When she opened her eyes to see if someone had stoked the fire, there was a pair of bare feet on the earthen floor in front of her. She had fallen asleep over the mending, and her fingers tingled, either from wearing a thimble too long or from the spectacular warmth that filled the whole room. Gretel knew it was her angel even before she looked up, even though when she did, there were no wings. Or perhaps, she thought afterward, they had been folded behind, where she couldn't see. The figure standing in their tiny cottage looked at once astonishing and familiar. Though the body was taller, stronger than she remembered, the face was the same, and the eyes—the eyes that studied Gretel with head-to-toe delight. And just as she had each time her angel came to her, Gretel wanted more than anything to reach out, to touch the shining skin, the long transparent robes. But she couldn't bear to frighten the vision away and to find her hands empty, clutching air. So she sat still, basking in the warmth and a steady, low sound that was like the humming of crickets, though it was long past the season when those tiny noisemakers rubbed their legs together to announce spring.
