ALSO BY ERIN A. CRAIG
House of Salt and Sorrows
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2021 by Erin A. Craig
Cover art copyright © 2021 by Sean Freeman
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Delacorte Press, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.
Delacorte Press is a registered trademark and the colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Craig, Erin A., author.
Title: Small favors / Erin A. Craig.
Description: First edition. | New York : Delacorte Press, 2021. | Audience: Ages 12 and up. | Summary: In the secluded town of Amity Falls, Ellerie has the chance to have her secret wishes come true, but there is a price to pay in this retelling of Rumpelstiltskin.
Identifiers: LCCN 2020033380 (print) | LCCN 2020033381 (ebook) | ISBN 978-0-593-30674-1 (hardcover) | ISBN 978-0-593-30675-8 (library binding) | ISBN 978-0-593-30676-5 (ebook)
Subjects: CYAC: Magic—Fiction. | Wishes—Fiction. | Fairy tales.
Classification: LCC PZ7.1.C715 Sm 2021 (print) | LCC PZ7.1.C715 (ebook) | DDC [Fic]—dc23
Ebook ISBN 9780593306765
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Contents
Cover
Also by Erin A. Craig
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Important Families of the Gathering
The Rules
Indian Summer
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Autumn
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Winter
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Spring
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Acknowledgments
About the Author
For my mama—
Thank you for never backing down when I challenged you to tell a scary story.
But also…thank you for always making the endings happy.
IMPORTANT FAMILIES OF THE GATHERING
The Downings
Gideon (apiarist) and Sarah, Samuel, Ellerie, Merry, Sadie
The Danforths
Cyrus (farmer), Rebecca, Mark
The McClearys
Amos (Elder and owner of the general store) and Martha
The Dodsons
Matthias (Elder and blacksmith) and Charlotte
The Schäfers
Leland (Elder and shepherd) and Cora
The Briards
Clemency (parson) and Letitia, Simon
The Buhrmans
Calvin (tavern owner) and Violet
The Lathetons
Edmund (carpenter) and Prudence
The Fowlers
Gran (poultry farmer) and Alice (schoolteacher)
THE RULES
as drafted by the Elders and Decided by at the first Gathering of Amity Falls
A rope of great cords will not fray, snap, or weather. The Falls stands strong if we all bind together.
Tend your land, your beasts, your field, and prosperous bounties the Falls will yield.
Fifteen harvests children sow, then to the Gathering let them grow.
Seek not to harm your fellow men, for Amity’s wrath circles round again.
Let from your lips no false words pour, damning characters evermore.
When neighbors reach for helping hand, extend your own, as God commands.
Enter not the forest deep. Beyond the Bells, the dark fiends keep.
The smoke smelled of burning pine needles, dark and sweet. It seeped from the hive box in front of me and danced across the fields, caught on a balmy breeze. Papa pressed down on the bellows to release another cloud, training it carefully toward the tall wooden structure’s entrance. His head bobbed as he silently counted the passing seconds. Finally he nodded.
Even though my hands were completely covered, they shook as I approached the hive. I’d never been allowed to help remove frames before, and I wanted to make sure I did everything exactly as Papa said. With a muffled groan, I strained to hoist the heavy lid before setting it aside in the grass, careful to avoid three drowsy bees crawling across its top.
After puffing more of the smoke deep into the box, Papa stepped back, allowing me full access to the hive. “Take out one of the super frames and we’ll inspect it.” His voice was muffled under the thick netting swagged about his face.
Though I could only see the limned highlight of his profile, he looked pleased. Proud, even. I prayed I wouldn’t let him down.
Usually I was in the kitchen with Mama, Merry, and Sadie during harvests. Samuel helped Papa, bringing in the heavy, honey-laden frames for us to process. I’d hold them upright while Mama ran a wide knife down the combs, slicing off waxy caps with practiced ease. The dripping frames would go into a large metal drum, and Merry and Sadie would take turns cranking the handle until all the honey had spun free and was ready to be filtered.
