Cloven Hooves

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

About the Author

By Robin Hobb

About the Publisher

ONE (#u4a6bf522-82d9-5d2a-b2e2-dab0ce50d7b3)

In Flight

11 March 1976

I turn away from staring out the window, lean over to check my child in the seat beside me. There’s nothing to see out there, anyway. Outside the oval airplane window, a night sky jets soundlessly by. Overcast covers all but a few stars. Nothing to keep my mind from chewing on itself. Inside is the sound of the engines, of the tiny seat fans whirring as they stir the stale air. Rows of red upholstered seat backs, backs of heads. Most of the overhead seat lights are off. Tiny airline blankets are tucked around the shoulders of some dozing passengers. Others read newspapers and magazines, smoke, or talk softly to seatmates. A few drink industriously. Nothing in here to keep my mind busy, either.

Teddy is asleep. He had asked for the window seat, and of course we had given it to him, even though we knew there would be little to see on this night flight from Fairbanks, Alaska, to the Sea-Tac Airport in Washington. Still, he got to watch the tower and runway lights vanish away beneath us, caught a brief glimpse of the lights of some little town down there a while later. Then he used the airplane’s bathroom twice, giggled over finding the barf bag in the seat pocket, got a coloring book and crayons and plastic pilot wings from a stewardess, colored for a while, and got bored and wiggled for a while. And now, finally, he is asleep. I carefully move his copy of Sendak’s Where the Wild Things Are because the corner of it is digging into his cheek. I give a sigh of relief that is partially anxiety. With Teddy dozing, there is nothing to distract me from my worrying. Except Tom. I turn my attention away from my five-year-old son and to my husband.

Who is also asleep in his seat on the other side of me.

Light hair is falling over his forehead. He breathes softly, evenly, at peace with the world and himself. I know I should let him rest. This is the horrible leave-Fairbanks-in-the-middle-of-the-night, -arrive-in-Seattle-too-early-to-be-awake flight. I should let him sleep, so he will be fresh and alert when his parents come to meet us at the airport. I shouldn’t wake him just to talk to me and reassure me. I really should let him sleep.

But I touch his hair lightly back into place. He smiles, and without opening his eyes, his hand comes up to hold mine. For a time we are silent, shooting through the night. Strangers occupy other seats around us, and doze or smoke or read papers or sip drinks. But Tom and I are alone among them. It is something we have always been able to do, make a quiet, private space around ourselves, no matter what the circumstances.

“Still worrying?” he asks me softly. His eyes remain closed.

“A little,” I admit.

“Silly.” His hand squeezes mine briefly, then relaxes again. He sighs, shifts in his seat to face me. He leans his face against the seat back while he talks to me, as if we were in our bed at home, lying face-to-face, heads on pillows, talking. It makes me wish we were, that I could snug my body up against his and hold him while he talks. He speaks softly, his deep voice soothing as a bedtime story. “We’re going to have a good time. Well, you will, anyway. I’ve got to fill in on the farm and in the shop until Bix’s shoulder heals. Fields to plow, tractors to fix. But you and Teddy will have a great time. Teddy’s going to have the farm to run around on. Eggs to gather, chicks, ducklings, pigs, all that stuff. And my mom and sisters are going to love having you. Ever since I married you, Mom and Steffie have been dying to get their hands on you. Go shopping, introduce you around. Steffie had so many plans when I talked to her on the phone, I don’t know how you’ll keep up with her.” He smiles at the thought of his younger sister.

I edge closer in my seat, lean my head close to his. “That’s just it. I don’t know how I’ll keep up with her, either.” I think of Steffie as I last saw her, on a brief Christmas visit two years ago. She had been just out of high school that year. She’d come home from some party, into the living room of the farmhouse, dressed in a dark green velvet sheath and high black heels, begemmed at ear and throat and wrist. Like a magazine cover come to life, but rushing to hug us, to say she was so glad we’d been able to fly down for Christmas. The memory reawakens in me the same twinge I’d felt then: awe at her beauty, and a shiver of fear.

Why?

Because she was so beautiful, so perfect. The ugly little jealousy that beautiful women always awoke in me had stirred. That she was Tom’s own sister hadn’t mattered. It wasn’t a sexual kind of jealousy. It was the knowledge that I could never compete with women like that, that I’d never learned to be elegant and feminine and charming and stunning and all those other adjectives that Steffie and Mother Maurie embodied so easily. Yet these were the type of women that Tom had around him when he was growing up. How could he have settled for a mouse like me? What if he woke up one day and realized he’d been cheated?

I tune in suddenly that Tom is still talking. “Steffie and Ellie love you. Mom and Dad think you’re great. Of course, I think a lot of that is that they were amazed that any woman at all would have me. Probably secretly grateful you married me and whisked me off to Alaska and out of their hair.”

He is teasing, of course. No one could ever wish to be rid of him. Tom is as perfect a product as Steffie is, tall and handsome and muscled, charming and kind and intelligent. Tom could have had his pick of women. I am still mystified that he chose me. But he did. And six years of marriage have taught me that I can believe in that miracle. So I can say to him, honestly, “I’m just afraid I’ll do something wrong. Put my foot in my mouth, spill soup in my lap. We’ve never stayed a month with them before, Tom. That’s a long time to live in someone else’s house, see them every day. I don’t know how I’ll handle it.”

He refuses to share my worry. “You’ll handle it just fine. They’ll love you just like I do. Besides, we’ll be in the little guest house. You’ll have time to yourself. I know you aren’t into socializing all the time. They’ll understand when you need to be alone.”

He believes it. There’s no mistaking the calm assumption in his voice. I wish I could.

He senses my doubt. “Look, Evelyn, it’ll be easy. Just let them make a fuss over you. They’ll love that. Go shopping. Get your hair done, buy some earrings, do, oh, I don’t know, whatever it is that women do together. You’ll have a great time.”

I look down at my sedate black skirt that matches my sedate black jacket that covers my simple white blouse. I think of the jeans and sweatshirts and sneakers in my luggage. I try to imagine shopping with Steffie. Green velvet. Sparkling earrings. The images don’t fit. “I’ll try,” I say doubtfully.

“I know. You’ll do fine.” He squeezes my hand again, leans back in his seat.

“What about your dad?” I say softly.