Now on a fine summer morning I was down there repairing the remains of my handiwork, having taken the children with me to show them some of the wisdom Mother Hilde taught me about plants. Tall white clouds were blowing across the sky, and when one of them passed, a shadow would cross over the little garden, and then vanish, leaving it in sun again. “Oh, look here how big the sage has grown. That's good for melancholy and sweating sickness.” Peregrine, in a baby dress and old leggings cut off at the ankle, was intently digging the dirt by the comfrey plants, which had managed to reseed themselves in a big clump. His gaze was intent as he turned up a little rock, a worm, a bug with many legs that hurried away. “This one's fennel, mama,” said Alison, breaking off a little branch of it to chew on. She was barefoot, wearing nothing but a summer smock, her red-gold hair shining down her back. Someday she will be a beauty, I thought. “Me, too,” said Peregrine, looking up, and Alison broke him off one.
