Page 33 of The Frozen River

“Only for a day or two. And then it will just be winter, same as always. I’m not worried, and you shouldn’t be either.”

“I hate North for making you do this.”

“I hate him for so many reasons this barely ranks,” he says, trying to lighten my mood.

Neither of us discuss the legitimate reasons that I have to fear. But the litany runs through my mind nonetheless, all the things that could happen to him in weather like this.

“Two weeks. That’s all. And then I will be home, and we will make sure North is brought to justice,” he says.

I step into my husband’s arms, soaking up his warmth and scent. We are in the twilight years of a long love affair, and it has recently occurred to me that a day will come when one of us buries the other. But, I remind myself, that is the happy ending to a story like ours. It is a vow made and kept. Till death do us part. It is the only acceptable outcome to a long and happy marriage, and I am determined not to fear that day, whenever it arrives. I am equally determined to soak up all the days between.

“Two weeks,” I tell him. “No more.”

He kisses my brow. The tip of my nose. My mouth, slow and gentle, making his promise with both lips and tongue. “Goodbye, love.”

The animals can sense that it is time to leave. Sterling stamps his right foreleg, and Percy rouses on his perch, shaking his feathers in anticipation.

They enjoy this, I think.

And then Ephraim pulls away and swings into the saddle. He offers me one last smile. I stand in the snow and watch until he has crossed the bridge. I watch until he rounds the bend and is out of sight.

“Stop feeling sorry for yourself,” I mutter, then take a deep breath and turn back toward the house.

But I do not move. I do not breathe. Because there, not twenty feet away, is the silver fox. She is a beautiful specimen, a coalish kind of black, except for ears, paws, breast, and tail, all of which are white. She is perched on the crest of a snowbank, an ink stain on ivory. But it is her vivid, amber eyes that hold me in thrall. They seem to penetrate me, to study me.

“You again,” I say, then speak her name, my words a soft exhale, a mist in the frozen air. “Tempest.”

To name a thing is a proprietary act. It is a commitment. Of ownership or care or loyalty. It means something. With that single word I have declared that this little beast is mine, and that I have a responsibility to protect her.

The sound of my voice does not frighten the animal. Instead, she takes a step forward, then two. I watch, still as carved marble, while the lithe creature approaches, each step elegant and deliberate. When she is a mere eight feet away, I kneel to the snow and slowly extend my bare hand, palm up, in welcome. Only then does the fox startle and bolt into the woods.

SEWELL CHANDLERY FRIDAY, DECEMBER 11

A man barges into the birthing room. He throws the door back, then flings off his coat in a single, smooth movement. I see this only out of the corner of my eye, however, because my patient—young Grace Sewell—is wailing and thrashing on the bed. This is her first labor, and she fights against every pang, then sobs through every respite. We have been at it all night and are both exhausted.

“Out! All of you,” the man orders, and, because I recognize his voice, I ignore him.

I have not taken instructions in a birthing room since being apprenticed to an old, rusted battle-axe of a midwife in Oxford. Her name was Elspeth Horne, and everything I know about midwifery I learned from her. Thirty years have passed since then, and it will take more than the likes of one presumptuous man to make me shrink back from a patient.

“Did you hear me?” he asks.

“Yes,” I say, not turning. For the first time in three hours, Grace is silent. She is only startled, and it won’t last long, but for the moment her mouth is shut. Miracles never cease.

“Then why are you still here?” he demands.

“I do not leave my patients. And I do not answer to you.”

“This woman is no longer your patient. She is mine. I have been called in to replace you.”

I stand then, taking in every inch of Dr. Benjamin Page’s pompous six feet.

“And this patient of yours, do you even know her name?” I ask.

“Mrs. David Sewell.”

“Her Christian name, Doctor. The one that actually belongs to her. Do you know it?”

He sniffs. “Her name is irrelevant.”