Chapter 3

When I woke up the next morning, Walt had already reorganized the entire account book.

He'd even written up the shop sign I'd been putting off.

My old sign was an embarrassment. I'd drawn a pig's head, scrawled the word "meat" underneath, and called it done. It looked like a child had made it.

Walt took a sheet of paper and wrote "Good Honest Meat."

Below that, in smaller script, he added a line, "These pigs lived without a care in the world, raised on fresh spring water, their meat tender and full of flavor."

I scratched my head. "Walt, when exactly did our pigs ever drink spring water?"

He kept a straight face. "It's called branding, Yvonne. Presentation matters in business."

He had another idea too. Buy a pound of prime cuts, get a set of pig intestines free. Nobody wanted pig intestines. I'd been tossing them out with the slop for years.

But Walt had me wash them clean and braise them low and slow with herbs until the smell drifted halfway across town.

That morning, the shop was packed. The scholars came to admire Walt's calligraphy. The housewives came for the free braised intestines. Either way, they all ended up buying meat.

I chopped until my arms ached and counted coins until my face hurt from smiling.

Walt sat behind the counter the whole time, calm and unhurried, taking payments and keeping the books.

It couldn't last, of course.

Do too well, and someone would always resent you for it.

Tom, the butcher next door, had been watching with pure envy in his eyes for days.

Then one night, I heard screaming coming from the pig pen.

I ran out and found both of my prize pigs on the ground, foaming at the mouth and convulsing.

Someone had put rat poison in the feed trough.

I looked at those two still bodies and sat right down in the mud and sobbed.

That was nearly everything I had.

I grabbed my cleaver and went to go deal with Tom myself. Walt caught me from behind and held on with everything he had.

"Don't! You'll get hanged for it!"

"So I'm just supposed to let it go? How am I supposed to go on after this?"

Walt took my face in his hands. For the first time, something cold and sharp flickered in his eyes.

"Yvonne. Listen to me. We're going to file a complaint."

"A complaint? The sheriff is Tom's cousin. He's not going to side with us."

Walt sneered. He bent down, picked up the remnants of the poison from the ground, and wrapped them carefully in his handkerchief.

"The law doesn't care about family connections."

That night, he sat by the lamp and wrote out a formal complaint.

Half the words he used went right over my head. Statutes and codes, destruction of property, and public endangerment. I didn't follow all of it, but every line was sharp and precise and hit like a blade.

The next day in court, Walt stood in his plain cotton clothes and didn't flinch once.

He cited law after law, and dismantled every word Tom tried to say until the man had nothing left. The sheriff's hands were shaking by the time he finished reading the complaint. In the end, he had no choice but to rule in our favor. Tom was ordered to pay twenty silver coins in damages and sentenced to thirty lashes.

They carried Tom out of the courtroom face down. He was in no condition to walk.

I watched Walt and felt something warm spread all the way through my chest.

This man was not useless. He was extraordinary!

The first thing I did with the settlement money was drag him straight to the tailor's shop. I bought him the finest coat they had, a deep blue-green that suited him perfectly, and a fine brooch to go with it.

When he put it on and stood there, every single shop worker stopped and stared.

That evening, I made two dishes, poured some wine, and let myself relax for the first time in days.

The wine made me brave.

I reached over and grabbed his hand, my face already warm.

"Walt. Let's get married for real. I mean it. I want to spend my life with you."

Walt froze for a second, then closed his hand around mine. His eyes were full of warmth.

"Alright. Let's get married."