I glanced toward our farmhouse now, imagining my sisters jostling for space around the hearth as bottles were boiled clean and set out to dry. They’d be squabbling and begging for Mama to let them go out. It was too pretty a day to be spent over a hot fire and iron pots. A hawk screeched overhead in tacit agreement, spinning lazy circles in the late-August sunshine.
“Ellerie,” Papa p
rompted, drawing me back. “The first frame can be the trickiest. Sometimes the bees seal the edges over with resin. You might need to chisel it free.”
“Won’t that upset the bees?” I peered down through the slats of the frames. The ever-present hum had died down, but I could still see some movement in the lower boxes.
“Not if you do it right,” he teased unhelpfully. I sensed his smile behind the netting. “The first time my father let me take the frames out, I was stung six times. It’s a rite of passage.”
Growing up with beekeepers for parents, I’d certainly been stung before, but it wasn’t an experience I cared to repeat. I’d kept the entire household up with my first sting, sobbing through the night—not for my swollen hand but for the poor bee who had died in the process.
Reaching under my own heavy netting, I wiped at the sweat trickling down my face, debating where to start. There were eight frames in this section, each spread out with uniform precision. I chose one near the middle and gently wiggled it back and forth, testing the sides. It moved easily enough. I held my breath as I pulled it free, careful to not brush it against any of the others on the way out.
“Let’s see, then.” Papa leaned forward, studying the bees’ work.
Lacy patterns of honeycomb sheeted over the frame, some filled and capped but most empty.
He clucked his tongue, considering. “Not yet. Could be a late harvest this year. Too much snow last winter. Put it back.”
With the utmost care, I eased the wooden frame back into its slot, then breathed a sigh of relief.
“Now the next.”
“We check every one?”
His head bobbed. “If you go through the trouble of smoking the bees, you need to make sure to thoroughly inspect the hive. Honey isn’t the only thing we’re concerned with. We’re stewards for the hives, protectors of these bees. We need to make sure they’re healthy and their needs are being met.”
He set the smoker down and lifted the top box, peering into the lower chambers. After setting aside the first box and counting the second’s frames, he took one out, and gently brushed aside two bees clinging drunkenly to the combs.
“Tell me what you see.”
I squinted through the veil. There were more honeycombs, as golden as a stained-glass window. At the center of almost every cup was a tiny white speck, no bigger than a barley seed. “Those are the eggs, aren’t they?”
“Very good. What do they tell us?”
I felt uncomfortably on the spot, like a knobby-kneed schoolgirl no older than Sadie. “That the queen is laying?” He made a noise of affirmation, encouraging me to go on. “So if she’s laying, that’s good, right? A healthy hive?”
He nodded. “It means the hive is queenright.” He pointed to the eggs, his usually sure and swift movements hampered by the thick gloves. “Eggs this size mean there was a queen here at least three days ago. When you check the boxes, you always want to look for fresh eggs. A box without them is a dying swarm.”
He deposited the frame back and removed another, showing me the grubs, fat white blobs that looked nothing like the buzzing honeybees soaring about our yard. Another frame contained the pupas, cocooned away in caps of honey, growing and dreaming.
“Those will break free in only a few days’ time,” Papa said approvingly. “New workers or drones. Our hive is thriving, Ellerie. Let’s put everything back together and let them wake up. We’ll check on the honey next month.”
“And they’ll all be okay?”
I hated the note of worry in my voice. I knew they would be. Papa had never lost a colony before. But seeing how everything fit together, up close and right in my hands, reinforced what a fragile existence these bees had. Leave a frame out by accident, and the bees could crosscomb, filling up the extra space with so much honeycomb, you’d destroy the box trying to free it. Set the lid off-kilter, even slightly ajar, and the bees wouldn’t be able to regulate the internal temperature. They’d work themselves to death, fanning and buzzing to heat the hive.
“They’ll be just fine. You’ve done well today.”
My face flushed with pleasure. I’d wanted to impress him, to show him I was every bit as capable as Samuel was. Samuel should have been here, should have been wearing this veiled hat, not me. But he’d slipped off after breakfast this morning, and Papa’s face had grown as dark as a summer rainstorm sweeping across the mountain peaks.
