Lucky Sarah, the other girls had said. Lucky Sarah! She is going up to the country, did you hear? No, another one had said, no, I didn't. And why is she going up to the country?

A woman came down from there, in a plum dress, and told Mrs. Harold that she was going to take Sarah home with her! A woman came into the house and told Mrs. Harold! Told her! Taking Sarah off to Wellington, she said, for my Peggy needs a companion and who better than my Sarah? Imagine it!

Sarah heard them whisper and thought she was not lucky. Not at all. The woman in the plum dress was not a stranger. That woman was Mrs. Carlyle, who had always been kind. She came down from the country and asked after her every few months. She had always brought a peppermint and a several tales of her daughter, who Sarah understood to be quite the fantastic creature, if Mrs. Carlyle's stories could be taken as truth.

Such a pretty child, Mrs. Carlyle had first said. Sarah liked Mrs. Carlyle well enough. A kindly woman, somewhere between thirty and forty, becoming round, with curling brown hair and fine blue eyes. She always smelled of dust and mint.

Poor little orphan girl, Mrs. Carlyle always said, when she came. Mrs. Harold, you are good to this poor little girl? Your home provides for her?

Always, madam, Mrs. Harold always said. Always. I care for this little orphan as I do all my little girls.

Sarah did not think she was lucky at all. But Mrs. Harold was the matron of the orphan girls' house, and her word was law. And so Sarah went.

The carriage had stopped on the outskirts of the city and they had been put into a wagon after that. They had rattled and shaken all the way until dusk, with Mrs. Carlyle speaking all the way. Sarah said nothing.

She had descended from the wagon with the sun setting and met the dark eyes of a man who had been standing on the verandah. He had watched as the wagoner helped her down and had continued to gaze. His eyes were very dark and his smile like a knife's blade.

Mr. Carlyle, said Mrs. Carlyle, this is Sarah, who will be our Peggy's companion. Isn't she pretty?

The man had smiled and when Mrs. Carlyle had left, kissed Sarah's hand.

Very pretty, he said.

That night, lying in her shift under the quilt, Sarah had remembered his face when he had said it. The sharp whip of the smile, the soft press of his lips. The glow in his dark, dark eyes. Sarah turned over, the quilt brushing against her skin.

Peggy, Peggy, cried Mrs. Carlyle in the morning, Peggy! Come to town with me, you must have a new hat!

Peggy was fourteen and liked ribbons, could one blame her for leaving Sarah's side so quickly? So Sarah lost her companion of some two hours, and thought little of it. Peggy went out of the house and left Sarah with a cold cup of tea, embroidering a bird on a cushion.

Out the window, she watched Peggy go with her mother, the pair of them whipping up the wagon horses. Then she saw the dark eyes and the knife-blade smile reflected in the glass.

Sarah, Sarah, are you all alone? Mr. Carlyle was loitering on the threshold of the parlour. Poor Sarah, abandoned. My Peggy is rude to you.

Sarah said nothing.

Pretty Sarah, do you speak? Mr. Carlyle asked. Perhaps you sing. Shall I make you sing, little bird?

Sarah had not known what to say. Mr. Carlyle had laughed and gone away. That night, with the sweat damp on her skin, and her shaking hand between her legs, she wanted Mr. Carlyle to make her sing.

Mrs. Carlyle called Sarah her sweet one, and told her how much she had come to adore her, and Sarah smiled for the woman was kind, but she brought no such joy as her husband did. Sarah was waiting for him to make her sing and he toyed with her as a cat does with a bird before it kills it - would Sarah let him touch her sweet white hand? Would she give him a kiss for his trouble in getting her an orange? Would she let him lie in her lap, for it was the warmest place by the fire?

Make me sing, she told him one night.

He had smiled his knife's-blade smile at her voice and said, how shall I do it? Shall I touch you here? Kiss you there? Like this?

Yes, Sarah had said, like that.

Sarah, Peggy says you have a migraine again, that's the third time this week! Are you quite all right, my dear? I can bring you tea. Or when Mr. Carlyle returns he can go out into the forest and pick you some yarrow, I always have him pick it for me, said Mrs. Carlyle, one afternoon. You have had so many headaches these last few months, we keep you cooped up in here too long! Tomorrow I will take you to town with Peggy and I will-

Sarah lifted her head from the pillow called down that she was fine, and that when Mr. Carlyle returned he mustn't be bothered. Mr. Carlyle smiled a wolfish smile and lowered the smile back between Sarah's legs. His dark eyes hooded and later he spoke, pretty Sarah, would you like Mrs. Carlyle to hear you sing?

