"She was my mother. My real mother was gone, so she raised me. She was small and sharper than anyone in that village, and she wasn't afraid of anything. When people whispered about me, she looked them in the eye and told them to say it louder."
Martha had gone very still.
"She taught me to read. She burned the first three loaves of bread she ever made me, and she made me eat all three, because she said wasting food was a worse crime than bad cooking. When I was nine, I got sick, and she sat up with me for six nights without sleeping. I woke up on the seventh, and she was asleep in the chair with her hand on my forehead."
Nobody spoke. The fire popped quietly.
Martha's hand had come up to her mouth. Her eyes were bright and wet, and she wasn't blinking.
"When I was in the valley," she said, and her voice shook, "and the voice called me. I saw a boy with a carved bird. He was holding it up to show me. He was so proud of it."
