“Mama, I can’t.”
“Don’t tell me what you can’t do,” Hedda huffed. “She’s your sister. That must count for something.”
Mara didn’t move.
“Come on. Now! She’s trying to push and it’s too soon. I need to keep her calm while you deliver the baby.”
“Mama, I just—”
Hedda approached, then struck Mara—hard. “Who do you think you are? You’re not so perfect that you can stand in judgment.”
Shocked, Mara put her hand to her stinging face. Slowly, she nodded. She removed her scarf again, and then her coat, before following her mother to Jo’s room.
Now, she recalled every detail of the afternoon Jo gave birth. She sobbed as she recollected Hedda’s demands, and how the woman always refused to see her side of any event. Her tears, hot and stinging, flowed. Her shoulders shuddered with the strength of her sorrow.
Then, yet another memory crashed down upon her.
Cold winds howled across Lake Barton and through the forest that surrounded the village. Trees swayed and whined. Windows rattled. This was a wet cold, the kind that came with a late winter storm—the kind that seeped into one’s clothing.
Mara, wrapped tightly in her robe, sat with her feet turned toward the fire to soak in its warmth, but she couldn’t seem to shake the chill she’d taken when she’d delivered supplies to Hedda earlier in the day.
“Mara!” came a voice at her door.
She sighed. What does she want now? Hoping her sister would just go away, she didn’t get up.
“Mara!” Jo shouted again as the door opened. Cold air poured into the room.
Fitting, Mara thought, the cold and Jo arriving together—both bitter and both heartless.
Turning toward her sister and pulling her robe more tightly around herself, she shivered. “Close the door. You’re letting the cold in. What do you want?”
Carrying her bundled infant, Seth, Jo stepped inside, then closed the door. “I need you to watch him for me.”
“No, Jo.”
“Come on, Mara, I just need to take care of some business. I won’t be long.”
“I said, ‘no.’”
Jo deposited Seth into her sister’s arms, unceremoniously. “Mother said I should bring him here.”
“Just take him and go, Jo.” Mara tried to hand the infant back.
“You’re so . . . cranky.”
Mara’s brow rose. “I’m cranky?”
“Mama says its time you got over yourself.”
“Did she?”
“Promise you’ll take care of him,” Jo urged as she stepped away.
“No. Take him back.”
“I can’t. Now promise you’ll take good care of him.”
“Jo!” Mara cried as her sister opened the door and then stepped out.
“Promise me, now!”
Not feeling up to fighting, Mara sighed, deeply. “Fine, Jo, I promise I’ll take care of him. Just . . . hurry back.”
The door closed.
Then came further recollections.
The day passed into night. Jo did not return.
The night turned to morning. Still there was no sign of Jo.
The next day passed. The sands of time trickled on. The days became a week, and still there was no sign of Jo.
A month came and went—with no sign of Jo.
In spite of her anger at her sister, the infant Seth melted Mara’s heart. Against her better judgment, her initial intentions, and her desire, she fell hopelessly in love with him. Every smile, every coo, brought her pleasure. Every fever, every hurt, brought her pain. And all the while, time moved on—with no sign of Jo.
Things grew difficult. Mara cleaned rooms and helped make meals at the local inn, but she barely made enough to maintain her room, and she couldn’t afford to pay someone else to care for Seth while she looked for employment elsewhere. As Hedda refused to take the child, even for a few hours a day, Mara struggled on.
Another month passed, and then another. Spring arrived, then faded away as summer made its debut. It reigned temporarily in all its heated glory, and then it too, passed on.
Barely scraping out a living, Mara grew desperate. One afternoon, she went to sanctuary to help Channer, who paid her when she assisted him there. Best of all, he told her to bring Seth along, freeing her of the need to find someone to care for the child while she toiled, thereby eating even further into her meager earnings.
“It was good of you to come,” Channer greeted her. Just a few years older than she, he was a village favorite, always ready to lend others a helping hand. Quiet of demeanor, generous with his contributions, and patient in his dealings with others, he lacked but one thing: the courage to tell Mara how he felt about her—that he was utterly smitten with her.
“Good of me? No, thank you, Channer. With your help, I might even eat for the rest of the month.” Her spontaneous admission embarrassing her, she covered her mouth with her hand. Then, she set Seth’s basket on the ground. “Forget I said that,” she said.
“How are you holding up?” His heart, for the moment, was in his eyes.
Blind to what stood before her, oblivious to his feelings for her, Mara tipped her head from side to side. “I’m . . . all right.”
He nodded. “It’s really rather amazing that you’re willing to do this for Jo . . . considering . . .”
She held her hand up to stop him. “It seems everyone knows what a fool I am.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Well, anyway, I promised Jo that I’d take care of him. And besides . . . I love Seth.” Her eyes met his.
“You don’t owe Jo your life, you know. And in spite of your love for Seth, you don’t owe him your life either. You should be free to follow your own path, your own way.”
Unable to hold his gaze any longer, she looked away. “So, what are we doing today?”
