Page 8 of Roses in Amber
I stepped back and opened the barn door again so I could close it with more vigor, its thump alerting Glover to my presence. He returned to the work he'd been pursuing—fetching wood for the fire, as it turned out—and I helped, taking a load almost as heavy as his into the lodge.
The main room was warmest, of course, and we spent most of what I advisedly thought of as our idle time in it. In truth we had vastly less idle time than we once had, and it was rarely idle at all, as evidenced by Opal's weaving and Maman's stitching, and—surprisingly—by Pearl's pouring over a book I was unfamiliar with. Father held a knife and a long piece of wood in his strong hands, pare by pare creating a board for a bedframe that would in time go into the loft, and Flint sat by the fire bent over a piece of leather that began to look like a bridle. Jasper lay on the bearskin rug with Jet and a piece of slate and chalk, practicing letters with the little one, and as Glover placed another log on the fire, an overwhelming brightness filled my eyes and chest.
"Look at us." My voice cracked and I swallowed, smiling through a tightness in my throat. Pearl looked up, white eyebrows elevated, but rolled her eyes in disdain as I continued. "Look at us. When do you last remember, in the city, us all being in a single room together, bent to our individual interests but still a family?"
Glover took a discreet step backward, toward the shadow of the kitchen door, clearly dismissing himself as part of the picture I saw, but I said, "Don't leave, Glover. You've become part of this family too. An integral part, I dare say. We would never have made it this far without you."
"Miss," Glover protested, but he smiled, and ducked his head when Opal smiled her agreement toward him.
"We've done well," I insisted. "I don't know that I would go back to what we had, even if I could."
"I would," Pearl said dryly, but Father gave me an odd, approving smile while Maman kept her attention fiercely on her stitching. The boys were entirely unmoved by my emotion, and as such, caused me to release it in a quick laugh. I went happy to my next task, and if I imagined Opal's gaze lingering thoughtfully on Glover for a few moments, I enjoyed that little dream as well.
The longest night came on us only a few days later, and I, expecting nothing, brought out the perfumes for my sisters and Maman, and new winter boots that I'd traded other vials of perfume for, for all the menfolk, including Glover, whose visible surprise was worth having snuck around the village behind his back. Then Maman, who had spent nearly a year in almost absolute silence, rose and went upstairs, only to return with warm and beautifully stitched cloaks for all of us, even—as I had done—Glover.
More gifts: sleds for the little boys from Father, leather-worked pendants of our favorite animals—or in my case, of a rose, a reminder of the garden that had burned—from Flint, warm dresses and new shirts all around from Opal, who said, "Next year I'll have woven the fabric, too," almost defiantly. Glover had pretty things for each of us girls, which I thought covered the excuse to give Opal a necklaceofopal, the pendant gleaming with depth, and for the boys, hand-carved horses and a carriage whose wheels turned smoothly.
Pearl produced a deck of witch's cards that I was certain she hadn't owned a year ago, and played at reading our fortunes. I believed only I caught the downturn of her mouth a few times as she pulled cards from the deck, or the sharp glances she bestowed on Maman, Father, and myself. But she offered nothing in her readings beyond laughter and good fortune, and then to our delight Jasper and Jet stood up together and first recited the Winter Enchantment, an ancient poem to bring back the sun, then sang for us the first of many solstice carols, inviting us to join them in the next as they finished the first. We nursed the hearthfire, adhering, as we hadn't done in the city, to the old tradition of lighting no new fires on the solstice for fear of angering the faeries and spirits, and we placed a candle in the eastern window, to guide the sun back home again.
The boys gradually drifted into sleep, but—again, as we had not done in the city—we adults remained awake, growing increasingly quiet as the night went on, and awaited the return of light to a world that had, at this time a year ago, seemed impossibly dark.
A traveler arrived with the returning sun.
I pretended for a moment that he had come to the village the night before, and stayed there until daylight broke again, but his face was ruddy with cold, snot dripping from his nose and frost rimming both his heavily furred hat and his beard. His horse did not look rested, or well-fed, or even warm, though its breath steamed heavily in the winter air.
Father opened the door as the traveler rode up the drive, and I could see from his expression that he knew the man. He stood in the open door, waiting, and the man swung off his horse and said, without preamble, "TheSpidersilksurvived."
Maman cried out, but Father's knees cut from under him; had he not held the door frame he would have fallen. It took ten heartbeats before he gathered himself and straightened, then stepped into the house and said, "You'd better come in."
Once inside and divested of coat and hat, I—we all—recognized the man as Captain Stewart, who had sailed theSpidersilk.He told much the same story Fisher had almost a year ago, save with theSpidersilk's fate being driven hopelessly off-course. The crew had come, essentially by chance, on an island with enough of a harbor for safety, and had waited out the winter storms there. The stars had guided them back toward home, but the poorSpidersilkhad been so badly damaged that as much time was spent keeping it afloat every day as making headway. Stewart had limped it into port only a few weeks earlier, learned of our misfortunes and our disappearance—still fodder for gossip, it seemed—and, remembering an idle conversation with Father about the hunting lodge years earlier, had set off in search of the family without telling anyone where, exactly, he intended to go.
"The cargo," Father said.
Stewart shook his head. "Not what it was when we set out. Time and weather has taken some toll. Still, silks and spices and gems—"
Pearl made a noise at this, a rough whimper unlike herself. Opal, almost as pale as Pearl, took her older sister's hand, while Glover, at the kitchen door, twisted half a smile and glanced away. I hadn't yet moved, unable to consider what another reversal of fortune meant. Just days ago I'd proclaimed I wouldn't go back to what we'd had, but then the possibility hadn't existed. In this new light, I was no longer so certain of my convictions.
Maman rose and came to clutch Father's hand while the boys stayed silent, even Jet knowing something important was happening, though he couldn't understand what.
"You'd better come," Stewart finally said. "The goods are yours, and so are the—" He broke off, glancing at the family, and shrugged, though we could all fill in the final word:debts.
"Tomorrow," Father said heavily. "You and your horse both need rest, and there's nothing a day's delay will change."
Stewart stayed, and the day took on a shrill edge as Father packed for the journey. The boys were overcome with the idea of innumerable toys again, though Flint insisted loudly and at length that he would have to take the goats and chickens with him. Beauty, of course, was a foregone conclusion: none of us could imagine life without the enormous bay mare anymore. Maman whispered with Opal about silks and fine smalls, and Opal, who had always seemed happy enough, rubbed the callouses on her hands and wondered if they would fade. Glover said nothing, and I watched the proceedings with a conflict of desires. Strangely, so too did Pearl, though she could be drawn into Maman and Opal's talk of beautiful dresses and shoes that were for show rather than sensible.
Our guest was given a hay mattress in front of the fire, and we retired to bed early, all too aware that Father would depart before the midwinter sun rose. I was changing into my nightdress when Pearl appeared, clutching her own nightgown and the new cloak from Maman around her for warmth. "You have to go with him."
"What?" I pulled the nightdress on and, although I'd heard her perfectly clearly, repeated, "What?"
She seized my shoulders, a more physically abrupt gesture than I was accustomed to from my reserved eldest sister, and almost shook me as she said, "You must go with him, Amber." Her green eyes were alight even in the darkness, from which she stood out like an apparition, ghostly and white.
I put my hands on hers at my shoulders, then took them away from that fierce grip and held them instead. "Why?"
Pearl shook her head once. "I don't know, but I saw it in the cards. I saw a journey for Father, and a death."
"Pearl!"
"I told you," Pearl said, although she hadn't, quite. "I'm a witch."
