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“Told you,” she says to Rowan.

Rowan’s leaning in the kitchen doorway with his arms crossed. “You didn’t tell me anything.”

“I said I wanted to see if I was right. I was right.” She pats the baby’s shoulder. “Little bit of grain. Right there. Just like I carved it.”

I stare at her. “You knew? This whole time?”

“Baby, I carved that man.” She points her cane at Rowan. “I know every inch of him. I knew exactly what he’d give you.”

Rowan looks real uncomfortable. I laugh so hard the baby wakes up.

“What’s her name?” Mother Wren asks.

I look at Rowan. He looks at me.

“Wren,” I tell her.

And for the first time since I’ve known her, Mother Wren doesn’t have a single thing to say.

She just stands there in my kitchen, leaning on her cane, blinking behind her glasses. Then she clears her throat, real loud, and shoves the little paper bundle into my hands.

“Well,” she says. “That’s foolish. Here.”

Inside, there’s a tiny carved owl.

It looks at me.

“Mother Wren,” I say slowly. “Does this one move?”

She’s already halfway out the door.

“Only if she needs it to,” she calls back.

* * *

It’s summer now. Wren’s four months old.

She’s loud. She’s bossy. She hates being put down, and she hates the Pruitt boy’s mama, and she screams bloody murder anytime Mister Pell comes within ten feet of her, which is fair, because he keeps trying to recommend leeches for her colic.

Rowan told him if he ever says the word “leech” near our daughter again, he’ll plant him headfirst in the meadow and let the bees decide what to do with him.

Mister Pell doesn’t come around anymore.

The whole village still ain’t over us. The aunties come by every day to “help,” which means sitting on my porch, holding the baby, and talking about everybody’s business. The mayor’s wife still cries every time she sees Wren. The baker’s wife still sends pies.

And Mother Wren’s waiting list is a mile long.

There’s a line outside the toy shop every morning. Rowan says it’s embarrassing for them. I say it’s good for business. Mother Wren says she’s not carving a single one until she gets the right wood.

“What’s the right wood?” I asked her once.

She just looked at the sky.

It’s been a dry summer.

* * *

The bed’s still standing.