Free Firehorse (9781442403352) by Diane Lee Wilson Page A

slammed shut. “Rachel? Find the funnel if you can and an empty bottle—no, don’t bother with that, I see one here.”
    The kitchen wasn’t fully unpacked yet. Mother hadn’t had the time to find a suitable servant girl, and she’d concentrated on putting the front rooms in order first, anticipating the critical eyes of new neighbors. So it wasn’t easy finding anything, let alone a small tin funnel, amidst the haphazardness that was the pantry and the kitchen table and even the floor. To make my task harder, the cramped room, being on the back of the house and having no window of its own, was already shrouded in dusk. I set about lighting the two gas lamps, as well as a lantern, and began my search. Grandmother was climbing the cellar stairs, each wheezy grunt echoed by a squeaky step, before I found the funnel rattling around inside a dented sieve. I plucked it out reluctantly, still unsure about taking the mare’s medication into our own hands.
    â€œI don’t know what’s keeping your mother,” Grandmother said upon making it to the top. She gripped the doorjamb with her knobby knuckles, swaying as if holding the mast of a rocking ship. “I hope she’s not lost in this big city.”
    Her armful of clinking jars and bottles was loosed onto the kitchen table, accompanied by several packets of spices. With a wistful smile, she held up one sealed, blue-green jar. “Look at this,” she said. “Last year’s tomato preserves. I didn’t know anybody had cared enough to pack them.” She set the jar down, exhaling a sigh, and slid it toward the wall. “The last taste we’ll have of the garden, I suppose. I wonder what’s become of it.” She seemed to have carried an invisible melancholy from the cellar as well, because the sparkle had left her eyes and the pouches of skin beneath them sagged more. “It’s probably overgrown with weeds by now. Dead.” She balanced the funnel in the neck of a flat-sided brown bottle. “My fate soon enough.” Grimly she began mixing the tonic.
    Her words smacked me in the face nearly as hard as the mare had. Why was she talking about dying? And doing it as if she looked forward to dying? I should say something, set her right. My mind raced. My mouth opened … and closed. And, just as I had proved useless in the carriage shed, I ended up waiting slack-shouldered beside her and only watching her work.
    Odd ingredients from the spice packets were carefully shaken into the funnel and down into the bottle: powdered gingerroot, cayenne pepper, licorice. She added five raw eggs, cracking them one after another into the funnel, and then removing it to shakethe bottle vigorously. When she held it up to the lamp for inspection, my throat tightened. Surely this was no cure for a horse.
    Reciting something to herself, she sprinkled in a bit more pepper and added a pinch of something white and powdery. As the parlor clock began chiming a quarter past six, Grandmother wiped her hands. She gave me a curt nod. “Let’s go. You bring the lantern.”
    It was a short walk, no more than thirty steps, from the kitchen’s door to the carriage shed. If it had been longer maybe I could have broached the subject more eloquently. Instead, I charged in with, “Why do you talk so much about dying?”
    â€œBecause I’m tired,” Grandmother snapped. A bird shot skyward and the crickets in the courtyard damped their evensong. Gathering herself, she laid a hand on my arm. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and let it out. In a gentler tone, but purposely looking away from me, she said, “And I miss your grandfather. It’s been too long.”
    â€œOh.” The two of us proceeded into the shadowy quiet of the carriage shed. The Girl lifted her head to watch. “Boston’s a big city,” I offered, clumsily trying to bandage her ache. “Maybe you’ll