The cup struck the table before William reached the door.
He stopped with one hand against the frame. Inside, his stepfather was laughing. William could not hear anyone else.
“Bill.”
There was still time to pretend he had not heard. He looked towards the stairs.
“I’m speaking to you.”
William went in.
The room smelled of spilled ale and damp wool. His stepfather sat with his boots planted far apart, occupying the space between the table and the hearth. One hand rested beside the cup. The other was out of sight.
“Come here.”
William stopped beyond the reach of the chair.
“Think you’re better than us, with your book?”
“No.”
“Then look at me.”
He looked. It was difficult to know which part of a face to watch. The eyes could be amused when the mouth was not. The hands were simpler.
His mother came through from the other room carrying a cloth.
“Let him fetch the water.”
The chair scraped. William’s shoulders rose before he could stop them.
Then his stepfather laughed again and waved him away.
William took the bucket. He had forgotten that it was already half full until it pulled at his arm.
Outside, he stood in the cold with the handle cutting into his fingers. He counted the windows opposite. He counted them twice.
When he returned, he set the bucket down without letting the iron ring touch the stones.
His mother looked at him. He looked at the cloth in her hands.
Neither of them said his name.
