The rain was a solid sheet, a grey, unrelenting downpour that had turned the yard into a sucking bog. John burst through the cottage door, shaking off water like a dog. He stopped short, a torrent of words dying in his throat.

  Eleanor sat by the hearth, Agnes beside her. The older woman was holding Mary, tilted slightly forward, rhythmically patting her small back. John could smell something pungent and herbal filtering through the room, and a small clay pot sat steaming on the hearthstones. Mary coughed, a harsh, racking sound that ended in Mary leaving mucus in her hand. Eleanor's spindle lay idle, the half-finished yarn tangled in her lap. She looked up at John, her eyes deep-set and tired.

  Agnes looked up. "She's having trouble breathing. I've made a poultice of mustard and onion, and I'm trying to get her to inhale the steam." She gestured to the pot, from which wisps of vapor curled, carrying the sharp, acrid scent. Mary coughed again, a wet, gurgling sound that twisted a knot in John's gut.

  "Put on your cloak," John said. He needed to talk to Eleanor, but not here. Not in front of Agnes, however kind she might be. "We need to talk. Outside."

  Eleanor stared at him. "Outside?" she repeated. "In this?" She gestured towards the window, where the rain hammered against the shutters and the wind howled like a banshee. "Are you mad, John? We'll catch our death. Can’t have three sick people in the house.”

  "We can't talk here," John insisted. He turned to Agnes with a quick, nearly manic twitch of his neck.

  Before Eleanor could respond, Agnes spoke, her voice calm and soothing. "Now, Eleanor," she said, her hand resting lightly on Mary's back, "let the man speak his mind. I’ve done what I can for Mary, I’ll come back tomorrow morning to check on her.”

  She rose slowly, the pace of a woman with nothing to rush. "This should help draw out the phlegm," she said to Eleanor, gesturing towards the steaming pot. "Keep it warm, and give her another spoonful every hour or so. And make sure she stays covered. The damp is the enemy."

  She bent down and kissed Mary's forehead, her touch lingering. "You be a good girl, little mouse," she murmured. "Agnes will be back soon."

  Then, without another word, she gathered her shawl around her shoulders and headed for the door. She paused at the threshold, her hand on the latch, and looked back at John, her gaze steady and unwavering. It wasn't a look of judgment, but of caution. In her long years, she’s seen the manic eyes of many men on the edge of something wild.

  Then, she was gone, disappearing into the storm.

  Eleanor stood up, her arms crossed, her gaze fixed on John. "Alright," she said, her voice low and dangerous. "You have my attention. Now, tell me. What is so important that you're willing to drag us both out into a downpour?”

  John hesitated. He'd wanted privacy, but now, facing Eleanor's unwavering gaze, he felt exposed, vulnerable. He looked at her, at the strength that lay beneath, and he knew he couldn't hold back. He had to tell her everything, even if it meant facing her anger, her fear, her disbelief.

  "It's… it's about Peter," he began, the words faltering. "And those guests from Rayleigh."

  Eleanor's expression didn't change, but her eyes narrowed slightly. "What about Peter?"

  John took a deep breath. "They brought news from Fobbing and Brentwood."

  "News?" she prompted, a hint of impatience in her voice.

  "They refused to pay, Eleanor" John said, the words tumbling out faster now. "The villagers drove out the tax collectors. There's more coming too, they're sure. All over Essex, even Kent." He paused, expecting an outburst, but Eleanor remained silent.

  "They're saying it's spreading," John continued, his voice gaining momentum, fueled by a mixture of fear and a strange, unsettling excitement. "That the commons are rising, and that if the Kingsmen return there will be blood."

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  He looked at Eleanor, searching for some sign of understanding, of shared concern. But her face remained unreadable. "And Peter?" she asked. "He asked you for help, didn't he?."

  John felt a flush at the pointedness of her answer. “Yes, they need everyone. And he’s right you know, he talked about Mary and you, how I can’t feed you both anymore since my wage from the army is gone. We’re wasting away, and not slowly. What else is there to do? ”

  "And what did you say, John?" Eleanor asked, her voice quiet, but piercing.

