It was the largest house I'd ever seen.

I couldn't help but gawk like a fool. To the back of it, the fields stretched toward the horizon, empty of crops as the season yawned and stretched under the renewed warmth of the sun. The eastern field was dotted with men sowing seed. In the distance, I could see a series of squat cottages, their roofs freshly thatched. Beyond them were fenced sections of land where sheep and cattle grazed. On the other side were the cliffs, and past the cliffs was the sea.

Red chickens pecked along the road, content until we approached. Then, they scattered, clucking in alarm. Used to being chased for the pot, I reckoned.

The manor itself was grand, although the architecture belied its humble beginnings as a settler's cottage. Some parts were wood, others mortared stone. A long porch at the front was accessed by grand steps that swept down to meet the path, which turned to cobblestones halfway up from the road. There were panes of colored glass in the higher windows, something I had never seen before. I wondered if it came from across the sea.

Most important of all was the chimney. Not the chimney itself, but the smoke that was curling out of it. When I saw that humble haze in the sky, my stomach cramped painfully, connecting the thoughts of skittish chickens with the signs of a cooking fire.

I was hungry.

It was nothing new to us. My father and I had been wandering for weeks. It was easier now that the weather was warmer. Easier—not easy. Winter in those lands was damp and cold, if not particularly cruel. It was bearable, but for a boy of ten and his crippled father, it was impossible to make ends meet. Father had grown weaker, and after months of a tight belly, I was too thin to look my age.

All the farms and holdings we had come across were small, none of them in need of more than a couple hired hands. We were turned away again and again, sometimes with a bit of bread, sometimes with nothing. We'd begun to lose hope.

And then we came upon Master Allore's manor. Watching the tiny group of planters as they were swallowed up by the vastness of the land, we had some reason to expect that this lord would be more receptive to two bodies looking for work.

I followed Father up the walk to the front door. An old woman opened to us, dressed in plain clothes.

"Yes?" she asked, looking us up and down.

"Might I beg an audience with the master of this place?" asked my father, his hat in his hands.

The woman smiled. "Come into the parlor, and I shall see if he is free to receive you."

I followed Father into an entrance hall of polished wood. The narrow windows on either side of the door permitted enough light to illuminate the place. To the right was a staircase leading up.

Master Allore was in the parlor, to the left. The housekeeper went in for a moment alone, and when she came back out, she gestured to my father with a kindly look. "He will see you. Go in."

Father looked over his shoulder at me and smiled a crooked smile. "Stay here, son."

I did. I stood in the doorway and watched Father as he limped across the rich parlor to meet our prospective employer, swallowing a wash of shame that turned my cheeks hot. Seeing him in his filthy trousers and torn shirt, a bedraggled man with his face burned and wrinkled by an unforgiving life, I thought there was no way the master of the house would employ us.

What had we to offer, a tottering old man and a stick of a boy?

Allore sat in a cushioned armchair, dressed in a velvet jacket and pearl-white shirt. He offered Father some tea and a muffin balanced on a plate worth more than a year's wages. My mouth flooded with saliva and my stomach growled audibly.

"Are you hungry?"

I turned, startled. There, on the stairs leading up to the second level of the grand manor house, was a girl.

She was just younger than me, I thought, with a pale, plain face; she had wide-set eyes and a thin mouth. Her hands were clasped primly before her waist, stark against the blue satin of her dress.

"S-sorry," I stammered, unsure of myself. A second too late for politeness's sake, I sketched a bow. "I'm waiting for my father."

The girl was looking at me as if she had never seen another child before. "That's my father in there," she said, "talking to yours. Is your father coming to work at our plantation?"

I looked at the floor, at the wall—at anything but her. "I hope so." I did not want to talk to her. I was an awkward, poor, dirty boy, and I could easily ruin my father's chances to win employment here if I was not careful. And then, just when I was thinking I should go and wait outside, my stomach growled again.

"Are you hungry?" asked the girl a second time.

I did not know what to say. There was no lying to be done. "Yes, miss. We've been on the road a while."

