"There's something off about her."
She stared down at her toes. A beam of sunlight was pouring through the open front door of the cottage, bathing her small feet in warmth. Her toes were slender and dirty. An old scratch ran across the top of her foot in a crooked line, from a broken wire on a fence post that she'd climbed over.
"Don't say that so loud! She'll hear you."
Her toes curled. The wooden planks of the floor had long been worn smooth by the many feet of people and pets passing through the house, and the gritty soil they carried in from outside. She rubbed a foot over the shiny surface, liking the way it felt.
"She don't ever talk, she probably can't hear us."
She flexed both feet, spreading her little toes wide in the sunbeam. The hem of her dress was frayed and coming apart. The fabric was once white, with strawberry-red stripes. Her favorite dress in the world. She reached down and plucked at one of the loose threads. It wasn't white anymore, but that was all right. The threads were fun to pull at.
"She talks to her cousin sometimes. She talks to the animals quite a bit."
A spot on her leg itched suddenly. She bent down and remembered that they were covered in mosquito bites. Owler had taught her to slap them with the flat of her hand instead of scratching them, to keep from making herself bleed. The sound of small hands slapping chubby legs filled the room.
"No lad's gonna want a wife that doesn't talk and lives inside her own head so much. If she wants to be one of the goats or pigs, then let her. Put her to work outside. She's old enough now."
A shadow flitted across her sunbeam. She looked up and saw one of the spring lambs, prancing and kicking its way across the farm yard. With a delighted giggle, she sprinted forward, out the door, and into the sunshine.
