The kitchen was working itself into a clamor and the cook had decided to allow Honora to start late, but only today. The metal of pots hitting together and the cook’s clearing of her night voice were both making inroads on the natural dawn sounds of outside. Soon the birds would have it all their own way. The sun was still shy, brightening the landscape gradually, throwing light benignly on corners that had darkened for the night, as yet showing no signs of the impending mercilessness that it would burn on people in only a few hours. Honora registered the noise of an approaching horse and shouts from the man on top of it. She knew she would have to rise now. Although she had become worried in the night, she got up and dressed as confidently as she could. She tried not to think of her mother and her father on this morning—the thought of them had more to do with the unveiling of her sleep than anything else, because her mother and her father had never been in this picture, had never seen any of these things out of their small window.