  John swallowed hard. "I told him I needed to talk to you. That I--"

  "That you weren't sure?" Eleanor finished for him. "That you needed to think about it?"

  He opened his mouth to protest, but the words died. He hadn't been sure. He'd been caught between the fear of failing as a man and the terrifying reality of the consequences. Before he could formulate a response, Eleanor spoke again, her voice taking on a new, sharper edge.

  "John," she said softly, "the women have been talking about this. For weeks, ever since Robin. We knew something like this was coming. We've seen it building, in the fields, at the well, in the folks passing to and from Brentwood."

  She took a step closer, her gaze searching his. "Sarah told me about what Peter has been up to, about the meetings and what she's been hearing them tell." He stood shocked again, for the second time this day. Eleanor pressed forward.

  "We've found places to hide the children," Eleanor continued. "The old root cellar beneath the abandoned Miller's cottage – the one that collapsed last winter. They need to be put away if things come to blows." As she spoke, she gestured slightly towards the sleeping platform, where Mary was presumably resting, within earshot. John hadn't even considered her role in all this. Hisˉmind reeled.

  "And food," Eleanor said, her voice taking on a steely edge. "We've been moving stores, bit by bit. Grain, dried meat, anything that will keep. Hiding it in the woods, in animal burrows, burying it… Agnes even suggested some of the emptier graves. Said the dead wouldn't mind sharing with the living, not in times like these."

  This was a conspiracy of survival, woven together by the women of the village, right under his nose.

  "We've been maintaining our tools, too. The scythes, the sickles, the hoes. Making sure they're sharp."John stared at her, speechless. He, the soldier, had been oblivious. He felt a wave of something he couldn't quite name. Shock, certainly, but also a grudging admiration, and a deep sense of shame.

  "You've been planning this without me?" he asked. Eleanor met his gaze, unflinching. "We had to, John. Someone had to. And frankly," she added, her voice softening slightly, "you haven't exactly been here with me. You've been through so much. The war, the injury, of course you needed to heal. We understand that."

  It was meant as a kindness, but John bristled. "I wish people would stop saying that," he muttered. "I'm not broken, Eleanor."

  She put her hand on John’s face. “I was broken when you were gone, but I went on anyway.” He pressed her hand firmer to his face and kissed her fingers, but his brow was set in a deep furrow. Eleanor smiled, and then caught sight of Mary, pretending very much to be resting. "We need to talk to her," Eleanor said, lowering to a barely audible whisper. "Now."

  John hesitated, dropping his voice to match hers "She's just a child, Eleanor. What good will it do to frighten her?"

  "She's part of this, John," She said. "Whether we want her to be or not. She needs to understand. At least, as much as she can understand."

  John bit his lip. "But to tell her everything…"

  "Not everything," Eleanor said quickly. "But enough. Enough so she knows what to do, what not to say. Enough so she knows to be… careful." He looked at Eleanor, his eyes pleading. "These are the times we live in, John. You can't protect her from the world. Not anymore. All we can do is prepare her and trust her."

  Mary stirred on the platform, her eyes shifting between her parents. "Mama?" she asked. "Papa? What's wrong?"

  John and Eleanor exchanged a look – a look of shared fear. Eleanor took a deep, steadying breath. "Love," she said, her voice surprisingly calm, "we need to talk to you. About some things that might be happening soon."

  John moved closer to the sleeping platform, his hand reaching out to rest gently on the edge of the blanket. He felt a knot of dread tightening in his stomach. How did you explain rebellion, injustice, and the threat of violence to a six-year-old child? How did you prepare her for a world where trust was a luxury, where secrets were a necessity, where even the familiar comfort of their home might no longer be safe?

  He opened his mouth to speak, to explain, to warn, to somehow bridge the impossible gap, but he simply signed.

  "Mary." He began, but paused, his blood thumping in his ears. God, he was more afraid of this than he was of death. He didn't know where to start. “We love you very much.”