The wind was cruel, and her teeth were chattering by the time she was safe in the car. They had talked about a Land Rover, but it would be much harder to drive than the Ford, and without actually saying so, Christina had managed to delay a decision on this. Her knee was the problem. She never complained aloud, but at times it was rather like a constant toothache, and lately the pain had kept her awake—she who normally fell asleep as soon as her head touched the pillow. Any weight on her foot made it worse. She had had to discard heavy snow boots as well as ski boots, and wore lined moccasins.

It was a relief to let a machine carry her weight for a change, and she felt quite exhilarated as she turned out into the road. No doubt about it, a car was a sort of intoxication for the old and infirm as well as for the young. Lovely to feel so much easy power in her hands, so she speeded up, went into a slight skid, and slowed down again. After all, why hurry? She noted in passing that Eben was plowed out all right. She was longing to turn up and see him, but she resisted the temptation. First things first and, for the moment, storm windows came before history or, for that matter, an old flame.

The various abandoned cars that surrounded the Lovelands’ had been buried in the last snow. But there was the usual lively disorder around Ma Loveland’s children’s houses, settled below the old farm like chicks around a hen. The final turn up the road to this collection of fallen-in barns and sheds, and the house with its ancient, sagging roof, was tricky, but she got a grip all right and was able to drive almost to the door. The Lovelands anyway had been beforehand about winterizing: the house was piled all around, and the porch was covered in two feet of protective earth.

As she got out, a rather menacing dog was barking, hackles raised, until a small boy got him by the collar.

“Anyone home?”

“Gramma’s inside.”

The child, one of the innumerable grandchildren, dragged the dog away and tied him under a hay wagon. The wind was flailing around in the high air. A piece of tar paper on the barn had come loose and was flapping. The whole place, low on the ground, felt terribly exposed. And this was only the start of winter, with a herd of cows to keep fed and watered, the big work horses—for the Lovelands still had horses, the only ones in the village—and God knows how many other animals. Christina made her way slowly against the wind and knocked at the side door.

“Well,” Ma Loveland said, “if it isn’t you, Christina. Never thought to see you. Come in where it’s warm.”