His mother came home with a red mark across the bridge of her nose where she had rubbed it with the back of her wrist.
William had put the book on the table. He moved it when she set down the bread, then moved it back.
“After I sit.”
She sat with her eyes closed. Outside, a cart wheel struck the same loose stone it struck every evening. William waited until the sound had gone.
“Is that long enough?”
One eye opened. “Apparently.”
He brought the candle closer. The book had lost its cover before it came to them, and someone had written a sum in the margin. He had learned that sum first. It had looked easier.
Tonight there was a word he could not get past.
His mother put her finger beneath it. He sounded the letters, stopped, and started again.
“You needn’t rush.”
“You’re tired.”
“I can be tired while you read.”
He tried once more. This time the word became something he knew.
She smiled without opening her eyes very far.
He read the sentence again, to be certain it would stay. Then another. When he looked up, her chin had slipped towards her chest.
William left his finger on the page. With his other hand he moved the candle a little farther from her sleeve.
The room was quiet enough that he could hear the wick.
He kept reading, softly, until she woke.
