The morning had started with promise.

Her mother was having one of her more rational days. "Your father," she told Nola as the two of them worked side by side picking blackberries for a man whose wife considered herself too fine for field work, "was a kind and gentle man."

When her father had died, Nola had been little more than a baby, so that now, at seventeen, she couldn't remember his face. But she'd been old enough to remember that he had been kind and gentle.

"He was," she said with a smile, recalling rides given on strong, broad shoulders, and tickling that never went on too long.

Nola straightened, trying to work the kink out of her back quickly, before the man who had hired them noticed and came over to complain. He was obviously suspicious of something, because every time Nola glanced in his direction, he was watching her.

"But your father," Nola's mother continued in that same reasonable voice, "doesn't like the way that man is looking at you. Your father suggests I go over there and kick him hard in the kneecap. Oh-oh. Too late. That man's heading over here now."

So much for rational days.

"Mother!" Nola protested. She bent down quickly, hoping to deflect the man by showing evidence of hard work.

"Don't blame me," Nola's mother protested. "It's your father who said it, not me. 'Kick and run,' he said. 'That's no way for someone to be looking at MY daughter.'"

"I don't care who said it," Nola whispered between her teeth. "Don't you dare do it." The sun was beating hot on her head and shoulders, so that sweat ran, tickling her scalp and stinging her eyes. Of course that man's looking at me THAT WAY, she told herself. Doesn't everyone find sweat and dirt and stink appealing? It's amazing he's resisted this long.

But her mother was right about one thing: He was approaching. Nola heard the rustle as he moved through the bushes, and then his shadow fell over her, a moment of coolness on her bare arms. She didn't look up, but continued picking berries and tossing them into the basket beside her. Was he going to complain that she was picking too slowly and not doing enough work? Or that she was picking too quickly and bruising the fruit?

"You look hot," he said, not sounding annoyed after all. "Would you like some fresh water?"

She finally did look up, from his knobby knees to his face, which — if not handsome — at least was not ugly; and from his face she moved her gaze to his hand, which was holding a glazed pot with lovely droplets of water running glistening down its surface. She looked back to his face and this time found it not only not ugly, but kind.

"Oh, many thanks," she told him. The bucket of water she and her mother were sharing had grown warm in the sun. Even at the beginning the water had tasted of old wood, and as the morning progressed it had picked up the additional tang of dirt and sweat.

The jug felt cool in her hands, though she was aware that her fingers left muddy streaks on the damp surface where she grasped it. She wiped her hand on her skirt, but that hardly helped. On the outside of the jug, where the handle was attached, a single strand of hair was held captive by the dampness.

Nola collected hairs. She couldn't help herself, couldn't let them pass. There was no telling when she might need one. With a gesture too small to alert the unsuspecting, Nola caught up the hair — short and black, it belonged to the man, not his wife — and wrapped it around her fingertip.

With a glance at her mother that warned, Don't say anything, she took a long, satisfying gulp of the cool water. She handed the jug to her mother, who — thankfully — said nothing.

"Thank you," Nola repeated, making to hand the jug back to the man after her mother had had her fill. She assumed he would make his way down the path to where his brother's wife and children also picked berries.

But, "Finish it," the man said, smiling. "It's lighter empty than full."

He must mean to go back to the well to get another jugful for his brother's family, she reasoned. But at the same time, the thought tickled at her mind that he had come to her and her mother first, rather than to his kinfolk.

"Cool yourself down," he suggested. "Pour it over your shoulders." But though he said shoulders, it wasn't her shoulders he was staring at.

At which point Nola decided that regardless of who had originally said it — her mother or her father — she also did not like the way this man was looking at her.

"Not necessary," she told him, and once more tried to hand the jug back.

"It's something I've seen the women in the fields do," he told her. "They pour water on their hands then run their hands ..." He indicated an area of bare skin definitely below shoulder level.

"Ah!" Nola said. "No doubt a trick you learned from your wife." She had seen the wife, who had been the one to answer the door when Nola and her mother had knocked, seeking work: a common woman, Nola had judged from their few moments' acquaintance, who put on airs.

Now the woman's husband grinned and shrugged. "And from my sister-in-law," he said, though obviously he wasn't interested in whether his sister-in-law stayed cool or overheated today. "And others. Why don't you come over to the shade of the peach tree? Lie down. Rest." His voice was calm and rational, and there was no reason to suspect he meant more than he said, except ... Except that Nola did.

The man continued, "The tree can't be seen from the house. My wife is a hard woman who would work you to death. She never needs to know." He ran his tongue over the lip of the jug at the spot from where Nola had drunk.

"Please," Nola said. If she left now, all the work that she and her mother had done the whole morning long would be for nothing.

The man looked at her quizzically, as though to say he had no idea what she was asking.

"I don't want any trouble," Nola said. She could try making a complaint to the town magistrate, but how likely was he to believe her? She imagined her voice, high-pitched and nervous, explaining, Nobody here knows me or my mother, but we worked for the majority of the morning for this man, and then we had to leave without payment because he wouldn't let me be. Maybe the sister-in-law — if he had paid unwanted attention to her — would back her story with experience of her own. But maybe the attention wasn't unwanted in the sister-in-law's case, or maybe she had too much to lose by making a complaint against her kinsman.

Nola thought of the state of her hair and clothes. She could imagine the magistrate saying, This man is a respected member of our community, and you ...

Why even try to work out what the magistrate would say? She and her mother would never seek him out. They couldn't afford the attention.

The man took hold of her arm, not roughly, sure she wouldn't resist. "Come," he said.

"You know," Nola said, to give her mother warning, though her mother seemed elsewhere, elsewhen, standing there swaying slightly, humming a lullaby to herself. "You know, my father once gave me some good advice ..."

She kicked the man's knee and ran. The man dropped the water jug, which shattered when it hit the ground. She could hear him yelping and cursing behind her, but louder, closer, she could hear her mother, cackling and laughing,...