Mab’s barn at Thatcham smells of hay and animals who have opinions.

“Custom,” she says, which is a word like hospice in farm clothes. “Gale gets a roof. You stack what I say. You don’t tease the ram. In the morning the ridge is still there, and so are you.”

Saint Elswith’s day may happen while you sleep. A badge may wait. Alive is also a kind of arrival.

Hawte would have charged. Pernell would have prayed. Mab gives you a blanket that has earned its patches.

Mab’s ram is in a separate opinion-pen. You stack what she says. Custom is stacking. In the night, rain on thatch is a kinder sound than rain on reeds. Saint Elswith can be a well tomorrow. You can be a person with dry ears.