“No, I can’t,” I stammered, pushing away a memory of raw fingers digging in the mud and the smell of burning hair. “I m-mean, you’ve already . . .” I trailed off, clutching my lute closer to my chest and moving a couple of steps away. He looked at me more closely, as if seeing me for the first time. Suddenly self-conscious, I imagined how I must look: ragged and half-starved. I hugged the lute and backed farther away. The farmer’s hands fell to his side and his smile faded. “Ah, lad,” he said softly. He set the squash down, then turned back to me and spoke with a gentle seriousness. “Me and
...more
