Two women sat in a tiny cabin on the side of a vast mountain as the sky slowly darkened, and inside the lamps sent out slivers of gold light through the gaps in the wide oak planks. One read, her voice quiet and precise, and the other sat, her stockinged feet tucked up under her on the chair, her head resting against her open palm, lost in her thoughts. Time passed slowly, and neither of them minded and the children, when they stirred awake, didn’t cry but sat quietly and listened, even though they understood barely any of what was said. An hour later, the two women stood at the door and, almost on an impulse, hugged each other tightly.
They wished each other a happy Christmas, and both smiled wryly, knowing that for each this year it would simply have to be endured. “Better days,” said Kathleen.
“Yes,” Alice responded. “Better days.” And with this thought she wrapped her scarf high around her neck so that it covered everything but her eyes, mounted the little brown and white horse and made her way back toward the town.
* * *
• • •
Perhaps it was boredom at being stuck in the house after years of long days spent in the camaraderie of other miners, but William liked Sophia to tell him what had been happening at the library each day. He knew all about Margery’s anonymous letters to the families of North Ridge, who had asked for which books at the cabin, about Mr. Frederick’s deepening crush on Miss Alice, and the way she herself seemed to be hardening, like ice creeping across water, as that fool Bennett Van Cleve gave her the cold shoulder and killed her love for him, inch by frozen inch.
“You think he’s one of them?” William asked. “Men that like . . . other men?”
“Who knows? Far as I can see that boy don’t love nothin’ but his own reflection. Wouldn’t surprise me if he stands in front of the mirror and kisses the glass every day ’stead of his wife,” she retorted, and enjoyed the rare sight of her brother bent double with laughter.
But she was darned if she could find much to tell him today. Alice had sat down heavily on the little cane chair in the corner and her shoulders had slumped like she was carrying the weight of the world.
Tiredness doesn’t make you look like that. When they were physically tired the girls would pull off their boots and bitch and moan and rub at their eyes and laugh at each other. Alice just sat there, still as a stone, her thoughts somewhere far from the little cabin. Fred saw it. Sophia saw he was pretty much itching to walk over there, and comfort her, but instead he just went to his coffee jug and brewed her a fresh mug, placing it in front of her so gently that it took her a moment even to register that he had done it. Your heart would break to see how tender he looked at her.
“You okay, girl?” Sophia said quietly, when Fred had stepped out for more logs.
She didn’t speak for a moment, then wiped at her eyes with the heel of her palms. “I’m fine, Sophia. Thank you.” She looked over her shoulder at the door. “Plenty worse off than me, right?” She said it like it was something she’d repeated to herself many times. She said it like she was trying to convince herself of it.
“Ain’t that always the truth,” Sophia responded.
But then there was Margery. She’d blown in like a whirlwind as dusk fell, her eyes wild, her coat dusted with snow and a strange, brittle energy about her so that she forgot to close the door and Sophia had to scold her to remind her that it was still blizzarding outside, and was she actually born in a barn?
“Anyone been by here?” she said. The girl’s face was as white as if she’d seen a haint.
“Who you expecting?”
“Nobody,” she said quickly. Her hands were trembling, but it wasn’t from cold.
Sophia put down her book. “You okay, Miss Margery? You don’t seem yourself.”
“I’m fine. I’m fine.” She peered out of the door, like she was waiting for something.
Sophia eyed her bag. “You want to give me those books, so I can enter them?”
Margery didn’t answer, her attention still fixed on the door, so Sophia got up and pulled them out herself, placing them