet and impossible to ignore. She wondered if her mother would notice a missing piece. Probably, but perhaps she could distract her with a question or a compliment.
Something thumped behind her. Laila twisted to see Oren brandishing a crooked stick like a sword. "Come defend your honor, Lady Lay!" he shouted. "The bandits demand tribute!"
"Not bandits, Oren, you said you were highwaymen," corrected Miko, toddling after with a sapling branch. "Highwaymen are fancier."
"Bandits are meaner," said Oren, "and we're mean today." He made a face of exaggerated villainy.
"Are you going to rob me, then?" Laila asked, planting fists on hips.
"All your pie and all your treasure," Miko declared, poking her in the shin.
"Then you'd better catch me," Laila retorted, and set off again, winding through the flowerbeds, her laughter trailing behind like a pennant.
The chase led them to the muddy verge of the cowpath, where the meadow ended and the hard earth began. Here, the shade of the old plum tree dappled their faces and made their voices echo weirdly. Miko gave up first, collapsing into the grass to make a daisy crown. Oren stalked Laila in circles, patient as a cat, until she relented and allowed herself to be "captured" with a flourish.
"Tribute," he demanded.
She considered. "If I give you pie now, you'll eat it all and have nothing later," she said. "But if you wait, there will be more, and with cream."
Oren hesitated, visibly torn between greed and gluttony. He decided at last on magnanimity. "You're free, but next time we take everything."
"I'll be ready," Laila promised. They exchanged solemn nods, warriors to the last.
From across the yard, the kitchen door banged open and their mother's voice arced into the air: "Hands and feet washed, all of you, or you come in naked and hungry!"
Oren and Miko whooped, racing for the pump behind the house. Laila lingered, looking out over the swelling fields. The light was getting softer, shadows drawing longer lines on the grass, but the day still belonged to her and her brothers, for a little while yet.
Something caught her eye—a dark shape by the fence, half-hidden in the row of beans. She squinted. It was only the neighbor's dog, come sniffing for handouts. She called to it, and it scampered closer, tail a mad metronome. She petted its head, feeling the rough, hot pant of its tongue on her wrist.
"You're a rascal, Banjo," she said fondly. "But you can be a bandit too, if you want."
From the corner of her eye, Laila saw her father's hat bobbing above the line of cornstalks, moving toward the house. He would want to hear about their adventures. He always did. She grinned and took a last look at the pie, steaming like a golden crown in the window, before skipping to the pump to rejoin the others.
If only every day could last so long, she thought, but she did not say it. That was the secret of childhood: to forget the end of things, and to love the running, and the smell of pie, and the falling-down laughter.
The world went on, and so did the games, and even the animals seemed to approve. The day was not special, unless you belonged to it. But Laila did, heart and heel and happiness, and she ran barefoot into the gathering dusk as if the whole green world were made for her alone.
The thrum of activity inside the house was as steady as the spring frogs in the marsh behind the north field. Laila could see her mother through the open window, rolling dough on the big pine table with a kind of practiced grace, sleeves rolled above the elbow and hair wrapped tight in a patterned scarf. The scent of supper—roasted chicken, fresh bread, and that rhubarb pie—was thick enough to follow a hundred yards downwind.
The summons came not as a gentle invitation, but as a thunderous command: "Dinner, children! Wash up or eat with the pigs, I'm past caring which!"
Oren and Miko scrambled to the well, wrestling for the pump handle. Laila let them, knowing it would take the pair longer to splash themselves than it would for her to cross the yard and back. She called over her shoulder, "I'm fetching Da!" and started down the slope toward the pasture.
The sun was almost down, a red coin melting into the tree line, but the sky still kept a long memory of the day. The air was cool now, with a crispness that prickled the skin but couldn't chase away the sweat of running. Laila relished the squish of mud between her toes as she followed the lane past the cow gate.
The pasture was green as the inside of a melon, sloped and wide and rimmed by locust trees. From the far end came the lowing of cows and, louder still, the steady clank of a hammer against something stubborn. Her father always claimed he worked harder than the whole village put together, but Laila suspected he just liked being where the sky was biggest.
She found him at the old fence, shirt off and hands stained with pitch, wrestling a warped post into a deeper hole. He was a big man, but not in the way of city blacksmiths or tavern bouncers—his size came from honest food and the kind of labor that made the ground itself respect you. He saw her before she reached him, and leaned on the shovel with a mock scowl.
