Early winter whispered after Dante left, the snow drifting down in soft waves, the gray light days crawling towards All Souls. Wordless's ghost haunted Martha. She would begin her endless stream of conversation only to realize with a pang that his place at the table sat empty. It hit her that even when he could speak, he never did say much, just listened to her natter on, seeming content to nibble on a cookie and watch her work. He absorbed and remembered her every word, right from the very beginning, a miracle in itself. She had learned as a child that no one listened to her babbling, but she couldn't stop. Then one day Wordless came and drank from her flowing waters.

Her bed, once so large and comfortable, turned cold and empty without his arms around her and his chest to rest her head. She missed rubbing her hand over the soft hair running down his front and teasing him about growing into a man. "I'll show you what a man I am," he would whisper. He had pulled her to him and turned her into a woman, a beautiful woman -- Gaia, herself. Martha ached for the safe rumbling protection of his snore. She wanted him to laugh again as the baby kicked against his hand.

Every day she asked Madam if a message had arrived. Elizabeth would shake her head. Martha grilled Reba. Her sister set her face before answering with a curt "No." The day of All Souls Night, Madam motioned Martha to the hard seat in front of the study desk.

"It's been a long time without messages. Dante's not going to call," said Madam.

"Maybe he's someplace without computers. You said he must go into the Northern Weald. It's mostly trackless forest," said Martha.

"Perhaps. But I suspect he's gone for good," replied Elizabeth. "Remember my nephew, George. Apprentices are feckless. Desperately in love one day, onto a bar maid the next. I'm sorry. That's how it is among young nobles. Sowing their wild oats."

"Wordless isn't like that," countered Martha.

"No. Wordless wasn't like that. But Dante is."

"I don't believe you." Martha stared at the floor. The seed of doubt had planted itself. "May I go now? The dinner must be started."

"Yes," sighed Elizabeth.

Martha rose, her eyes filling. She bolted back to the kitchen. Her tears added a touch of melancholy to the chicken soup. Reba loomed up behind her.

"Forget him. I had to," she remarked. "It passes. You'll see. You'll be glad he's gone. Counting your lucky stars. You don't really think he'd marry you do you? A powerful prince wizard like him? The nobles'll fight among themselves to give him an arranged bride."

"Leave me alone," sniffed Martha. Her lower back ached.

"You really fell for it," smirked Reba. "Left cold with a bun in the oven and you still think the sun rises on him. Phhh."

"Shut up you slut," shouted Martha.

"I'm not the one fat out to here."

"Who flirts round the clean sheets when Matthew and Sons Laundry comes? Jeffy poo, you watch your hands now.Giggle, giggle. Lawrence, you lift so much. Let me feel your arm."

"Oh, Wordless," breathed Reba, placing her arm against her brow and closing her eyes in ecstasy. She thrust the air with her pelvis. "Poke me again. You can have another cookie."

"Shut up. Shut up."

Martha slapped her sister across the face. She threw the ladle into the pot, rushed to her room and slammed the door. Muffled sobs wafted down the hall.

"Ummm. Not bad," said Reba peering into the soup then pulling up the ladle for a sip. Her cheek stung with a satisfying glow. "Not bad at all."

Annie, the kitchen slave from the rental agency, tapped on the bedroom door. Martha pretended to ignore her. She wished someone could massage her back. Wordless would have looked after her. Her feet ached with loneliness. He hadn't left her, she knew it.

The week before he left, when the world stretched out before them, glowing and uncharted, not a dark cloud covering it, they had sat on the log bench by the wood pile, admiring the reds, purples, orange, azure of the changing wood lot. A flock of brown pterodactyls had flown overhead, heading south, their lonely cries ringing through the clear blue autumn sky. As they watched them, Dante had put an arm around her.

"You helped me carry on," he said.

Martha knew he remembered the first time they had sat on the bench, on a similar fall day, a few months after his arrival at the farm. She had used the excuse of needing wild mint and herbs to take a walk down to the woods. The cows stared at her with curious eyes as she passed the still green field and stopped at the small rise to admire the autumn rainbow of the woods. The crisp air echoed with the sound of an axe splitting logs. The sound stopped. A perfect silence descended as she brushed through the crisp leaves carpeting the path. The trees had opened to the clearing and Martha saw the axe sticking out of the stump. On the other side crouched Wordless, piling up a large stack of wood. His new golden curls shone in the warm sun. He had started to sprout up but the rib sticking food she piled on his plate hadn't yet made a dent in his painful thinness. He halted his work and gathered something. She couldn't quite make out what he held. He rose and she saw the edges of colored leaves peeping from his bony, work torn hands.

Wordless stood facing away from her, his head bent; turning, touching and tracing the leaves. He stared up at the trees. A flock of pterodactyls swished and cried overhead. He tracked their flight, turned and saw her. The leaves slid from his fingers, fluttering to the ground. He had pivoted around to the wood pile and rushed to stack the new logs on top of the old. The pile collapsed down one side, he ran after the rolling wood, picking it up and desperately trying to replace it. Martha had hastened to him.

