The snowdrifts reached up to the window shutters and blocked the doors to the cabin and barn both. Nathaniel called, and called again.

It took him a good while to clear the door, and all the while he was at it he was listening, too, for any sound that would explain all this strangeness away. In the end he braced himself for the worst and knocked once and then again. Unlatched, the door swung open.

Nathaniel left it open for the light and walked through all four rooms, his footsteps echoing. Little by little he began to believe what he was seeing, which was nothing at all. No blood had been shed here, there had been no struggle. He opened shutters to see better and walked through the rooms again.

The common room, the workroom crowded with loom and spinning wheels, and both small chambers were clean and well ordered in the winter light. Bright counterpanes were spread neatly over feather beds. Someone had arranged dried maple leaves in a blue bowl that sat centered on the scrubbed plank table. In the cold hearth where motes danced in the slanted sunlight cooking trivets and pots hung, polished to gleaming. Cookie's sewing basket was in its place next to her rocker, and the pipe Nicholas sometimes smoked in the evening sat on the mantelpiece next to a school primer with a warped spine. There were four books, two of which, a volume of poetry and Macbeth, had been presents from his own wife to Dolly, presented at the end of each year she spent in Elizabeth's classroom.

In the chamber where Dolly and Nicholas had slept—Nathaniel knew it by the wooden dowels that had been nailed across the window casement to keep Dolly from climbing out and wandering away—he could find no sign of trouble. Dolly's clothes still hung on the wall pegs, along with the one good suit of clothes Nicholas owned.

Back in the common room Nathaniel stomped his feet to keep his blood moving and took another look around. Now he saw that some things were gone: no mantles or coats hung on the wall pegs, and the mat next to the hearth where boots must stand as a matter of course was empty, as was the gun rack over the door.

It didn't take quite so long to dig his way into the barn, but whether he was working faster out of dread or simple curiosity, Nathaniel couldn't say. What was behind this door would either solve the mystery in the worst possible way—he kept thinking of the empty gun rack—or make it all the more complicated.

The doors opened silently on well-oiled hinges and showed him what he had hoped for: the horses were gone, and the sleigh too. Not a tool or bucket or bushel out of place. The only thing wrong, as far as he could see, was the fact that the Wildes kept a cow, and the stall where she normally stood was empty.

He found the cow in the pasture, frozen in place where she had died on her knees, the snowdrifts behind her gory with evidence of a burst udder. Her eyes were gone, plucked out by ravens who had retreated at the sound of Nathaniel's approach and stood waiting, impatiently, for him to go and leave them to their meal.

Nathaniel turned toward the village and tried to order all the things he had seen in his mind. He would have to give an accounting to Jed McGarrity, who was the constable and would have no choice but to listen.

In all the years Elizabeth had lived on Hidden Wolf, she had never quite been able to talk herself out of the fanciful notion that each winter storm had a personality and a voice all its own. The storm that had come down while they tended to Dolly and watched her die was malicious, clamping a great cold hand down on the face of the earth to trap each living thing just where it stood. Like a witless and mean-spirited child who caught up beetles in a jar for the pleasure of watching them scramble themselves to death.

The storm had gone, leaving a world of blinding white, and Elizabeth found herself alone, something that happened very rarely. Gabriel and Annie were staying in the other cabin with Many-Doves and Runs-from-Bears, Nathaniel was gone to bring Dolly's family the sad news, and Hannah and Jennet had been stranded in the village by the storm. No doubt they had spent the whole time reading tarot cards with Curiosity and laughing over Jennet's stories.

One part of Elizabeth, the part that was a mother first and always, was glad that the girls were spared Dolly's terrible last hours, but the rest of her was impatient for the company of women. Dolly must be laid out; her body must be washed and dressed and wrapped in a shroud. Then the men would carry her out to the shed where she would stay like so much firewood until the spring thaw, when her grave could be dug.

Most especially Elizabeth wanted Cookie to be here, as Cookie had been with Dolly through all the years of her marriage, through childbirth and illness. Aside from Dolly's own daughter, there was no woman in the world who was more attached to her.

To anyone who did not know their history, it must seem a strange arrangement. Mild, sweet Dolly, who could not raise her voice to save her own life and Cookie, a dry husk of a woman, taciturn in word and deed, rubbed raw by loss and anger and fifty years of slavery to a woman with a heart like cold steel. On the day that Cookie and her sons had been given their manumission papers and found themselves on the brink of a world full of uncertainties, Dolly had offered Cookie a home and work for a fair wage, apologizing that she and Nicholas, newly wed and already in debt, could not offer as much to Cookie's grown sons. A few years later, when their hard work had begun to return a profit, they had sent to Johnstown. Levi had made a life for himself there, but Zeke came back to Paradise to work the orchards with Nicholas.

Cookie must come to tend to Dolly; she would come, if it was in her power. This last thought made Elizabeth get up and poke nervously at the fire, because it raised the question she had been avoiding now for days: who was responsible for this sad business?