FRIDAY, DECEMBER 4
“Goodbye, love.”
Ephraim tucks his face into the crook between my neck and shoulder and presses a kiss into my skin. I can feel the warmth of his breath slide beneath the collar of my dress even as the snow falls around us. I walked with him down the lane, all the way to the bridge over Mill Creek, to say goodbye. This has been our habit through all the long years that we have lived in Hallowell. I do not let him leave without a proper send-off.
Water Street spans Mill Creek by this somewhat precarious bridge. It is made of planks nailed to roughhewn logs that rest on a series of stone foundations. Horses can cross two abreast, but wagons must go single file. There are no rails, and the drop is fifteen feet to the creek below. Only twelve-foot-wide and thirty-foot-long, it often feels as though it’s held together by little more than stubbornness and wishful thinking. But the bridge has ferried countless travelers across the creek for many years now, weathering flood and storm alike, and it needs little in the way of maintenance apart from having an occasional plank or log replaced. Ephraim checks the foundations every spring, after the thaw, and reinforces them where needed.
“You will be careful, won’t you?” I ask.
“Of course.”
“And you will come home to me?” “Don’t I always?”
“Ah, but this would be the time you didn’t, when I need you most.”
We stand beside Sterling—Ephraim’s horse—at the near end of the bridge. My husband pulls away from me and tips my chin up with the edge of one finger so that our eyes meet.
“What is it you’re worried about?”
“That you won’t make it home in time. That I won’t be able to testify, and Rebecca will be left defenseless. That North will get away with everything.”
“That won’t happen. I will make it back.” “But—”
“I will.” He looks at the falcon who rests on the saddle swell, waiting to depart. “I’ve taken precautions. We will be married thirty-five years this month. Don’t start doubting me now.”
“Doubt and fear are not the same thing,” I say, following Ephraim’s gaze to Percy. The bird is hooded now, so I cannot see his penetrating burnt- orange eyes, and his jesses—the long, thick leather straps around his talons
—are tied to the broad ridge of leather at the front of Ephraim’s saddle. He can neither see nor fly.
Sometimes I feel that Percy can understand us. And perhaps he can—in his own way—because his head swivels this way and that, as though listening first to Ephraim, then to me. Percy dislikes the hood, but it is the only way to ride long distances. And only on Sterling. Brutus would never allow those lethal talons to get so close. The saddle is crosscut with sharp, savage gashes where Percy has dug into the leather. Better it than Sterling, however. To date, the bird has never injured horse or rider, and they have all learned to tolerate the arrangement.
“Where will you stay?” I ask.
“Fort Halifax. But only at night. I can’t camp in this weather. Riding back and forth to the site every day will eat up half my time. Otherwise, I could be home in a week.”
A leather satchel, haversack, and a pack basket are strapped behind the cantle. They hold all of Ephraim’s surveying tools and his winter gear and are packed tighter than usual given the weather and the distance he must travel. It will be a long two weeks for all of us.
I look to the bank of clouds moving in from the east. “A storm is coming.”
“Yes,” he says. “My fingers ache.” “It’s a bad time to travel.”
“I’ve done this before. It’s only snow.” “And freezing winds.”
“Only for a day or two. And then it will just be winter, same as always.
I’m not worried, and you shouldn’t be either.” “I hate North for making you do this.”
“I hate him for so many reasons this barely ranks,” he says, trying to lighten my mood.
Neither of us discuss the legitimate reasons that I have to fear. But the litany runs through my mind nonetheless, all the things that could happen to him in weather like this.
“Two weeks. That’s all. And then I will be home, and we will make sure North is brought to justice,” he says.
I step into my husband’s arms, soaking up his warmth and scent. We are in the twilight years of a long love affair, and it has recently occurred to me that a day will come when one of us buries the other. But, I remind myself, that is the happy ending to a story like ours. It is a vow made and kept. Till death do us part. It is the only acceptable outcome to a long and happy marriage, and I am determined not to fear that day, whenever it arrives. I am equally determined to soak up all the days between.
“Two weeks,” I tell him. “No more.”
He kisses my brow. The tip of my nose. My mouth, slow and gentle, making his promise with both lips and tongue. “Goodbye, love.”
The animals can sense that it is time to leave. Sterling stamps his right foreleg, and Percy rouses on his perch, shaking his feathers in anticipation.
They enjoy this, I think.
And then Ephraim pulls away and swings into the saddle. He offers me one last smile. I stand in the snow and watch until he has crossed the bridge. I watch until he rounds the bend and is out of sight.
“Stop feeling sorry for yourself,” I mutter, then take a deep breath and turn back toward the house.
But I do not move. I do not breathe. Because there, not twenty feet away, is the silver fox. She is a beautiful specimen, a coalish kind of black, except for ears, paws, breast, and tail, all of which are white. She is perched on the crest of a snowbank, an ink stain on ivory. But it is her vivid, amber eyes that hold me in thrall. They seem to penetrate me, to study me.
“You again,” I say, then speak her name, my words a soft exhale, a mist in the frozen air. “Tempest.”
To name a thing is a proprietary act. It is a commitment. Of ownership or care or loyalty. It means something. With that single word I have declared that this little beast is mine, and that I have a responsibility to protect her.
The sound of my voice does not frighten the animal. Instead, she takes a step forward, then two. I watch, still as carved marble, while the lithe creature approaches, each step elegant and deliberate. When she is a mere eight feet away, I kneel to the snow and slowly extend my bare hand, palm up, in welcome. Only then does the fox startle and bolt into the woods
