For the first time in years, Rosie looked at Sam and didn't know his thought. His face was still, the lines set deep, as if he'd been carven from stone; his big hands gently patted the earth over the small grave even after it was even, and she stood on shaky legs, Elanor quietly clinging to her hand, and wondered what was in her husband's heart.
Rosie had chosen the name Bell for their daughter, after all, even though Sam insisted the next should be named after Rosie herself. Did he blame her now for it, now that the baby had died aborning, for not heeding him, for wasting the name? Had she reopened the wound of his mother's loss? She'd only meant....
Rosie sniffled once, but her eyes were red and sore and dry. Sam stood up, dusting off his hands, satisfied the seeds were well settled. He walked back to Rosie with his face closed, his gaze inward, but he wrapped his arm around her waist and kissed her brow. "Come, my lasses," he said, with no reproof or blame. "Fro-lad's waiting, and you've been from bed too long, Rose. Let's go home."