Rupert chuckled. "You wouldn't, Helen. You'd have stayed with Notya and Miriam and me and looked after us all, and longed for this place and denied yourself."
"And made us all uncomfortable." Miriam pointed at Helen's grey dress. "What have you been doing?"
Helen looked down at the dark marks where her knees had pressed the ground.
"It will dry," she said, and went nearer the fire. "Zebedee says old Halkett's ill."
"Drink and the devil," Rupert hummed. "He'll die soon."
"Hope so," John said fervently. "I don't like to think of the bloated old beast alive."
"He'll be horrider dead, I think," said Helen. "Dead things should be beautiful."
"Well, he won't be. Moreover, nothing is, for long. You've seen sheep's carcasses after the snows. Don't be romantic."
"I said they should be."
"It's a good thing they're not. They wouldn't fertilize the ground. Can't we have supper?"