The two spent the day cleaning up fallen leaves, planting winter hardy bulbs, and turning roses over to cover them for the winter. Mara was grateful Channer arranged for lunch to be provided for them both, as she’d had nothing in the cupboards to bring along with her. When they were finally through, she collected her earnings and then set off for home.
Upon arrival, exhausted and thirsty, she entered, put down Seth’s basket, and then grabbed a cup and carafe of water. She started to pour.
“There you are. Where have you been all day?”
Startled, Mara dropped the pitcher. Broken bits of it scattered across the floor. “Jo!” she exclaimed.
The woman rose from her chair.
Mara took in the sight before her. Dear Good One, she’s pregnant. Well, that certainly explained why she’d finally come home after all this time.
In that instant, Mara made up her mind. She knew what she would do.
Jo insisted that Seth stay with her sister when she left early the next evening for Hedda’s. “He cries every time I try to pick him up,” she whined. It seemed clear that the woman hadn’t come back for her son. She’d come back to have her second child and no doubt, to leave that one behind as well.
The moment Jo stepped out and closed the door, Mara rushed about collecting Seth’s things, along with as many of her own as she could carry. She knew not where she was going, only that she had to get away.
As evening descended, she returned to sanctuary, grateful to find her friend still there.
She recalled how distraught she’d been that night, how confused and guilt-ridden. Her recollections made her weep all the more. She agreed with Channer that she should leave Barton Lake and eventually, he convinced her to leave Seth with someone who could care for the boy properly.
Her tears flowed anew as she recalled how the two of them visited friends of his later that evening. The couple, Martin and Grace, had longed for a child for years, but hadn’t been blessed with one of their own. She watched in her mind’s eye, the look of peace on Grace’s face when she placed Seth into her arms. She knew, as she watch
ed her memories unfold, that she’d made the right decision that night. Seth needed a good home and she—Mara—needed to get away.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Days passed and all the while, snow fell. The twins decided that the nightmare place in which they found themselves might rightfully have been called The Tundra. They passed the days and nights sleeping fitfully and removing snow from near the door of the hut. They were constantly chilled. Though Eden carried a flint, there was nothing to burn, and as time moved on, the cold became more and more unbearable.
They consumed snow to keep from becoming dehydrated again, and then one morning, were forced to face the fact that their food reserves had fallen dangerously low. Before long, they were entirely depleted. Now they faced a new danger: the possibility they might starve to death.
Reigna and Eden had ventured out several times to hunt. Each time, as they stood at the top of the gorge, below which the hut sat, they struggled to see into the distance. But the ongoing blizzard enveloped them, and their efforts were in vain. Much to their chagrin, no wildlife passed their way, and they dared not venture so far as to lose sight of their home base. Without shelter, starving would not be their first concern—they would simply succumb to the elements.
Once again, the two stood at the top of the ravine. Through the swirling snow, they could just make out the hut’s outline.
“We must do something,” Eden muttered, shivering. “We’re freezing and we’ll soon starve to death.”
Reigna grimaced. “What do you suppose the point of all of this is?”
“What do you mean?”
“Was this all supposed to happen, do you suppose?”
Sighing, Eden shook her head. “All I know right now is that I can’t stand this cold any longer, that we’re out of food, and that the longer we go hungry, the colder it seems.”
Reigna started back to the cabin, with Eden following, in silence. Upon arrival, they brushed away the snow accumulated near the door. They stomped their feet and shook their bodies, removing as much of it from themselves as possible before entering.
“This snow might never stop. These howling winds might never cease,” Eden said, folding her arms and pressing her damp clothing even more tightly against her skin, “and I have only one idea.”
“What’s that?”
“We have the compass. Let’s just keep going in the direction in which we were headed.”
“But we’d die of cold out there.” Reigna’s teeth chattered.
“Are you joking? We’ll die of cold in here.”
“Dear Ehyeh, help us.”
“You think that will help?” There was an edge to Eden’s voice, an element of anger.
“Eden!”
“I’m just saying—if Ehyeh was helping us, how is it that we’re stuck in this mess?”
“You don’t mean that.”
“Don’t I?” She slumped down to the floor in a heap.
Reigna crouched down near her sister. “You don’t mean that. You know what we were always taught. Ehyeh will—”
“Provide. Yes, I know.”
“No. The full saying isn’t ‘Ehyeh will provide.’ It’s ‘Ehyeh will provide the means.’”
Her sister huffed. “So, you think He’s provided the means for us to warm up?”
“Yes, I do. I just can’t see it.”
“Reigna, we’re going to die here.”
“No, we are not. Don’t you dare repeat that.”
Eden dropped her head into her hands. “If I don’t warm up soon— If I don’t get something to eat . . .”
“I know.” Reigna embraced her sister.
“We have to leave here. We might find food along our way.”
“I suppose.”
“So, you agree? We leave—first thing in the morning. Right?”
“I suppose. If you say so.”
Eden pursed her lips. “Well, if that’s the case, then perhaps the Good One has, as you said, provided ‘the means.’”
Reigna’s eyes brightened. “What do you mean?”
“We’re leaving in the morning?”
“Yes.”
“Then I say we tear this place down and light a fire. We might as well travel dry, as wet, even if still hungry.”
