It was warm, probably from being in contact with the chimney all day, and just as soft as a cloud looked, and she had never been so comfortable in her entire life. Once the sun had gone down, it had started to get cool; the warmth of the bed was more than welcome, and between it, and her full stomach, it was all she could do to force herself to her knees to say her prayers. Once she had done so, she just fell over on her side into the softness, grabbed an edge of the sheet and a quilt, and pulled them over herself.

But somehow, she didn’t manage to get to sleep. Not immediately, anyway.

The night sounds here were very different from those in the Sawyers’ barn, much more like the deep woods where she and Jeb had camped. And there were all manner of novel sensations keeping her awake. Her comfortably full stomach, for one. The unaccustomed luxury of this featherbed. The equally unaccustomed sensation of being totally, completely clean. The strangeness of being in this loose, soft “nightgown”—it was like being naked in the bed.

Downstairs she heard Aunt Jinny moving about—and there was one dim light down there, besides whatever was coming from the strange fireplace. That fireplace! She had never even heard of anything like that before. Who had built it here? It must have taken forever! But it certainly looked like the work was worth it. Had that been another featherbed on top of it? Imagine that on a cold night!

Aunt Jinny certainly hadn’t been anything like she’d expected. Did Ma know she dressed like a man? If she had known, would she still have sent Anna here? Was dressing like a man what had Pa set against her? She couldn’t make up her mind if Aunt Jinny wanted her here or not. Yet Ma had said her sister had all but demanded she come here. Was that something Ma had just made up in her own mind? Or was Aunt Jinny just . . . kind of crotchety and peculiar, but really did want her here? She certainly had shown no hesitation in doubling Anna’s wardrobe, and out of her own Ma’s old clothing, to boot!

She turned over onto her back and looked up into the roof . . . and there were dozens of eyes up there, looking down at her. Just like in the forest.

But this time, she was not lying in an open wagonbed, vulnerable and half-listening for bears. This time she was inside, in her aunt’s cabin, a cabin so stoutly built, with every single possible crack and chink stuffed, that the light down below her didn’t even waver from drafts. Whatever was in here with her was harmless, because if it weren’t she had no doubt Aunt Jinny would have Done Something about it—whatever “it” was—a long time ago.

Probably mice. She could tell from how the meat had been hung from those willow rods, with wooden cones on the metal hooks to prevent anything from climbing down to get to the food, that Aunt Jinny had secured every bit of the smoked stuff from the mice. And everything else was put away in stout, lidded boxes, or jars, or bottles. So they couldn’t steal food, and there was nothing in the bed to attract them.