Sitting in the back, the room full of silent people, warmed by them, their breath, stilled by their stillness, bareheaded, as are all the men and many of the women, my face muffled up inside my cloak — unnecessarily, it seems: all are looking away from me, at a small thin woman near the opposite wall, thick dark hair loose on her shoulders, a light cap on her crown, one hand holding the other, hanging in front of her, still as the rest of us, eyes cast down toward the floor.

Will she speak?

I know her, I realize, but from where? I cannot remember. The heat of the room makes me drowsy, and far off I hear music, but catch my head as it starts to drop, and I realize I was dozing, for the music is gone. What was the tune? Where had I heard it?

Now the young woman moves, twisting slightly first to the left and then to the right, slowly, as if rocking a babe. A murmur flows around me, the packed bodies stirring, and I look more closely at her, my vision sharpening as if to pierce the dimness in the room.

On her left hand is a ring, a plain band on the third finger, so I think she must be married, or a widow, but otherwise I can tell nothing about her, nor recall at all where I have seen her before. I turn to that thought, and feel we may even have spoken, perhaps at some length, but it seems long ago, in another place or circumstance very different from this one, and nothing else arises. So I return to this moment, my eyes passing over my companions — poor folk, simple folk, men and women mixed in together, an older child leaning on a nearby adult, a younger one farther away on someone's lap, wide awake and silent as the rest, eyes gleaming in the near dark.

Will she speak?