The Snow Child by Eowyn Ivey Page B

grow, and her footsteps fell heavier and her sighs more audible. Eventually, she would relent, but the breach would become wider and deeper. Jack knew this, yet he could not find the strength to stop it. He escaped to the barn and the woodpile, and left Mabel with her sighs.

     
    For the next several days, he worked in the barn or yard, though he knew he should be burning stump piles in the fields. He watched the trees and searched the snow for tracks. If the girl comes back, he told himself, I won’t run after her. I won’t frighten her away.
    So when the girl appeared at Jack’s elbow nearly a week later, he did not give chase but instead went about his work as if she wasn’t there. He stacked split wood beside the barn, one piece after another. Eventually the girl sat on a round of spruce and watched. When dusk fell, Jack went into the barn to put away the maul and ax. The girl followed just a few steps behind and stopped at the barn door. When he came back out, she was there, watching him with her wide blue eyes. He walked past without acknowledging her. Over his shoulder he called, “Time for supper. Let’s go in.”
    And the girl followed. Jack held the cabin door open for her. She entered gingerly, as if the floor might fall out from under her, but all the same she came in. As she stepped across the threshold and into the warmth, the thin layer of frost on her coat and hat melted. Jack watched the bits of ice on her moccasins dwindle to nothing and the frost on her eyelashes turn to droplets. The child’s eyes were left wet, as if she had been crying.
    Mabel was working at the kitchen counter, her back to them. Jack closed the door.
    “I think we might need some more wood on the fire—” she said, turning with a pot of boiled potatoes in her hands. She looked up and saw the little girl beside Jack and her mouth formed a little circle as if she might make a sound, but instead she dropped the pot of potatoes.
    “Oh, oh.” Mabel stared at her feet, soaking wet and covered in bits of potato. “Oh dear.” The girl had stepped back, startled at the clamor of the pot hitting the floor but now, in the silent cabin, she let out a little giggle and put her red mittens over her mouth.
    Mabel quickly scooped the potatoes back into the pot and used a towel to soak up the water. All the while her eyes never left the child.
    “I’ll take your coat for you,” Jack said.
    The girl took off her mittens, and as he reached to take them she drew something out of her coat pocket. It was a small animal, white fur and black nose, and Jack was prepared for it to writhe and jump. But it was a lifeless pelt, less than a foot long snout to tail.
    “An ermine?”
    The child nodded and held it out to him. Beneath the fur its dried skin crinkled like thin parchment paper. Mabel came to his side and touched the tiny empty eyelids and the bristly whiskers. She ran her fingers down the white fur to the black-tipped tail.
    “That’s a nice little pelt,” he said and went to give it back to the child. But she shook her head.
    “Put it back in your pocket so you don’t forget it.”
    Again the barest shake of her head, a small smile.
    “She wants us to have it,” Mabel whispered.
    “Is that it? Is it for us?”
    A smile.
    “Are you sure?” he said.
    A vigorous nod.
    Jack hung the ermine from a hook by the kitchen window and smoothed the back of his hand down the white fur. Mabel bent down toward the child. “Thank you,” she said.
    “Here you are.” He pulled a chair out from the table. “You can sit here.”
    The girl sat, coat and mittens piled on her lap, the marten-fur hat still on her head.
    “Are you sure I can’t take those for you?” he asked.
    The girl didn’t speak.
    “All right. Suit yourself.”
    As Mabel put a plate of moose steaks in the middle of the table, she glanced at Jack, widened her eyes questioningly and raised her eyebrows. He shrugged almost imperceptibly.
    “I suppose we won’t be having