"Not all of it," Opal called from upstairs. "The bed here is unscathed."
"An oversight, I'm sure!" I shouted back as Father came from the cellar with a tightly rolled bundle that proved to be an enormous brown bearskin rug to warm the floor with. Maman had located—or someone had located for her—a fox-fur muff and hat, and she sat in one of the furry chairs near the fire, watching the little flames as though they were all that kept her alive. Glover came from the kitchen—for that was what lay beyond the door to the left of the hearth—with a dinner of thin soup and bread, making the last of what food we had stretch, and we fell upon it with appetites worthy of the greatest feast.
Afterward, Flint and I dragged the straw mattresses and seat cushions in from the wagon for makeshift beds, while Pearl, who had too much pride to remain useless, and—like the rest of us—too little skill in anything to be useful, went into the cellar and returned minutes later with another, smaller black bearskin rug, which she brought up to the loft. It would do for the little boys to sleep on tonight, at least, and we would begin anew tomorrow.
We would never have survived the next weeks—the next months—without Glover's assistance. The morning after we arrived at the lodge, we girls gave him, with varying degrees of reluctance, all but one each of the fine dresses we had left; the lodge had plainer wear that was scratchy and ill-fitting, but much more practical for everyday working life. He took the gowns and left in the wagon, returning just before sundown with a tremendous variety of materials packed neatly into the wagon.
Among them, inconceivably, were books. Most were practical: books of cooking and building, books about gardening and animal husbandry. A few, though, were for pleasure, and Glover would only look pleased with himself when I turned, speechless with gratitude, to try to thank him. I hung the little stained glass rose in a downstairs window, eliciting gasps from the family, who had not known of its survival, and though every day was long and tiring, I spent a few minutes at the end of each sitting beneath the rose and reading a little bit of a story to my weary family.
Opal learned to make bread from the flour; Pearl, her mouth flat and her hair visibly whitening at the root, proved to be adept at sewing more than just beads onto dresses, and made our homespun clothes fit better. Father took up hunting with the guns that had been stored in the barn, and Jasper went with him while Maman cared for Jet, who loved the hunting lodge and its grounds more than any of us had ever loved our home in the city. Flint, given goats and chickens to master, was rarely indoors again. I joined him outside, learning to break the earth and plant seeds as spring came on. One afternoon, elbow-deep in mulch, I sat back on my heels to look at him, hoeing elsewhere in our garden, and spoke to Glover as he passed by. "Glover, you were a manservant. How on earth did you learn all of these practical skills?"
"I wasn't born dressing gentlemen," he said in amusement. "I grew up on a farm outside the city, but I didn't want to farm. I wanted to live in a fine large house, so I learned to read and to speak well, and began as a footman before becoming a manservant."
"And now you're farming," I said in dismay.
"There's a world of difference when you've chosen to, Miss, rather than it being your unexamined fate. Mind the centipede, Miss, that it doesn't bite you."
I slapped the nasty little beast away, and, contemplative, returned to my mulching.
Glover brought us into the small village when we would not have gone on our own. Opal, with her pretty face and her open smile, was welcomed instantly, making friends and no few swains, though most of her would-be lovers were already married and—once or twice—already widowed. Pearl's beauty wasn't enough to overcome village reticence, not with her natural arrogance and her now two-toned hair, as inches of it had gone white before we were willing to venture into town. People looked at me as they always had, as if they couldn't help themselves, and as if they might find answers in my asymmetrical features. Flint's way with animals was rumored ahead of him, and Jasper's charm made him a place in the village, as did Jet's childish enthusiasm. Maman remained apart, but the villagers accepted that without question: her people had owned the lodge, and so it was not, it seemed, to be expected that she should mingle.
Father's hunting ability, though, and his permission to hunt the lands, would have made us popular even if we had all been blighted with the pox. He brought in venison for trade twice a month, and smaller game more often: rabbits, pheasants, partridges, even fat squirrels, and the opportunity for meat won the villagers over.
"But they live surrounded by this forest," I breathed to Glover once. "Why do they not hunt?"
"The lands aren't theirs," he replied, "and they're afraid."
"Of what? Maman's family are absentee landlords, at best. It's been decades since anyone has lived at or hunted from the lodge. What could possibly keep them away from the hunt?"
"There are rumors of a beast in the forest, Miss. One who protects it from anyone who lacks the right to hunt."
"Beasts," I said with an unladylike snort, "can't tell who does and who doesn't have the right to hunt."
"And yet the villagers believe." Glover smiled at me, and went to help Father parcel up rabbit in exchange for a length of nicely woven wool.
As summer wore on, my hair lightened to match my name; Opal's became bright with sunshine, and, by the summer cross-quarter day, Pearl took a scissors to her own hair and hacked off the sable length of it, leaving white flyaway curls, when it had been straight before. I watched her do it and was still stunned at the transformation from a prematurely greying beauty to an unearthly creature whose hair and skin seemed equally pale. Her green eyes were terrifying in the midst of whiteness, and she made no effort to tame her alien aspect.
Unexpectedly, the villagers became easier with her after that, as if she had been denying something they all felt was obvious, and now that she had accepted it she could belong. It wasn't long before I realized one or two of them would always approach her when we came into the village, drawing her to the side and murmuring a question. She almost never smiled when asked, but she would go away with them and come back a while later, looking serenely satisfied, which was not an expression I was much used to on my oldest sister's face. One young woman named Lucy, who was lush of form and frank of tongue, called Pearl away often, and after a few weeks I could stand it no longer. I cornered my older sister when we arrived home, demanding, "What do they ask you?"
Pearl's eyebrows had gone white, too, and they rose a little. "For blessings, mostly. On their children, or their pregnancies, or the crops."
"Why on earth would they do that?"
"They think I'm a witch."
I stared at her. "Are you?"
"Maybe," Pearl said, and would say no more.