Winter Shadows by Margaret Buffie Page B

comparing the romantics with the pastoral ones, whatever that means. We’re to choose two female and two male writers. Fun, huh?”
    “I don’t care. I’ll never feel better again,” I croaked. “And FYI, Jean’s not my mother. And also FYI, I don’t want to do schoolwork. Go away.”
    He pulled the cover off my head. The static made my hair crackle. I could actually feel it floating in the air. I smeared my hand with lotion and tried to hold my hair down.
    “Red nose, red hair, green top. Very Christmasy. You know, I seem to recall someone telling me to make sure I pulled my weight in this project. So who’s backing out now, huh?”
    I glowered at him. Jean came in with two mugs and a plate of shortbread.
    “I made you some hot chocolate,” she said to Martin. “I’m assuming you came on the school bus. That snow is building up out there.”
    He shrugged. “Yeah. But I’ll be fine walking home.”
    “You can get a ride with me.” She handed us each a mug. “I’ll stop in and say hi to Donna, if she’s on afternoon shift. Haven’t seen her in a while.”
    “Who’s Donna?” I asked.
    “Our restaurant manager,” Martin said.
    I looked at Jean. “You’re friends with her?”
    “I did have a life before I met your dad, you know.”
    I frowned. I sometimes forgot she grew up in St. Cuthbert’s.
    “Next time, I’ll go home and get my truck first,” Martin said.
    As she left, Jean called over her shoulder, “She’s sick, Martin. Half an hour.”
    He ate two cookies while checking out my room. “You share, huh? With that weird kid – what’s her name – Dizzy? Maisy?”
    “Daisy. And I
have
to share this room. But as long as I’m sick, she’s in with my dad and Jean. That’s fine by me.”
    “Your parents divorced?”
    “No. My mom died.”
    “Oh, right. I’ve heard that. Forgot. I’m sorry.”
    “Not your fault. Why do people say they’re sorry when you know they really aren’t? How could they bewhen they didn’t know her? But thanks for the books.” I pretended to begin reading.
    “I’d miss my mom something awful. That’s why I said it.”
    I glanced at him. He was wearing a denim shirt over a yellow T-shirt and jeans. His hair was glossy and almost touched his shoulders. His eyebrows and eyes were nearly as black. The mole by his mouth was flat and smooth.
    “Okay. Sorry I snarked,” I murmured.
    “Been pretty sick, huh?”
    Tears pricked my eyes, but I pretended to sneeze to cover it up.
    “Look, first we have to sort out the four writers we’re going to focus on. I used the Internet to see who might be the most interesting. My list is on a sheet inside one of the books.”
    “Thanks. I’ll be better soon, and I’ll take a look.”
    “Bet you’re glad you’ve got a partner now!” he said.
    “Maybe. We’ll see.”
    He crunched his way through another cookie. I sipped my hot chocolate, but I could hardly taste it.
    “This house is really old,” Martin said.
    “Yeah.”
    “What’s it like living inside history?”
    “What do you mean?”
    “Well, you know – this place is one of the oldest in the area.”
    “Built over a hundred and fifty years ago,” I said.
    “Pretty amazing when you think about it – I mean, who built it? People who have been dead for a long time.”
    “You may think they’re dead,” I blurted out. “But I’m not so sure!”

13

BEATRICE
    T
he dragon was waiting in the kitchen. Before announcing my Christmas plans, I decided to ignore her and make bannock and a batch of molasses gingerbread for Papa. He was working on a leather harness at a side table and looked pleased to see me assembling my ingredients, though his glance slid uneasily toward Ivy. We both knew her bannock was like chewing thick leather, her gingerbread dry as dust. She was reheating the inevitable stew, giving me looks of cold malice whenever she caught my eye. I rarely cook anymore, except to prepare Grandmother’s meals. I wonder how much pleasure