Mr. Carlyle was not the only one with dark eyes. In town there was another, with dark, dark eyes, and a sweet smile. Mr. River, the girls called after him, Mr. River, Mr. River! Handsome Mr. River, they called him, pretty Mr. River, gentle Mr. River, I am going to marry Mr. River!

Isn't my Sarah pretty? Mrs. Carlyle boasted, one day after church. Mr. Carlyle was walking by her, his smile concealed by his hand. His dark eyes watched Sarah and hers watched the path.

Beautiful, said Mr. River, and he blushed as he went on, though I do not wish to be forward.

Beautiful, Mr. Carlyle mocked, later that afternoon, while he was inside her. Beautiful, beautiful. I say that with more authority, for who has ever seen you look more beautiful than you do like this?

Sarah blushed, and smiled, and gave his curving lips a kiss.

Mr. River blushed when he touched Sarah's gloved hand, and smile so sweetly when he spoke. When Mrs. Carlyle took Sarah to buy sugar he was there with a pair of sheepskin gloves in his hand, which he gave her. When Mrs. Beckett's four daughters came to tea a week later, not a single one graced her with a look. The youngest spat on Sarah when her mother was speaking to Mrs. Carlyle.

Poor sweet bird, said Mr. Carlyle, hissing his sharp words into her mouth, sing for me, sweet bird.

Please call me William, said Mr. River, invited over for supper some fortnight later. He spoke with Mrs. Carlyle's watchful eyes on him, and with Mr. Carlyle's gleaming smile at her shoulder. Please call me William.

Sarah nodded.

Will you pick Queen Anne's lace with me, Sarah? Will you walk to the river with me, Sarah? said Mr. River.

Go with him, my dear, said Mrs. Carlyle.

Off Sarah went, with the man with the dark, dark eyes, and the sweet, sweet smile. His words were as honeyed as his smile, and when he bade her goodbye he kissed her hand.

Oh, Mr. Carlyle, said Mrs. Carlyle, and Sarah overhead it one night. He likes our Sarah tremendously.

Mr. Carlyle had said nothing. Sarah used all her sweet wiles to make him come to her again and then he did, and kissed her and caressed her and told her that who could make her sing like he could? Sarah saw his dark eyes on her and thought, then, that William's eyes were just as dark.

Sarah, said Mr. River one day, Sarah, will you marry me?

Sarah started, I shall have to ask Mr. and Mrs. Carlyle.

Of course he may marry her, said Mr. Carlyle. Sarah loitered, in her shift, outside the parlour where Mr. and Mrs. Carlyle spoke in private.

You do not object? You love her so well, how can you part with her? Though she was born before we were married, though I gave her up in secrecy as an orphan, she is our daughter, said Mrs. Carlyle, and you will miss her, now that you know her.

Yes, said Mr. Carlyle, and his dark eyes glittered, I know her now.

Sarah turned away, and said nothing. A bride's nerves, said Mrs. Carlyle, when a week later Sarah remained bedridden, when she could keep no food down, when she shook at the sight of either husband or wife Carlyle. A bride's nerves. Come, try on your dress.

When Sarah was married William's dark eyes were wet with tears, and Mr. Carlyle's bright with knowing. His keen smile remained, and he danced with her on her wedding day. He kissed her cheek and said, little bird, will he make you sing?

Sarah said nothing.

Mr. Carlyle had smiled his knife's-blade smile, and gone away.

When William rose from the marital bed that night, he poured himself a brandy as he spoke to his new wife. Of course Mr. Carlyle did something for us, said William. For now we are married there are to be no secrets between us, Sarah.

Sarah had said nothing. Her sickness stirred within her.

I am not an orphan, said William, my mother is dead but my father lives, and he has always cared for me, in his way, and Mr. Carlyle has always done right by me though I am but his natural son.

It was on a clear morning two Sundays later they found Sarah. She had walked into the river with stones in her pockets. A year later her husband followed her, and Mr. Carlyle's knife's-blade smile was never seen again.

His dark eyes remained.