Samuel had changed over the summer, racing off the farm with his best friend, Winthrop Mullins, as soon as chores were finished, sometimes even leaving the last of them to be divided up among us girls. He often quarreled with Papa, bickering over little annoyances until the two stood hot-faced, their noses curled into sneers. Mama said he must be sneaking off to see a girl, but I was at a loss to guess who it could be. We never kept anything from each other, my twin and I, and it seemed absurd to imagine him storing secrets now.
Once the box lid was securely tightened, I swooped down to pick up the metal smoker before Papa could, offering to carry it back to the supply shed for him. When we were a good distance away from the hives, he pulled off his hat, then balled up the netting and his pair of gloves into its center.
“I think this will be a good winter,” he predicted, swinging his arms back and forth as we walked. I smiled as he whistled a song through his teeth, hopelessly off tune.
“What’s that flower there?” he asked, pointing to a patch of pink blooms sprouting along the path.
I removed my hat for closer inspection. “Fireweed,” I exclaimed proudly.
He clicked in disapproval. “Its real name?”
I tried remembering the species, written in tiny scrawl in Papa’s botany book.
“Epilobium angustifolium?” I guessed, stumbling over the Latin.
Papa smiled. “Very good.”
“Maybe…maybe I could help with the next inspection too?” I asked, keen on taking advantage of his happy state.
He nodded, and my heart leapt. Papa was a man of few words unless you got him talking about his bees, and then he’d prattle on for hours.
I envied Sam, born just minutes ahead of me—and a boy. He’d stroll after Papa to the shed without a backward glance, confident and certain of his place in the world.
Not like me, stuck in the house, forever poised and waiting for the next step in my life. Waiting for a boy to come along and ease me into my next purpose. A wife. A mother.
Waiting.
Waiting.
Waiting.
Until today.
Inside the shed, I held on to the veiled hat for just a moment longer, fingers sunk deep in the netting. I was scared to let go and release the magic of the afternoon. But an angry vibration buzzed against my thumb. A stray bee was entangled in the mesh. I struggled to gently sort through the layers, trying to free the honeybee as her legs squirmed in rage.
“Don’t sting, don’t sting,” I whispered to her. “I’m only trying to help. You’re nearly free….”
The stinger sank into the side of my finger as the air split in two with a howl of anguish.
It hadn’t come from me.
Papa rushed outside as more cries and shouts rose. This wasn’t the sound of a children’s game turned too rowdy. This pain wouldn’t be patched with a splint or a kiss on the knee. It echoed across the valley, becoming a confusing cacophony of desperate heartache.
“Ellerie, get your mother. We’re going into town.” Papa was already halfway to the path leading into Amity Falls.
Another scream rang out, sharp and shrill, and a cold sweat trickled down my neck despite the warm afternoon. My feet remained still and unmoving. I did not want to know what was behind such torment.
“Ellerie!” Papa urged, sensing I wasn’t behind him.
I tossed aside the hat, my finger swelling uncomfortably. The body of the honeybee spilled free
from the netting and fell into the dirt, already dead.
Samuel was there, already a part of the crowd gathered around the porch of Elder Amos McCleary’s store. Across from the clapboard schoolhouse, the general store was centered at the heart of Amity Falls. It was the place where good news came to be spread and bad news was met with instant comfort.
Mama and Papa pushed their way through the wave of bystanders, and I grabbed at Sadie to keep her from trailing after them. Merry stood next to me, tall and slim, coming nearly to my shoulders. I felt her stiffen as she caught sight of what everyone had circled around.
Molly McCleary—Amos’s daughter-in-law—stretched across the body of her husband’s prized stallion, Samson. He was an absolutely enormous beast, standing nearly nineteen hands tall, but he seemed less now, lying in the middle of the dusty road, chuffing in pain. Molly clung to the beast, her sobs buried in the wadded saddle blanket. The ends of the fabric were ripped ragged and stained with dark brown splotches.
Blood.
The air was tainted with the biting taste of copper pennies.
Small Favors Page 1
