Well then, I did ought to feel just a smidgin of repentance about tonight, not because it was my fault, it wasn’t, it wasn’t, except maybe I shouldn’t ought to’ve kissed her just that way, because boys ought to be kind of careful and try to stay pure and like reverent by not thinking too much about you-know-what, anyhow after my apprentice time I’d prob’ly marry some nice woman and everything would be nice, and by the way I mustn’t feel bad about it not you-know standing up like, because she happened to know for a fact the same thing happened to lots of boys if they was just scared or not used to things, see, it didn’t necessarily mean they had some enemy doing nasty things with a wax image, although of course if I was a full-growed man it could be that and you had to be careful, anyhow it was all her fault like she’d said before. I said I was sorry.

She said she knew I was and it did me credit, and nobody would ever know, and as for the laws, why, they’d ought to take them mis’ble laws out and drown them, because bond-servant or no I was as good as anybody and she’d say it again, as good as anybody, more b’ token she wouldn’t let anyone hurt one hair of my head, ever, only what she meant about proving myself, well, see, I ought to go and do something difficult, she didn’t mean anythmg wild or goofy, just something hard and well, like noble or something, so as to — so as to—

“Miss Emmia, I mean Emmia, I will, I mean it, cross my heart I will, like what frinstance?”

“Oh, you should choose it yourself, something you don’t want to do but know you should, like going to church regular, only it don’t have to be that, you ought to want to do that anyway. No, just something good and honest and difficult, the way I’ll be proud of you, I’ll be your inspiration like — no, you mustn’t kiss me again, not ever until you be freeman, mind now I mean it.”

She stood up away from me, smoothing her skirt, her eyes downcast, maybe crying again a little, but in the weak lantern-light I couldn’t be sure. “I’ll try, Emmia.”

“I mean I want us to be good, Davy, like — like respectable people, nice people that get ahead and get asked to go places and stuff. That’s what they mean, see, by fearing God and living in Abraham and like that, I mean there’s a right way and a wrong way, I mean I — well, I a’n’t always been too good, Davy, you wouldn’t know.” She was at the trap-door, setting down the lantern. She blew it out to leave for me at the head of the ladder. “You go to sleep now, Davy — little Spice.” She was gone.

I could have run after her then, ready as ever I would be, no more sense than a jack-in-the-box, and no less. But I only went to the window, and saw her vague shape crossing the stable yard, and crawled back under the blankets into a dream-tormented sleep.

I was running — rather, a mush-footed staggering on legs too heavy and too short — through a house dimly like the Bull-and-Iron. It possessed a thousand rooms, each containing something with a hint of memory: a three-legged stool the orphanage kids sat on when they were naughty; a ring Sister Carnation wore; a cloth doll; my luck-charm upright in one of the crimson slippers Caron wore when she first came to the orphanage — (they’d been swiftly taken away from her as a sinful vanity). In that house black wolf followed me, in no hurry — he could wait. His throat-noises resembled words: “Look at me! Look at me!” If I did, even once, he would have me. I went on — each room windowless, no sunrise place. The doors would not latch behind me. When I leaned against one, black wolf slobbered at the crack, and I said over my shoulder: “I’ll give Caron my Katskil knife and she will do you something good and difficult.” He shut up then, but I must still find Caron or my threat was empty, and it may be she went on ahead with one brown foot bare and my candle upright in the other crimson slipper, but I don’t know, for I tripped and went down, knowing black wolf was about to snuff at my neck, then knowing I was awake on my pallet in the stable loft, but for a while I wasn’t certain I was alone.

I was alone. I smelled the dry hay, and Emmia’s scent — merely from her blanket. Late moonlight showed me the loft window. The spider-bite was a harmless itch and soreness. I found my sack and felt of the golden horn. It was not mine.

I knew what that action must be, good and honest and difficult. My horn must go back to an ugly creature who could make no use of it. Was that good? Well, it was difficult and honest. I could never tell of it to Emmia — unless maybe I dressed up the story — changed the mue to a hermit perhaps? Nay, when had I ever told the girl anything but the simplest every-day matters? Why, in my day-dreams. Then, sure, she never failed to respond wonderfully.

I would run away, scorned, abused, in danger of my life because Emmia had reported me to the authorities for not killing the mue. Then, let’s see-would I fall prey to the policer dogs? Facing them, I would say — nope. Well, climb a tree, talk from there? Balls.

However, some far-off day I might revisit Skoar, a scarred and sad-faced man disinclined to mention heroic action in the far-off wars of — Nuin? Corncut? Why wouldn’t I captain an expedition that did away, with the Cod Islands pirates? So in gratitude a friendly nation made me Governor of them balmy isles—

Kay, in those days how was I to know the Cods are a few lumps scattered through the waters off Nuin as if someone had flung gobs of wet sand out of a bucket?

Emmia, having sorrowfully blamed herself all these years, might recognize me, but alas—

A rat lolloping across an overhead beam scared the bejasus out of me. I slung on my clothes, and felt for the lump of my luck-charm in the sack. I must find another cord and wear it again the right way. I would cut a length of fishline for it when I got to my cave. I tried not to think of the horn. My moccasins went into the sack on top of it, and I settled my knife-belt.

Emmia’s blanket mustn’t be found here by somebody who’d say it proved we spent the night together under it. I crammed it on top of the moccasins and went down the ladder. Going away for real, I thought.

But Emmia mustn’t be harmed, as she might be if the blanket merely turned up missing. All permanent property of the Bull-and-Iron seemed to be attached to Mam Robson by a God-damn mystic cord. Food in moderation you could steal, but let a blanket or candlestick or such-like walk with Abraham, and something wounded the Mam deep in her soul; she couldn’t rest till she’d searched out the cause of the pain, all the better if she could drive Old Jon into a twittering frenzy while she did it.

I stood under Emmia’s window studying the big jinny-creeper. The ancient stem was sturdy and should hold me. Old Jon and the Main slept on the other side of the building. The rooms nearest Emmia’s were for guests; below was a store-room. Only a reckless randy-john would climb up there. I climbed.

The vine gripped the bricks with ten thousand toes, bent and whispered but did not break. I clung with an arm over the sill. I’d carried the blanket up in my teeth and left my sack in deep shadow. I dropped the blanket inside the room that was nch with Emmia’s fragrance. I heard a small puppy-moan that must mean sleep, maybe the nudging of a dream. She might wake, see my shadow and scream the house down. This was the shape my fear took that time. I was on the ground and jittering away down Kurin Street before I could stop trembling.

Sick-angry too because I had not gone to her bed, but I could dream up plentiful reasons for not going back now. They drove me on — over the stockade, up the mountain. But I would return, I told myself, after I restored the horn. I’d try to please her. Hell, I’d even go to church if there was no way to weasel out of it. And (said another self) I would get it in.