Procrastinating on her least favorite chore isn’t worth feeling like this again tomorrow. She shivered herself sleepless for hours last night, and now everything aches like she’s been folded up in a shoebox.
Once the sun sets completely, it’ll only get colder. The last of the day is bleeding out over the mountains, dribbling gutted-red light onto the yard. As much as she dreads splitting wood right now, she hasn’t got any good prospects. It waits for her out there in the night, and it waits for her inside, leering from a hearth full of white ashes. Since it ran dry two days ago, the cold has made itself comfortable at Welty Manor. Margaret has too many responsibilities for nonsense like that-and more importantly, no firewood. Not everybody wants to be like Jaime Harrington and his friends, cliff diving and drinking cheap moonshine after work. There are far better ways to waste it than keeping that damn house, believe me.įact is, not everybody can afford to fritter away seventeen.
Margaret can almost hear her now: You’re only seventeen once, Maggie. Now, half of them have gone brittle and dropped like stones, and all she sees are the hours and hours of work ahead of her. Just yesterday morning, the leaves outside her window burned in the sunlight, red as blood and gold as honey. It’s too cold for mid-autumn-the kind of cold that catches even the trees out.
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