“Good. I’m afraid there are many people who weren’t inside last night. Well, I’m off.” The doctor shook the reins, turned the horse around, and skimmed across the log bridge, heading out to where Gunner had gone earlier; the tracks were still visible in the snow, now that the wind had blown itself out.
Anna was turning to go inside—she could not remain in this cold one more minute—when that dancing light out on the other side of the ravine, about ten yards away from the bridge, caught her eye once more. Shading her eyes from the sun, she took several steps toward it, squinting, trying to make it out. She kept walking, the cold grabbing at her, snaking up her skirts, wrapping her limbs in its icy tendrils, but now she could make it out, that glint—it was something silver, maybe, or something steel. It was—
It couldn’t be, surely? It couldn’t be Anette’s lunch pail?
Anna stopped, her hand on her heart; her breath came in short gasps. No, no, it wasn’t that, it must be something else; she shook her head, blinked rapidly to clear her vision from that brilliant sun, then looked again. And she saw it, plain as day—the glistening lunch pail, sticking out of the snow.
“Anette? Anette!” Anna cupped her hands about her mouth, shouting with all her might. She listened; she concentrated on the air, she heard nothing but a gentle swoop of snow dancing across the landscape. She shouted once more.
Then she heard something—a faint cry. Like a kitten, or a newborn.
“Anette?”
The cry grew louder, and it seemed to be coming from beneath the earth—
It seemed to be coming from the ravine.
Anna’s feet propelled her back to the house. She flew inside, and in no time she was in her coat, her scarf covered her face, her ears, and she had gloves on her hands. She shouted at the children to stay away from the stove, she grabbed every blanket she could find, and then she was racing out the door, plowing through the snow toward the ravine. She got to the edge, stopped herself just in time before tumbling over it; her chest was on fire from the exertion in this frigid air.
Dropping to her knees, she peered over the edge but at first couldn’t make anything out; it was shadowy down there, and her eyes were blinded from the fierce whiteness of the snow, the sun. Snow blindness—that’s what it was called, she thought crazily.
“Anette?” She called it softly, almost afraid to be heard.
“Ye-yes?”
It was her, she was down there! Anna leaned farther over the edge; it was only about five feet down, but with the snow, she knew that if she fell in, she might not get back out. She peered and peered into the gloom, and then she finally was able to make something out—a shape, two shapes, in the snow below.
“Anette, is that you?”
“Yes, ma’am,” the voice called out, so tiny, so scared. Tinged with exhaustion, with tears. “I’m sorry, I tried—I left the others, so I could come home—I’m sorry.”
“Don’t—don’t move, I’ll be there in a moment.” Don’t be sorry, is what Anna nearly blurted out. Don’t apologize.
For the lunch pail—she glanced over to the other lip of the ravine, to where it lay like an accusing stare—told her everything she didn’t want to know. It was because of her—all the times she’d scolded Anette not to dawdle, nagged her about the cost of the pail, the slate—that Anette must have spent this past terrible night in the ravine. Alone.
No—Anna peered back down in the ravine, and now she could clearly see Anette, her head and hand the only things exposed, for she was buried in a pile of garments. Garments that were not all hers. There was an unfamiliar grey coat on top of her, boy’s brown pants, a boy’s crimson shirt.
And next to Anette, a nearly naked body. Grey, almost blue, against the snow.