"What did you break this time?" he called, wiping his brow with the back of his wrist.
Laila grinned. "Not me, Da. Mam says dinner's ready, and you better wash before you come in, or else she'll set the dog on you."
He spat into the grass. "That hound's more likely to eat the roast before I get a bite. Tell her I'll be there soon as this fence is upright."
She waited, watching as he tamped the earth with booted feet, then gave the new post a testing shake. Satisfied, he grabbed his shirt from the fence and shrugged it on, all in a single motion, and beckoned her to walk with him.
"You run the boys ragged again?" he asked as they strode uphill.
Laila nodded, proud. "Oren says I have longer legs, but I think he's just slow."
"He'll catch up. Boys always do, and then they're impossible for you to out-run." Her father ruffled her hair, but not unkindly. He had the same smile as her, the same quickness of eye. "You still dreaming of going off to the city someday, Miss Laila?"
She looked away, because the answer was both yes and no. "Maybe. If I do, I'll bring back a cartload of sweets for the boys, and a silk dress for Mam."
"Bring me a barrel of that city ale," he said with a laugh, and then quieter, "but come back, mind. There's plenty here worth holding on to."
They crested the last rise and the house came into view, golden from within and smelling of all the good things that happened in kitchens. Oren and Miko were already tumbling in the doorway, half-wet and all hungry, and her mother had her hands full with both the food and the threats.
The old man paused at the stoop to slap most of the dirt from his hands, then pulled Laila close and brushed her cheek with a rough, work-roughened thumb.
"Go on then," he said. "Before your Mam thinks I've kept you out for mischief."
Laila darted inside, cheeks burning from the sudden kindness, and took her place at the long table, the warmth of home and family settling over her like a well-worn quilt.
The kitchen was a kingdom in its own right, every plate and spoon a subject loyal to Laila's mother. The table sagged beneath a mountain of food—slices of roast chicken still steaming, a heap of early potatoes with butter, and garden greens so fresh they sparkled. For the first minute, no one spoke. The silence of hunger had its own power.
Then her mother—proper and plain, but quick with a joke when she thought no one was listening—waved her fork in Oren's direction. "You missed a whole patch of mud on your chin, boy. Is that where you keep your secrets?"
Oren grinned, showing every tooth, and attacked his plate as if it might escape.
Her father set to eating with both hands, tearing bread in hunks, but kept an ear on every conversation. "You'd think the river upstream feeds the boys nothing but air," he muttered.
"Air and weeds," Miko said, picking suspiciously at his beans.
Laila watched her mother survey the table—then the faces around it—as if she were tallying something more than food. Her hands were red from hot water and scrubbed wood, her face lined with the sun, but her eyes were sharp as a finch's. When Laila caught her gaze, she offered a quiet smile.
"You're thoughtful tonight," her mother said. "What's in your head?"
"Just... nothing," Laila replied, too quick, but then tried again. "It was a good day. I ran so far I thought my legs would snap."
"Snap, eh?" her father teased. "Well, I can always spare a pig leg if you need a new one."
Laila laughed, but the words tangled inside her. She watched the flicker of lamplight on the wall, the way her family moved together even when they disagreed—noisy, yes, but never cruel. She loved it here, and she always would, but even as a child she understood how little of it was meant for her. There were only so many years before she'd be sent off, paired with some boy from upriver or down, to start her own rowdy kitchen.
In the city, girls married at fifteen, her mother often said. Here, they waited a bit longer, if the harvest was good and the winters weren't too mean. Laila would not mind marrying, she told herself, not really, but it seemed wrong to have to choose among the same handful of faces she saw every day.
She sneaked a glance at her father, who was listening with rapt attention as Miko described a plan to trap frogs in the marsh for market. Her father didn't laugh, not even a twitch of mouth—he nodded along, and when Miko stumbled, he filled in the words without taking the idea away. He was that sort of man: patient, but never soft, and he remembered every story, even the wildest ones. Laila thought, if she could have a husband half as good, she'd call herself lucky.
Her mother reached over to pat Laila's hand. "You thinking of the summer dance?"
"Maybe," Laila admitted, though it hadn't been on her mind.
Her father arched a brow. "Watch yourself, or Oren will dance every step before you get a turn."
Oren rolled his eyes. "It's for girls and old folks."
"It's for everyone," her mother corrected, "and don't you forget it."