"It's all right. It's O.K.," she soothed."I startled you. I'm sorry. Here let me help you stack the logs so they won't fall."

They had piled them together, Martha turning them into a firm stack. Wordless heaved an unsplit log onto the stump, his thin body straining. He bent to pull the ax from its resting place. Martha placed a hand on his arm.

"Stop a minute," she said. "No wonder you fall asleep over your supper. Despite what some nobles and overseers think, humans aren't made to work without a rest. Come sit on the bench with me for a few minutes. Blessed Kore has told us, even the lowliest beetle rolling its ball of dung, stops and admires the beauty of the manure heap. We'll look at the leaves together. I'll tell you all about the wood lot."

Wordless had glanced at the bench then back at the log. He stared down, a tin woodman frozen over his axe. His rigidity had reminded Martha of Reba's gossip. Madam had said that when she gave Wordless his first physical, a few weeks after his collapse on the porch, he lay passively on the examination table, letting her poke and prod where she wished. He stared straight up, not a flicker of emotion or recognition crossing his face. She had put her stethoscope to his heart. It galloped in his chest, crying out for escape.

"Are you afraid of me, my special boy?" asked Madam. His body had frozen into rigidity. "You are afraid. I'm sorry. I forgot autistics don't like being touched. Let me check your chest once again and you're done." Reba reported that he had shot off the table and into his clothes as soon as Elizabeth had removed the stethoscope from his knarled back.

So Martha had reassured him as she settled herself on the bench. "I won't touch you, I promise. It just didn't seem right that you shouldn't get a hug after Dad's rant and rave. Come sit down by me."

Wordless had plodded over to the bench and plopped down beside her. She placed a crimson leaf in his hand. He held it without interest, his eyes fastened on the ground. Martha had pretended her captive audience hung onto her every word.

"That's a maple leaf you're holding. The saplings came with the dead Master's father, from the Old World. The pollution on the Old World has killed them off, they say. They only grow here. Some say maples are a sacred tree, that they came on the ship from the spoiled Earth of Blessed Kore. I think they're sacred because they give us sugar and syrup in the spring and beauty in the fall. When I was little, Reba and I used to come and play down here. The maple keys look like fairy wings and you can make them fly by twisting them, then dropping them. I love it here. I know everything about the woods. Where the nests are, the herbs and spring flowers. What's poisonous and what's not. Sometimes I think I feel something shimmering in the woods, among the high ferns, smiling at me. A fey seraphim maybe or real fairies. I pray and Gaia's close to me. I never feel lonely when I'm here."

She had chatted for quite some time, telling him her small secrets. How Madam, though she praised quite often, still somehow made her feel like she never quite measured up. Reba's beauty and popularity at the annual district summer picnic, where the owners pretended ignorance or looked on with amusement as the young slaves flirted. She, the dowdy, plump mouse, spent her picnic with her sleeves rolled up, dishing out the food and refilling the servers' trays of drink. Shyness dammed her voice, she could hardly respond to the usual jokes and comments of the waiters. If anyone had bothered to flirt with her, she would have put it down to pity.

Wordless had relaxed as her words washed over him. He leaned against her and without thinking she brushed his curls as she talked. Martha realized her mistake and glanced at him, assuming he must have fallen asleep. He stared at the other side of the glade, the occasional blink the only sign he wasn't catatonic. She pulled her hand away with a whispered, "Sorry." He had sent her the blank stare she came to know as his acknowledgement of someone he liked, then got up and returned to his work as if she no longer existed.

They had sat on the bench many times through out the years, stealing a few moments to watch the seasons change. That last time, Dante had told her how he treasured the memory of that day. He had wanted to lay down his head on her lap and sob because she blessed him with a kind touch. Frustration had dogged him that he couldn't show his gratitude to her for treating him as more than a retarded automaton. He thanked her, weeping at the memory. They cried together and she wiped away his tears with a corner of her apron. He thought of her as the goddess of mercy and she had flushed with beauty as she believed him. Dante would never leave her.

Martha knew it was the rod he had feared when he froze at her touch on his arm. She had put him in an impossible situation. If he sat down with her, Dad or Madam might have found them and corrected him. If he ignored her, she might become like Reba and complain about him. Into her mind crept the horrible moment when she had unknowingly turned against him and Madam had corrected him. Martha hugged her pillow as the guilty memory of his screams washed over her.

Worry gnawed. He could be dead, or injured, or captured by his enemies. She couldn't stand the thought that at this very moment, they might be torturing him with a correction rod. It terrified him, she knew. His restored nobility hadn't stopped him from avoiding the front hall and the umbrella stand.

Martha felt miserable, all tear stained and swollen. She rubbed her tightening stomach and pressed where she thought a little limb poked. Though she rested on her side, the baby lay oddly quiet, with none of the usual punching against the bed.

"Please answer," begged Annie from the other side of the door. "I've set the table in the dining room. Should I serve the soup to the clinic patients?"

"I'm coming," sighed Martha.

She sat up, cursing the pain in her back. Her water broke with a gush. Martha cried out as it pumped onto the bed. Annie threw open the door.

