The bowl is red with it. He tries not to cry as the cloth presses against the scratches. I want to cry for him, but I bite my lip to hold it in. They sit close to the fire, warming themselves, blankets thrown over bare skin. I want to move among them, my sons, and press my nose into their salty skin. To smell them, and weep over them, and hold them until their bones crack. I do not. Boys do not need their mother’s love. They need her ferocity. Boys need to be told to get up when they fall; to stop weeping when they cry; to hold their chin high and their shoulders square. What use is such tearful tenderness to them? So I fold it inside this stranger’s fleshy body. Bethoc brings more blankets. She stops first at Ranald, the one she likes best, though no one else can get close to him. ‘Stop slouching, girl.’ I snap at her and watch her flinch. She pulls herself up, however. She is awkward with her changing shape, and hunches over her shoulders to disguise her new breasts.