"Come, then." She came down the last few stairs and started down the hallway, as natural as can be. Once she had taken a few steps, she stopped and turned back to face me, raising her brows. She clearly expected me to follow.

I had no idea what to do, what would be proper. I looked in regret at my father, who was still awkwardly perched on the edge of his chair, slump-shouldered and tired. He had taken only a single polite bite of the muffin, although I knew his hunger must be as bad as or worse than mine. He would not want to seem common or greedy. Master Allore was talking, gesturing expansively to illustrate some point or another. He was an expansive man.

I wished Father would sit up a little further, try to straighten himself and look strong. My heart sank as I saw the contrast between the two men.

"Come along," the girl said. "You needn't stand in the foyer and wait. You are a guest."

I could not refuse and remain polite, so I made to follow her. She started back down the hallway. "Thank you for your hospitality, miss," I said.

"I am Agnes," she said. We walked down a hall, which was dimly lit by a window at the end. Then she turned, and as we went down another short hall, I smelled the delicious aroma of baking bread and roasting meat.

"My name is Daniel Serran," I said, trying not to let my mind drift to the food. "My father is Rog. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Allore."

She looked back at me with a little smile, as if I amused or pleased her somehow, and said nothing in exchange.

We crossed the threshold into that sweltering bastion of pleasure and mystery: the kitchen. Across the room, a red-cheeked whip of a woman had already pinned us down with her stare. That would be the cook, the iron-fisted guardian of a home's greatest treasures, and there was no fooling her.

She knew what we were about. I wilted.

"Miss Agnes, you haven't learned yet and I'll be damned if you ever will," said the woman with ill temper. "The kitchen's no place for a child."

"Sorla, our guest is hungry," Agnes said. "Please give us something, and we will take it away so we do not disturb you."

The cook pressed her lips together, assessing me with her shrewd gaze. I could see myself in her eyes: a dirty ragamuffin in worn-out trousers. Harried women do have a way of cutting to the truth of things.

Sorla moved without hurry to obey the young lady, loading a tray with a plate of hot bread and butter and jam. She added two cups of milk and a bowl of apple slices, too, which she must have preserved some time in the fall, for it was spring—far too early for fruit.

I was so grateful to that woman I could have kissed her feet, but instead I bowed, my eyes never straying from that platter of food. "Thank you, ma'am."

Maybe it was the pleasure of witnessing true gratitude for her work, the sort of gratitude only an urchin can show for the necessities most people take for granted, but as we turned away, I thought I saw Sorla smile.

Agnes carried the tray back out of the kitchen herself. She led me through the hall, walking with short, prim steps so as not to spill anything. We made it to the front door, crossing by the parlor where Father and the master were still in conversation. I opened the door for her, and she led me out onto the wide steps of the house. There, she set down the tray and took a seat on the edge of a step. She looked up at me expectantly.

Again unsure of what else I could do, I seated myself next to her.

We were young then, Agnes and I. Still children. I often look back on that day and wonder what spurred her into sharing the small charity of a meal with me. It might have been true kindness, but I came to know her after a while, and I think it was more curiosity than anything that brought her to me that day.

Agnes broke apart the hunk of bread and spread butter and jam generously across the ragged edges. She gave it to me.

I could not help myself; I hadn't been seasoned in the way of the civilized world like my father had been. I crammed the food into my mouth and wiped my face on my filthy sleeve. I chewed and swallowed the pieces in two gulps.

Agnes watched me. Up close, I noted that her eyes were a strange color—blue or gray or green, I could not tell; it was something in between. She gave me the other half of the bread.

"Thank you." I took the second piece and tried not to bolt it.

We shared the bowl of apples, taking turns slicing the tender chunks of fruit into pieces so we could make the treat last. She did not eat much of it, leaving the majority to me. Her milk, too, she left to me.

By then I was feeling ashamed of my greed, but I took it. When one knows hunger as my father and I knew it, one takes what is given. Sometimes more.

