And the girl whose twin had died; she was younger than the yellow-haired one, just toddling,
but she giggled and shrieked with the others, playing catch-me-while-I’m-running.
Tussling, the toddlers slapped and kicked at each other, grabbing toy-sticks, flailing with their small fists.
Kira remembered watching her childhood companions at such play, preparing for the real scramble of adult life.
Unable to participate because of her flawed leg, she had watched from the sidelines with envy.
An older child, a dirty-faced boy of eight or nine years, still too young for puberty and the two-syllable name that he would receive,
looked over at her from the place where he was clearing underbrush and sorting the twigs into bundles for firestarting.
Kira smiled. It was Matt, who had always been her friend. She liked Matt.
He lived in the swampy, disagreeable Fen, probably the child of a dragger or digger.
But he ran freely through the village with his disorderly friends, his dog always at his heels.
Often he stopped, as now, to do some chore or small job in return for a few coins or a sweet.
Kira called a greeting to the boy. The dog’s bent tail, matted with twigs and leaves, thumped on the ground, and the boy grinned in reply.
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