Laila imagined the coming months—the long days of haying, the river swims, the evenings spent barefoot in the grass. In all of them, she was happy, or at least something close to it. But always, beneath the surface, the knowledge waited: life would not always be hers to shape.
She spooned pie onto her plate, savoring the rich, sour-sweet taste, and resolved not to waste a single crumb of childhood while she still had it. If marriage and duty were coming, let them come after the last barefoot race, the last swim in the chilly water, the last evening spent laughing with the people who made her.
Her father caught her eye and winked. Laila smiled back, feeling the same quickness of heart that had carried her over the hills all afternoon.
"More pie?" she asked, holding up the dish, and the whole table cheered.
If the future was uncertain, at least tonight there was enough—enough food, enough laughter, enough of this.
After supper, the men drifted to the porch, and the kitchen returned to its natural state: a fortress of quiet industry, ruled by the hands of women. Laila wiped crumbs from the table while her mother cleared the plates, stacking them with the soft clatter of stoneware. Oren and Miko's voices echoed through the door—plotting, as always—while her father's deep, steady rumble drifted up and down, now and then punctuated by a brief, rolling laugh.
Her mother poured hot water into the washing basin, the steam carrying the scent of wild mint. "You dry, I'll wash," she said, passing a towel with a brisk efficiency that brooked no argument. They worked in silence for a while, moving in perfect step.
"You did well today," her mother said suddenly, not looking up from the dish she scrubbed. "With the boys, with your Da. He counts on you more than he lets on."
Laila flushed. "I didn't do much. Just ran and kept them out of trouble."
"Sometimes that's the most to be done." Her mother reached for another bowl, hands red but steady. "You remind me of myself, when I was your age."
Laila tried to picture it: her mother, before the wrinkles and the tired eyes, perhaps skipping stones by the river or climbing trees on a dare. The image didn't fit at first, but after a moment she could see it—the same set to the jaw, the same stubborn hopefulness.
When the last plate was set on the rack, her mother wiped her hands and pointed to the wooden chest beneath the window. "Fetch the knitting, please."
Laila sighed, but obeyed, lifting the basket with its jumble of yarn and half-made socks. She took her usual place by the hearth, curling her legs beneath her. Her mother sat across, unwinding a skein of wool, and the firelight made her hair look almost golden.
"I know you don't like it," her mother said, threading needles with nimble fingers, "but come winter, every sock we sell is a meal on the table. And the merchants pay twice as much for good work."
Laila reached for her own set of needles, already tangled. "You said we'd get more for the wool itself, if we just sold that."
Her mother shook her head. "Not this year. Too many herders, not enough buyers. But city folk always want warm socks."
"They must have cold feet," Laila joked, trying to hide her clumsy knotting.
Her mother laughed softly. "They have money, that's what they have."
Laila fumbled through a row, losing count more than once, but determined to finish at least one pass before the thread snarled. Her mother watched, silent but with a smile hovering at the edge of her lips.
"You're improving," she said at last. "Your stitches are tighter than last week."
"That's because my fingers are, too," Laila said, shaking her cramped hands.
"All skill is like that at first. You'll get the shape of it, and then you'll wonder why it was ever hard." Her mother's tone was gentle, but carried the weight of experience.
For a while, the only sound was the click of needles and the pop of the fire. Outside, the men and boys argued over who could spit a cherry pit the farthest. Laila watched the shadow play on the wall, feeling both younger and older than her years.
"Mam," she said quietly, "did you ever wish you could do something different?"
Her mother didn't answer right away. Instead, she set her knitting down and looked straight at Laila, her eyes steady and kind.
"I did. Once. But not for long." She brushed a strand of hair from Laila's forehead. "We do what we must, and if we're lucky, we find something to love in it."
Laila wasn't sure if she believed it, but she nodded all the same. She picked up her needles and tried again, hands steadier this time. The work was tedious, but it was theirs, and the fire made everything a little softer, a little easier to bear.
When the sock-in-progress slipped from her hand and landed on the floor, her mother let out a laugh so real and unguarded that Laila couldn't help joining in. The sound filled the kitchen, warm as a second hearth.
Outside, Oren yelped—likely a pit had landed in his ear—and the whole family erupted in laughter. It drifted through the door, mixing with the lowing of cows and the far-off chorus of frogs. For a moment, Laila thought she could stay here forever, threading wool and watching the shadows grow, the future a thing as simple as the next stitch.