There was no more time. That's what Ingid thought. She looked through the pages of longing and searching for hope, then discarded the journal sheets one by one, feeding the fire with the crumpled paper. Ewan had been gone now for three seasons, including the harvest. And he never missed that.

The night turned viciously cold. She'd need more logs and tinder, and they were in the shed with the sheaves. Although the battles had taken from them all, there was more to do and the seasons didn't take excuses into account. Tomorrow, she thought, she'd start making meal. The almanac said it would be a long winter.

Pulling the door open, she inhaled the musty surge of hay and pine. The door creaked and thudded. Then Ingrid felt a silence that seemed to drape her in solace, the sort of comfort brought on by the meeting of familiar with unknown – the handshake of acceptance.

Her duties were solid and she would accomplish, at very least, the things that would make him beam

Touched by the grace of the full moon shining between the crack in the slats of the shed, Ingrid filled her basket and with determination, carried her load back to the house.

 

main page