Free Tree By Leaf by Cynthia Voigt Page B

reflected in the mirror, what the bathrooms in the cottage had been like, if this one in the farmhouse was so comfortable. Then she wondered what the cottage had looked like, and what it would have been like to live in, if it hadn’t burned down. And what if Father were to come walking out of the fog this morning,Father healed, handsome and lighthearted. What if he were to walk up through the swirling fog, and come home again; and she, Clothilde, would have made it happen. Clothilde smiled at her square face in the mirror, meeting her own eyes. Her eyes danced, like waves under sunlight.
    She dressed quickly in her chilly bedroom, where wisps of fog brushed by the window. Downstairs, the kitchen was empty and cold. They didn’t run the big coal furnace from late May to mid-September, to save money and to save the work, so the house was cold in the mornings, until the stoves were lit. Clothilde found her mother in the parlor, a shawl around her shoulders, sorting embroidery threads. Mother’s fingers spread out the different colors onto the table beside her. The gas lamp gave out a warm light but that was only warmth in the room; the wood stove sat in its corner like a cold black pumpkin.
    Dierdre sat at Mother’s feet, beside the deep bag in which Mother stored her fine needlework supplies. Clothilde hadn’t seen that bag for four years. Mother hadn’t time for fancywork, in the last four years.
    “I’m hungry,” Dierdre greeted Clothilde.
    “It’s cold,” Clothilde said. She took the fuel starter out of its container of kerosene and opened the doorof the stove to lay the starter on the ashes. She built up a little pile of kindling on top of it, and added some medium-sized logs. When she stuck the long match in under the kindling, the kerosene-soaked starter caught fire immediately. Flames sprang up, as if they had just been waiting to be asked. Clothilde closed and latched the heavy metal door. She opened the vents wide, so the fire would burn hot, to warm up the heavy metal of the stove. Then she stood up to face her mother.
    “I’m hungry,” Dierdre insisted. “I want my breakfast.”
    Dierdre hadn’t been given breakfast, the stove hadn’t been lighted, and Mother was just sitting there sorting colored threads.
    “Do you feel all right?” Clothilde asked her mother.
    “It’s my hair,” Mother answered. “I didn’t have time to dress it properly,” she said, as if that explained everything. “I’m a little hungry myself.”
    Mother’s hair looked fine. She had it pulled back into a thick knot at the back of her head. Big tortoiseshell pins held the twisted mass of hair in place. If Mother was hungry, and Dierdre was hungry, why hadn’t she made anything to eat?
    “Would you like me to make some oatmeal?” Clothilde offered.
    “No,” Dierdre said. “Pancakes.”
    “That would be fine, Clothilde,” Mother answered. “I’ve often thought Lou shouldn’t be allowed to sleep out Sunday nights. It’s bad management to let servants do that. They don’t get back in time for the morning meal.” She turned her attention back to the threads. Clothild went across to the cold kitchen.
    Clothilde started a fire in the stove, opening the vents wide so it would burn hot. She put a pan of water on the stove, to heat. When it came to a boil, she added salt, butter, and a measure of oatmeal. The water foamed up and she stirred at the mass until it had reached the thick, slow boil at which the cereal would cook. Then she turned down the flame, covered the pan, and set bowls and spoons out on the table. From the cool cellar she brought up a pitcher of milk. From the cupboard she brought down the bowl of brown sugar.
    It would be several minutes before the oatmeal had cooked, and Dierdre got cranky when she was kept waiting for her food, so Clothilde went back down to the cellar for an apple. She cut it into quartersand removed the core from each quarter before peeling off the skin. She set the four