Echo Mountain - Lauren Wolk Page 0,6

and cold, but on the morning of Quiet’s birth I felt three kinds of light, three kinds of warmth: from spring itself, from Quiet, and from the flame growing inside me.

But my mother still seemed as cold and dark as the January day when he’d been hurt.

“Go on now and finish your chores,” she said after we’d had our breakfast. “And don’t forget the venison. Mr. Peterson will be done with the butchering by now. He’ll have our share ready.”

“How come Esther never fetches the meat?” Samuel groused, though he loved venison and visits to the Petersons, too.

“How come you never darn your own socks?” Esther said.

“Or make your own cakes?” my mother said, and by that she meant corn cakes or fish cakes or potato cakes. It had been a long time since we had had the kind of cake that wore candles in a crown.

“And how come Ellie gets a puppy?” Samuel said.

My mother cast him a baleful eye. “Where were you when Ellie was helping me with Maisie last night?”

Samuel sighed. “Sleeping.”

“And where were you when Ellie saved that puppy from being buried too soon?”

“I would have saved him if I’d been there,” Samuel said.

“If,” said Esther. “Such a word.”

“You know the rule.” My mother wrapped her hands around her mug, warming it as it warmed her. “One puppy at a time. When Maisie has another litter, it’ll be your turn, Samuel.”

“But Ellie already has Maisie,” Samuel said.

And he wasn’t really wrong. Esther had lost interest in Maisie as soon as the cute had worn off, so I was the one who fed her and made sure she was locked in the woodshed at night, safe from coyotes and bears. And I was the one who sometimes snuck her into my bed on cold nights, where she warmed my feet and soothed my sleep no matter how high the wind.

And now I had a pup of my own, too.

Quiet.

“Nonetheless,” my mother said to Samuel. “You’ll get your turn when it’s your turn, and not a minute sooner.”

After I’d washed up under the kitchen pump and filled a pail for Maisie, I said, “I’m going out to the woodshed to check on the puppies.”

My mother nodded, the tea still cradled in her hands, while Esther tidied the table and Samuel said, “I’m coming, too,” close at my heels.

Since my father’s accident, Samuel had taken to following me around, watching me work, asking me questions, and I tried to teach him some of the things my father had taught me, though he often didn’t want to do the work or listen the way he needed to listen.

Even so, I stopped him on the way to the woodshed and reminded him about what happens to a dog when she has a fresh litter. “Maisie growled at me a lot last night,” I said. “She even showed her teeth when I got too close.”

“At you? Maisie?”

I nodded. “Something takes over when babies are new.”

At which Samuel made a face. “You’re twelve, Ellie. What do you know about it?”

So I let him go ahead of me into the woodshed.

Let him see her fangs when the door opened.

Let him step back so fast he tripped and went down hard on his butt while I waited for Maisie to get used to the idea of us. And then I went forward slowly, murmuring soft words, careful to reach out the back of my hand until she calmed and licked my knuckles, crooning a little.

“There, there,” I murmured, stroking her ears. “That’s my good girl. That’s my good Maisie.”

When I poured water into her bowl, she raised her head enough to lap some up and then lay back down again.

The puppies were sleeping, their tummies fat with milk, and I didn’t want to upset Maisie, so I didn’t touch them, though the sight of Quiet made me long to hold him against my neck.

Samuel eased up behind me, murmuring as I had, reaching down slowly to run his hand along Maisie’s neck again and again. “How was I supposed to know she would get so mad?” he whispered to me. “First time you’ve ever been right about anything.”

Which I ignored.

Being a middle child had made me good at turning the other cheek. But being good at something didn’t make it easy.

While Samuel was looking at the puppies, I stepped silently onto the stool in the corner and reached up to touch each of the carvings I’d hidden on the highest shelf.

There was no reason for