“That’s it! Eden, you’re brilliant. We’ll burn the place down.”
“But slowly. We burn the wood slowly.”
For the first time in days, Reigna smiled. She rose to her feet with as much energy as her weary body could spare. “Let’s get to it then,” she said.
They demolished the hut in fits and starts, maintaining as much shelter for themselves as possible, for as long as they could. In short order, their hands smarted from the cold and sported numerous splinters. They piled the wood up even as the wind beat down on them, ever more relentlessly.
“We’ll rest right there,” Reigna said, pointing at the one wall they’d left standing, “where we’ll be shielded from the wind.”
Her twin’s teeth chattered. She put two planks down. “I wish we could just lie down here, go to sleep, and never wake. I’m so tired, my arms ache, and—”
“Eden, no.”
“Hurry up, then. Start the fire.”
Shielding herself from the onslaught of the driving wind, Reigna brushed away the snow already accumulated on the planks before her. She sat down, then tried lighting the fire. Repeatedly, the wind gusted and chased the infant flame away.
“Let me try.”
“That’s all right. I think I’ve got it.” Reigna cupped her hands around another tiny flame she’d managed to start, but moments later, it went out. She tried again, and then again.
Finally, a small flame flickered. A wisp of smoke followed it.
Reigna added more shavings to the tender fire, careful not to upset its precarious start. Within minutes, it crackled, popped, and threw sparks into the air. Cautiously, she added yet more wood. The flames grew higher.
“Look!” She turned to her sister, only to find her on the ground.
Opening her eyes, Eden smiled weakly. She sat up, inched closer to the flames, then wrapped her arms around her twin. “You did it.”
For hours, the fire burned strong as the two sat quietly, feeding it. Before long, they’d burned half the wood.
“Goodness, I’m fully dry for the first time in days!” Reigna exclaimed.
“And warm,” her sister added.
“If only I weren’t starving.”
Eden glanced her way. They both grinned. “What wouldn’t you give for something to eat just now?”
“Don’t even ask. Honestly, I fear I might give up everything I have and everything I am.”
“And everything you’re intended to be?”
“Frightening, isn’t it?” Reigna asked. “To feel so vulnerable, afraid and weak, that you don’t know what you might do to relieve the—”
“Pain?”
“What is this I hear?” came a not wholly unfamiliar voice, startling the young women.
Peering into the swirling snow, Reigna took up her sword.
Slowly, the outline of a man’s shape took form.
“Who are you?” she asked.
Coming within the circle of light, his shoulders sagged. “Well now, that does sadden me—that you would forget me so soon.” As before, Malefique wore a tattered black robe.
“Go away!” Eden cried, glancing briefly at his bare, yet presumably unfrozen, feet. Rising to her knees, she pulled a knife out from one of her boots.
He approached. When within mere feet of the fire, he held up one hand. Instantly, the wind waned.
“Now,” he said, “here I came to help you, and you respond with suspicion and . . . disdain. That hurts me . . . deeply.”
“What do you want?” Reigna asked, crouched, prepared to pounce.
“Sit down. Sit down,” he said, directing her with a wave of his hand. “I will not harm you.” He sat on the ground across the flames from them and crossed his legs. The firelight f
lickered in his eyes, though they seemed more the source of the flames, than merely to reflect them.
Dropping to their knees, then sitting back on their heels, the twins kept their eyes on their visitor.
“I am here to help you,” he said.
“There’s nothing you can do.” Reigna said. “Just go away and leave us be.”
“Where’d you come from anyway?” Eden asked.
Reigna glared at her sister, silently entreating her not to engage the man in discussion.
Malefique smiled, his expression more a grimace than one of joy. “I come from a wondrous place. A place where you would never again experience cold.”
“Where?” Eden asked.
“Cold is not the worst thing,” Reigna said, sounding as though she sought to convince herself as much as anyone.
Glancing her way, Malefique’s brow rose. “No, you are right. Cold is not the worst thing.” He pursed his thin, colorless lips. “There is always . . . hunger.”
“You have food?”
He reached into his pocket. “Let me see now . . . Where did I put that?” He removed his hand, then opened it. There, in his palm, sat a piece of bread. He brought it toward his lips, opened his mouth, and popped it in. He chewed long and laboriously as the twins watched. Then he removed a bag that hung over his shoulder.
“There is more here,” he said, “somewhere.” A moment later, he pulled out from the bag, a small baguette. “See here?” As he stood, he put the bread back into the bag. Then he held it over the flames, toward the twins.
Reigna’s eyes widened, but as she rose to her feet, he dropped the bag—loaf of bread and all—into the fire.
She rushed forward, but the flames, too high and hot, held her back. She shielded her face from the sting of the heat and stepped back. Almost instantly, came the smell of burning bread. She poked into the flames with the end of her sword. As she did, the burning planks fell in on one another, burying the bag even deeper into the bed of coals. Anger and frustration consumed her.
“Why did you do that?” she asked.
Having resumed his seat, he leaned back, studying the sisters with eyes that seemed to burn into them. “It was an accident,” he said.
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