Free Borne in Blood by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

one pfennig more than absolutely necessary to sustain me as little above poverty as his reputation could endure.”
    “All because your husband left no Will to provide for you,” said Ragoczy.
    “He didn’t think he would die so young,” she said, as she had said many times before. “And neither did I.”
    “There is always a risk of dying.” Ragoczy paused by a narrow rill running through the center of the field; the amount of water, although small, caused him discomfort.
    “Even for you?” She was almost teasing him.
    “Even for me,” he said somberly; he glanced down at the sparking surface of the rill. “I’ll lift you over,” he offered.
    “Just let me take your arm and that will suffice,” said Hero, testing the narrow bank of the rivulet to determine how slippery it was. She laid her hand on the arm he held out to her and stepped across the water. “There; you see?”
    He crossed to her side of the little stream. “There should be a stone path along on your right.”
    “I think I see it,” she said, trying to hold her skirts above the worst of the mud.
    “Then proceed,” he said, still providing a steadying hand. “It is tricky underfoot, I fear.”
    She made her way to the path and looked down at her shoes. “Quite ruined,” she said with a hint of a giggle. “Doubtless my own fault.”
    “You will walk with your feet on the ground,” said Ragoczy, matching his tone with hers.
    “So I will,” she said, continuing down the road. “At least the other fields are almost planted.”
    “This one will lie fallow another year, I must suppose,” said Ragoczy. “The orchards are finally in full bloom—that arguers well.”
    “Herr Kleinerhoff has always taken pride in the fruit his orchards produce, or so his son told me last autumn.” She waited while her wistfulness washed through her. “Siegfried loves apples.”
    “I thought most boys liked apples,” said Ragoczy with steady kindness.
    “Yes, but Siegfried is especially fond of them. So was Fridhold.”
    He rested his hand on her shoulder for several seconds. “You miss him.”
    “I keep thinking I should stop,” she said by way of apology. “Missing him does no good.”
    “Why do you say that? He was dear to you, he was the father of your children, you shared his life and his bed for nearly eight years, and he was not yet thirty when he died.” Ragoczy turned her to face him. “How can I fault you for your affection?”
    “But you aren’t jealous, are you?” she asked tentatively as she resumed her progress along the stone path.
    “Why should I be?” he countered. “Your love for him does not diminish your affection for me.”
    “No,” she conceded. “At least, I don’t believe it does.”
    He regarded her thoughtfully a short while as they reached the gate leading to the road to the small Trappist monastery farther up the mountain. “Every love is different, Hero,” he said as he drew back the bar that held the gate closed. “You may compare them all you try, yet no two loves are alike.”
    “This is something you have learned in your life?” She regarded him curiously, her eyes fixed on him with steady purpose.
    “Yes: long since.”
    “You still miss Madelaine de Montalia; I know you do,” she said, not quite accusing him.
    “Certainly; and many others, as well,” he said in his unflustered way, aware that his attachment to Madelaine was unlike most of his connections to those with whom the Blood Bond still pertained.
    “But not the way you miss her,” Hero insisted.
    “No, not the way I miss her, nor anyone else. Everyone I have known is unique in my experience and holds a singular place in my memory.” He had almost said my heart, but memories of Csimenae stopped the words before he spoke them. “You need not fear I will forget you, Hero.” As she walked through, he closed the gate behind her. “Those of my blood learn not to be distracted by one love from another. When you live as long as we