“A conspirator,” I said, “should cry in whispers.”

“He is hungry. Let me have him.”

I handed over the crying infant, and she opened her sweater and presented him with a breast. It was immediately evident that this was precisely what the lad had in mind. His little mouth fastened upon the nipple, his hands positioned themselves on either side, and he nursed greedily.

“A hungry baby, Evan.”

“He’s his father’s son. He knows what good is.”

“Ah.”

“Have you received the money I sent?”

“Yes. It was too much. I gave the excess to the IMRO.”

“You should have kept it. For the boy.”

“I kept enough for him.” Todor lost the breast, and she guided his head back to it. “I was so happy that you remembered him, that you cared for him. I did not dare to dream that you would be able to come to Macedonia to see him with your eyes.”

“I wish I could have come sooner.”

“It is good that you waited. He was so red and shriveled when he was first born! You would not have liked him.”

“I’d have loved him anyway.”

I went to the fire and used a branch to push the smoking logs closer together. I sat down again at Annalya’s side. She switched Todor from one breast to the other. He fussed at first, but then his hungry little mouth found what it wanted, and he devoted himself wholeheartedly to the business of feeding. I watched his eyes. They would fall slowly shut, then snap open, then drift shut again, but through it all he kept on eating ravenously.

When he had finally finished, she carried him to the little straw mattress at the left-hand side of the hearth. She set him down gently and covered him with a pair of knitted blankets. He did not open his eyes. She returned to my side and sat close to me.

“He is a good baby,” she said. “He will sleep for hours.”