Chapter 28
Iris

And it was at sunrise that Iris Pender rose and ran next door to fetch her friend Lettie to mind Alice Maud. She told Lettie William had gone over the hill to look at his snares the night before.

"And he hasn't come back?" Lettie's well had frozen.

"I'm not worried," Iris said. She wrapped a wool shawl around her, and tied the laces on William's old boots. "He'll have a fire at the tall stones. Or he's made a camp at Freshwater Bay."

Lettie was kind. She was not a gossip. She made an effort not to get a thrill out of anyone's bad luck. "How's the child's fever?" she asked.

"William has medicine in his bag," Iris told her. "I need the vinegar to cool her down, and the sago for gruel."

"I have vinegar," Lettie said. "And I've no sago but I have rice. I'll light your stove and simmer it while you're gone. I'll make it into a mush for her."

Iris thanked her friend. She pulled William's old coat over her shawl. It had a lamb's wool lining. It was ripped and sewn at one shoulder. But it warmed your back and ribs in the coldest wind. If he had that on now instead of the wool one she would not worry. She slung a game bag over her shoulder.

The gate creaked. It was whitewashed only on the outside. The inside was like fish scales. Rocks and blueberry scrub stuck out of the snow crust as she climbed. She passed the bleak crop haunted by eagles, and saw new snares William had set. A white partridge lay in one of them.

It was still warm. She took her gloves off to skin it. It was good to skin a warm bird. The body kept your hands warm. The skin slipped off. If she took the partridge now, no hawk would get it.

She left the skin and feathers for the ravens, but tucked the white feet in her pocket for Alice Maud. It was the first partridge Iris had skinned this season. The feet of the first white partridge would bring a child luck.

She found nothing in William's other snares. She saw marks in the snow where he took his hares. At the tall stones she sifted the snow and ashes around the site of his fire. She saw it had been a small fire. Too small to keep a man warm all night.

Against the rock she found his flask. She tipped its last drops to her lips. The flask was a beauty. Green earthenware with a silver top. It was his father's. The only other thing he owned that had belonged to his father was his whetstone in its sealskin case. With it William sharpened the knife he used to cut snare wire and walking sticks. She smelled more snow coming in the air. She headed down to Freshwater Bay.