From behind he looked like an old man—white hair, bowed head, stooped shoulders— but there was no mistaking the strength in his step. He is not tall, and she can only guess that he must weigh less than she does by at least three stone. But he is a hardy one, to be sure, solid of limb, and she has seen him lift a calf more than half his size and sling the creature across his broad back without so much as a grunt. If he only chose to, she thinks, he could easily puff out his chest and claim as much space in this world as any other man. Emma sprinkles a final handful of feed over the chickens pecking at her shoes and slaps her palms on her skirts. She has been daydreaming, staring at the column of smoke above the woods, and it has taken her three times longer than it should have to complete her morning chores. Her husband would have scolded her had he not departed shortly before Oddmund did. Emma does not know for certain where Cyrus has gone. He seldom tells her. He muttered only that he had “business”