"My water. Oh, dear," said Martha. "And my back hurts like crazy."

"I'll get Madam," panicked Annie and rushed away.

Martha heaved herself up, glad of the plastic protecting the mattress, and stumbled to the toilet. The rest of the water drained away. Her bowels cramped in a true contraction. Martha doubled over, wanting to push everything out. Elizabeth ran in and pulled her up.

"Oh no you don't. No babies in my toilets," she instructed. Martha gave a slight smile. "Off to the birthing room. You can make it."

"My back's killing me. Has been all day," moaned Martha as they rushed down the hall.

"You're in back labour. It'll all be over soon, my child," soothed Elizabeth as she guided her to the birthing stool. "Hold on. Off with those wet clothes. Let's get you all arranged. Remember the breathing."

Another contraction hit. Reba appeared from somewhere.

"Get her out of here," snapped Martha.

"Massage her back," ordered Elizabeth. "She's in transition. Just go ahead," said Madam.

Reba's skilled hands soothed the back cramps as her sister puffed through another contraction. Martha bore down. No one was going to stop her. The baby's head crowned.

"It stings. It hurts," cried Martha.

"Just a few moments more. Here it comes," soothed Elizabeth. "Push."

Martha groaned with exertion. The child flopped into Madam's waiting hands and gasped her first breath.

"It's a girl," Elizabeth smiled.

She checked the baby over, cut the cord, placed the infant on Martha, then turned to catching the after birth and stitching up a small tear. The child snuggled on the softness of Martha's stomach. Martha reached out and stroked the tiny back, then the wet black haired head. The baby sneezed a tiny sneeze. "Did I hurt you?" asked Elizabeth, looking up from sewing the tear.

"No. The baby sneezed."

"Mucus," remarked Madam with an air of distracted concentration.

"She's beautiful," beamed Reba. "Her little head's round. And she's so pink. Doesn't look as if she's had a hard time at all."

"Her hair's the color of yours," said Martha, all arguments forgotten. "She's going to grow up beautiful."

"I should wash her and wrap her up," said Reba.

"You just want to hold her."

"I admit it. Then I'll give her back for her first feed." Reba lifted the baby off Martha. "Hello, darling. I'm your Auntie Reba. Have you thought of a name?"

"Oh dear, no," replied Martha with dismay. "We just called the baby ‘Magic Mouse.' That wouldn't do."

"It certainly wouldn't," said Elizabeth. "Not with the new enforcement of the laws against non-engineered pregnancies. Not to mention the ban on magician-slave relationships."

Madam and Martha watched Reba wrap the baby. Worry pricked at them. Slaves and transpos sold away from lax masters, innocent babes murdered, stake burnings, suicide pacts. They no longer watched the news, so draconian was the new enforcement of the laws. The baby whimpered. Reba wrapped her into the swaddling clothes and gave her back. The infant found her mother's breast and began to suckle. All memory of evil died with the miracle of new life.

The little moons sprinkled snow light onto Martha's bed, reminding her of the night Wordless came to her, the night the baby was conceived. She stared down at the wonder fallen away from her breast. Her perfect sleeping baby; tiny curled fists, perfect black eyelashes on pink skin, bud mouth pursing with sucking remembrance. Martha's heart swelled with love and joy. She wanted to dance the baby through the house, shout to wake the faraway neighbours, bang on a timbrel, call to the stars. Words welled up from deep inside. The baby awoke. Her eyes locked on her mother's shining face. Martha began to sing,

Martha felt the presence from the wood lot and stopped her song. The music sang on around the house. Far away, she heard feet running, doors slam and Dad and Reba exclaiming in wonder. The light in her room sparkled with a million dust motes, swirling up into a column. Reality shimmered. The invisible became visible. An angelic being stood before her bed, there but not there, a halo of light and peace surrounding it. A fay seraphim. The being smiled without smiling.

"All glory to Gaia. Hail Blessed One," it said without saying. "Honoured are you among humans for you bear The Beloved. Her name shall be Sophia for she leads her people back to wisdom."

"But I'm just a poor slave. Never even went to school. I'm a cook not a witch. How can I be the mother of The Beloved?" stuttered Martha.

"Did not the Bodhisattva demand your freedom? All live free and equal in the womb of Gaia. Love is more than enough. Present her in Botany, in the holy temple that gathers praises to our Eternal Mother. That those with eyes may see the truth. Blessings and grace are with you, Mother of the Beloved."

Martha sat stunned. She glanced down at her baby. The child's face had turned to the being. Fay seraphim and Beloved smiled at each other without smiling. The shine softened and faded away, the light returned to the stars and moons. The singing hosannas dissolved. Martha heard the family clattering back into the house. William opened her door.

"Unbelievable. Ah. It woke you too," he grinned. "Did you look out your window? It's a sign and a miracle. Seraphim covered the sky, singing praises to Gaia. Incredible. Now I'll die happy, having seen such a thing."

Martha looked up, her face shining with the glory of God. She held out the baby.

"Her name is Sophia."

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