My hunger satiated for the first time in a long time, I was overcome with sudden, childish tears. I swallowed hard against them and turned my face away, hoping she would not see. "Thank you, miss. I'm well satisfied."

"Sorla makes the best jam," Agnes said. Maybe she didn't notice my tears.

"It was very good."

"I hope you will have plenty more of it."

I smiled. "I wish. I don't think so, though, Miss Allore."

"Your father is going to come work here, though, isn't he, Daniel?"

I shook my head. "I don't think so. Father is not well, and not very useful. But this has been a kindness I'll not soon forget." My pride stopped me from continuing, from telling her how hard it had been, how long we had gone without steady access to the things that make people human.

Agnes did not seem to know what to say after that, and neither did I. We sat together on the steps, she with her hands folded in her lap and I with my feet tapping anxiously. We stared down the path, watching the chickens peck the walk. I was wondering where my father and I would go next. What we would do. How we would survive.

After a while, I heard the door open behind us. I shot to my feet as if I'd been branded and turned around. It was my father, and he was smiling. Behind him came Master Allore.

"Sir, please meet my son Daniel," Father said. He limped up to me and put an arm around me. Master Allore reached out and enveloped my small, grubby hand in his large, damp palm. I was so startled I could do nothing but let my fingers dangle loosely in his.

"A pleasure, young Daniel," said Allore, but his gaze was focused on something behind me. I looked down, afraid; if my father's age and weakness had not ruined us, surely my actions had. Why hadn't I stayed where I was and waited? I'd breached some protocol by lunching with Miss Allore. If we hadn't been on our way out the door before, we certainly were now.

"We had a picnic," said Agnes from behind me. "It is such a pleasant day."

I saw a smile break across Master Allore's features: the indulgent smile of a smitten man. "It is indeed a lovely day, my dear. It's good of you to be so hospitable to our young guest. Mind you take that tray back to Sorla, now."

"Yes, Father." I heard a clink and a rattle as Agnes gathered up the tray and prepared to carry it in. As she passed us, she looked back at me and said, "Have a pleasant afternoon, Mister Serran and Daniel. How wonderful to meet you both."

As she disappeared into the house, my father looked at me and said, "Master Allore has very kindly decided to employ us on a trial basis. I told him you're as willing as I to work hard to help earn our keep. We will not disappoint you, Master Allore. Such a hard worker, my Daniel."

Something inside me lifted its head and drew breath for the first time in a long time: hope. Downtrodden, but not broken. We still had hope. "Sir, you are very kind. Thank you for taking us on."

"It is good you chanced by, my boys; some seasons it's hard to find all the help we need around here, being where we are. Bear in mind I've no place for idle hands or mischief. I've turned men out before for not tilling their acre—and twice as quickly for merrymaking and drinking."

"Understood, sir, understood. Daniel's not yet a man, and I don't touch the stuff myself, and I've done right by him, brought him up to be a gentleman. He won't touch a drop. No, sir. And as I was saying, we've done our share of farm work—also building and the like, and livestock. I'm an old hand with the four-legged type myself, sir. You won't regret it. We'll be right useful around here."

Allore nodded at him, but I saw the doubt in his eyes. "I trust I won't regret it, Rog. If you will do me the courtesy of waiting here, I'll have our housekeeper, Sybill, show you to your new quarters out in the barracks. Wages are paid weekly, and clothes are part of your compensation, of course. I'll send for those right away. A man can't do an honest day's work without sturdy shoes and a good shirt on his back."

He made to turn back into the house, then paused. "Ah, yes. Supper is at the longhouse at eight o'clock, breakfast at six o'clock tomorrow morning, and during planting and harvest you'll carry a midday meal into the field. The other men will show you around and acquaint you with how things are managed. You'll answer to Dervin, our overseer."

"Thank you sir, thank you," we said, a chorus of ingratiating gratitude, and what else could we say? We would wear out Master Allore's ears and patience with our thanks and still not be through.

His trust in us, a half-broken man and a scrawny boy, was an act of charity I would never forget.