It was December 21, the winter solstice, the shortest day of the year. The holiday was less than a week away. It seemed too late for a tree, especially since I would be traveling for Christmas—although I wasn’t yet sure of my destination. That particular conundrum was what I’d wanted to discuss with Emma’s father.

“I don’t want presents,” I said, squatting down to her height. “I have everything I need.”

Her eyes bugged out. “What?”

Emma Cronk delighted in gifts. She delighted in making lists of gifts she wanted. She delighted in tearing open gifts with puppylike eagerness. She delighted in unwrapping other people’s gifts, not always with their permission.

“Uncle Mike will get a tree,” said Billy in his bearish growl. “Don’t you worry, Emma.”

“Well, he’d better!”

I moved to ease her dismay by making a cup of hot chocolate.

“Your dad and I need to talk outside for a few minutes,” I said. “Would you like me to put on the TV?”

Emma, in her tiny voice, said she’d prefer to write, thank you. She produced a little journal and pen from the pocket of her robe.

“What are you writing?”

“Spells.”

Billy and I took our coffee mugs onto the porch, overlooking the wooded enclosure where the wolf lived.

“Do her spells work?” I asked him.

“The crazy thing is I think they do,” he said, breathing steam from his mouth. “Aimee had the flu, and it went right away after Em cast one of her ’chantments. Now she’s working on making it snow for Christmas.”

The dawning sky was clear enough that I could see Venus. “There’s none in the forecast.”

“Those weathermen have no idea what they’re up against in Emma.”

It was past seven, but the sun hadn’t cleared the treetops. The understory was a study in sepia: drab alders, gray maples, fossil birches. We’d scared a flock of pine siskins from the feeder tray, and the birds now chided us from the nearest branches, their calls hoarse and buzzing.

The morning air had a snap to it, but Billy didn’t seem to feel the cold, any more than a grizzly would. He wore only a shawl-neck sweater over a flannel shirt, blue jeans, and his usual neoprene hunting boots. And that long knife on his belt, of course.

For my part, I’ve always subscribed to the maxim “There’s no bad weather, only unsuitable clothing.”