A fat snowflake fell, and then another. Flurry Oldbuck plants his axe on a stump and watched them, ignoring the cold that crept through his wool jacket.
The river, steel grey under the low overcast, swept small branches along in the current. Ice had formed along the riverbank, an eggshell-thin crust over the black water. He'd never seen ice reach that far from the bank before.
The cold crept into his bones, even though he wore a sheepskin coat with the fleece turned inward. This winter had been harsher than any he could remember. They'd put extra blankets on the beds and they were going through wood as fast as he could cut it. He shivered, then gathered up the logs he'd just split.
He headed back to the farmhouse. His farmhouse. The building was centuries old, with stone walls almost a foot thick. It had a bright red door, round with decorative ironwork. Lamplight shone through the windows, and smoke rose from a vent in the sod roof.
The house was surrounded by well-tended fields, the rows of barley and rye stubble dusted with snow. On each side, cultivated land gave way to a wall of reeds and cattails and in back, the forest reared up, menacing and untamed.
The wind picked up. He shivered. Every step on the frozen mud made his feet ache. He couldn't see through the wood he was carrying and put his foot through the ice on a puddle. Not pleasant. Marigold had been saying she could make him some shoes. He thought they were unnatural, but after what just happened, he might let her.
Flurry reached the house. "Marigold, let me in."
His wife held the door for him. Corkscrew curls hung around her cheeks, which were as round and rosy as apples. And because she was plumper than most women, she was especially pretty.
He unloaded the wood into the wood box beside the fireplace while Marigold put a kettle on the fire.
Lily, his small daughter, toddled toward the fire. He jumped up and pulled her back, and the logs he'd been holding scattered across the floor.
"Flurry, she knows to stop before she gets too close. She'll be fine," said Marigold.
The children were playing with a dog who could no longer be called a puppy, in that it was more than shoulder-high than any of them.
"What are the rules about letting a dog in the house? He should be outside with the others."
"But Da, it's cold out, and he's still a puppy," said Robin, the oldest.
"He's as good as full grown. He weighs more than you do." Flurry put another log in the wood box. A dead spider, huge and hairy, fell from the between the logs. He picked it up and set it beside the wood bin. You never know when you're going to need a dead spider.
Marigold lifted the kettle from the hearth. The copper vessel shook from boiling, and steam wafted from its spout. "Tea's almost ready. Get yourself a cup."
Flurry hadn't decided what to do with his dead spider, but almost certainly, it would involve the lads at the alehouse. He glanced at the floor beside the wood bin, but the spider was gone. Disappointed, he crossed the room to get a cup from the shelf.
He picked the cup that was closest. Beneath it, eight hairy legs filled almost the entire space, and a multitude of eyes regarded him without curiosity. There was a sound of crockery smashing, and his own scream echoed in his ears. Marigold bent over her work, the corner of her mouth twitching.
Flurry glared at his wife. "You do know that was my spider? I was saving it to prank the lads at the Perch."