The giant never cooked for them again after that first evening. She took over the hearth and the cooking with such deft skill that he never had a chance to protest. The one-roomed stone tower stood on a low mountain top, high enough for clouds to drift occasionally through the tall windows, but not so high that the ground was frozen all year. A small village stood far below, on the forested shoulders of the mountain, and Grahme looked over it all and occasionally aided one of the locals where size and strength were an advantage, and sometimes where a problem was too big for a family to solve alone. He was handy with wood carving, and within a week there was an elegant rocking chair made to her proportions. It was set at just the right angle next to the hearth that they might sit and talk in the evenings, him seated at the table, writing or whittling or working at some other thing while she curled in the warm wood of the chair with some small task in her hands, listening to the cooing of the pigeons in their cote float on the evening air as the seasons turned. The tangle of wire and wood on his workbench resolved itself into a shattered harp, and then into a mended harp, and finally it was whole except for a few strings.

As she got used to him, he became less ominous. He stood head and shoulders taller than the king, and her own head only came barely to his chest, but it soon was normal to her, to look so far up. Gretchen, the graying red-haired widder of Grahme's late brother, was a bit taller than Bronwyn herself, a cheerful woman with a distant look in her eye whenever she wasn't directly occupied with a task. She never spoke of her husband, but Bronwyn knew his memory was very much with her. Gretchen was good to Bronwyn, and did not make a fuss about the quickly coming arrival of the baby, but talked at length about the births of her own children, the get of her first husband who was killed by wolves one lean winter. The women became friends, cautiously at first, and then with greater confidence as time passed and they became accustomed to each other's ways.

On the day of the first frost, while Grahme was away collecting firewood, Gretchen came storming up the path in a fury, the little dog tucked under her arm and looking pitiful. Bronwyn was pruning back a blackberry ramble from the edge of the small vegetable garden, and was hard pressed to keep a serious expression as her friend advanced on her.

"Your little thief broke every egg in my henhouse this morning. I swear I don't know how you abide his ways, Bronwyn." She set the little dog down and he came immediately to hide beneath his mistress's skirts. "He'd rob us all blind if he had the chance, and laugh at us all the while."

Bronwyn lifted her hem, bending a little awkwardly to look at the mournful cowering thing. "I don't think he'll steal from you again, Gretchen. He was told by Mistress Oldroot to look after me, and more often than not when we couldn't buy food it would appear in the night, only slightly drooled upon." She nudged him forward with her foot. "Now, sir, you've always taken good care of me, and for that I thank you. While we're here, though, you shouldn't steal from people's homes. Bring me coneys and birds and burrowing things, but no more eggs or bread or anything from windowsills or doorsteps, and none of Grahme’s messenger pigeons."

"So he's the robber! My neighbors thought we were all being plagued by brownies."

Bronwyn blushed, ashamed. "I'm sorry, Gretchen. He won't do it again, I swear." Her look at the dog clearly said he'd better not do it again.

"Silly robber, he is, to get caught like that. Might as well name him that, since he's got such a gift for it." Gretchen patted her fading hair into better order and straightened her dress fastidiously.

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"Done, then, but we'll call him 'Robbie' and let him keep some of his dignity."

"At least we can stop worrying about faeries stealing the babies from their beds." Gretchen muttered.

"One can only wish for that, I suppose." The babe was quiet today, crowded in his mother's womb as they grew closer to time. She stroked her belly absently through her the fabric of her dress.

"You're sure you don't want him?" They'd never discussed it directly, never spoke of what would happen after the child was born.

"He doesn't belong to me. He belongs to the kingdom he might grow to rule one day, if his sister never returns." Bronwyn looked out over the treetops. "I suppose I'll have to take him back, give him to the lord Chancellor." She struggled with the terror that returning to the castle invoked, hands trembling until she clenched her fingers around her pruning shears.

Gretchen took the tool away from her and slipped her arm around the younger woman's shoulders. "No, Bronwyn, you've done enough. Fate will find another way to return the prince to his homeland."

"Perhaps you're right. Fate has let me be for a little while now, so perhaps I'm finished with being called to do things. She looked at her friend's brown eyes and saw a bit of sympathy and pity. Ashamed of the pity Gretchen felt for her, Bronwyn turned away, rubbing a bit at the small of her back. She walked to the furthest edge of the garden, where lavender bristled along the edges, still fragrant despite the lateness of the season. Robbie trailed her, sniffing for small pests among the shrubs and other perennials.

The sound of Grahme's whistling traveled up the path before him, and Bronwyn smiled a little as she looked for him. She glanced back at his sister-in-law and saw that Gretchen's look had turned speculative. Grahme carried a full cord of wood across his back, and a canvas sack slung across his front. He was thoughtful as he climbed, and didn't look up until he was almost upon them. His eyes crinkled with his smile as he saw Bronwyn and then Gretchen, but he didn't pause. Even a giant's strength has limits, and Bronwyn could see the strain in his legs and arms. They followed him up to the woodpile, set a dozen feet from the door and opposite the garden. Despite the weight of the load he set it down gently and unslung the sack.

"I've got a gift for you both." He opened the sack and pulled out a bolt of green fabric and handed it to Gretchen. "Make yourself a dress for the spring fair, dear sister, but only if you wear daisies in your hair." Reaching in again, he pulled out a bundle of blue and gave it to Bronwyn. "I don't yet know your favorite flower, so I brought you a dress that would be just as fine without, if you'll forgive me for being so bold." Bronwyn smiled at him fondly, and saw Gretchen's expression, beyond his shoulder, shift from speculative to knowing. A dread gripped her, though she managed to keep her smile.

"Thank you, Grahme." She wondered if she'd be present for the festival, or if she would find herself wandering alone again. Her back twinged again, and she arched against it. He looked concerned, but she cut off the inevitable questions of how she felt, or if she was tired, by pointing at the little dog. "We named him today. Robbie."

He nodded. "I'd hoped for "Longfellow, but Robbie is a good name."

"Then we'll go both ways, and he'll be Robbie Longfellow." The dog wagged his tail so hard his long body wagged, too, and he barked his delight over and over and over until they all laughed. Bronwyn was gasping when the next pain brought her to her knees and her waters broke.

"Early, it's early," Gretchen said to Grahme, as they helped her to her feet after the pain passed. Bronwyn's dress was wet at the knees and she felt her body bracing for the next contraction.

"I didn't think it would go this fast," she panted, and then cried out as a bone-rending contraction caught her up.

"It shouldn't. Don't worry, though, all will be well. Grahme's a good one with all sorts of things, and I've birthed my own three, so we'll do as well as we can."