Five Stories for the Dark Months Read Free Page B

little straw star was neatly
made, with all the ends tucked in, and hung from a scarlet ribbon.
The woven pattern was unique to her village, but even without it
she would have known the star was from Goldenfield: they made the
best solstice ornaments in the country.
    She glanced at the fat black stove
in the corner. It kept the watch-cabin warm enough, but it wasn’t
nearly as comforting as a real fireplace, and no substitute at all
for a burning tree. She imagined opening the oven door, putting the
little star among the coals, watching it burn there. It wouldn’t do
at all.
    She had just decided to hang the
ornament above the front door, instead, when a loud knock broke the
silence. Her heart jerked in her chest. She sat frozen, wondering
if she’d imagined the sound.
    The knock came again. “Grant!”
shouted a muffled voice. “Peter Grant! You open this door right
now!”
    It was dark
outside. Any traveler with sense was off the road—not that there
ever were travelers up here, besides the monthly deliveries of supplies
from town. And who could have urgent business with old Peter, who’d
been dead now for over a month?
    The pounding came again, louder
this time. Jenna stood. There was no point pretending that she
wasn’t there—the porch lantern was lit, and the windows were
bright—but she tiptoed to the door and slid the cold brass cover
off the peephole.
    The person on the porch was tall
and thin, hunched in the lantern’s light. He wore a drab wool coat
and a threadbare scarf. The lantern’s light cast a shadow from his
deep-brimmed messenger cap, so she couldn’t see his eyes, but from
his bearing she thought he was young.
    He didn’t look too dangerous. Maybe
he was a messenger from town—he knew Peter’s name. Although it was
strange he wouldn’t know that Peter was dead. She opened the door a
crack, letting in a gust of freezing air. “Hello?”
    He looked up. His eyes were a
startling blue. He was not a man at all, but a girl, Jenna’s age or
a little older.
    “Where is Grant?” the girl
said.
    There was something very strange
about her accent. Jenna blocked the doorway with her body. “He died
last month,” she said. “I’m his replacement.”
    “No.” The stranger gasped. “How
could he die?”
    “Uh... he was old, I guess. He
didn’t tell anyone he was sick, so we didn’t know to check on him.
We only knew he’d died when he didn’t make his report last
month.”
    “And you are... his replacement?”
The stranger looked unconvinced.
    Jenna nodded. She was still trying
to place the accent. It seemed familiar, like she’d heard it
before, on the radio or—
    No.
    She stepped back, and tried to slam
the door. The stranger caught it easily and slipped inside.
Cursing, Jenna ran for the old rifle on its hook across the room.
It didn’t work, but the Northerner wouldn’t know that.
    It didn’t matter: the girl caught
her easily, and pinned her arms to her sides. “Hold still. Look, I
won’t hurt you. I only need to use your telephone.”
    “Like hell!” said Jenna. She
stomped on the other girl’s feet, but her slippers did little
damage against the Northerner’s snow-slick leather
boots.
    “My name is Arica
Whitethorn. I worked with Peter Grant when he was alive. I’m on your side .” She let
Jenna go so suddenly she stumbled. “See, I’m not holding you any
more. I’m not doing anything. I’m only here to pass on a
message.”
    Jenna took a deep breath, trying to
calm her staggering heart. “You’re a... a spy?”
    “Something like that.”
    “Prove it.”
    The Northerner—Arica—scratched her
head. “Well, look, did you ever find old Peter’s will?”
    “His will? I have no
idea.”
    “Look over there, in that trunk by
the window. Open the lid.”
    Jenna crossed the room, keeping one
eye on the stranger. She opened the trunk, which she’d inspected
already: it was lined with cedar, full of old wool blankets. “It’s
not in here,” she said. “I’ve