This year, unlike the previous two, they didn’t have wood for the woodstove. If Farmer Hanson proved wrong about the mildness of the winter, they’d be sleeping in the same room, pressed together so tightly they couldn’t move without waking the rest of the den, because they still wouldn’t have wood; they’d barely have food. They had blankets; they had bedrolls. Those didn’t wear out at the same rate that clothing did. And clothing was going to be a problem, because even with half the food, the den kept growing. She glanced at the shuttered window; she could see the hint of moonlight between the warped slats. Carver, Lander, Duster, and Angel had gone on a foraging run, out by the taverns where people were less likely to be careful, on account of alcohol. She didn’t expect them home any time soon; drinking apparently took a good deal of time. They’d camp out someplace and wait for the tavern to empty. Jewel sat in her chair by the kitchen table, burning a candle. There were two left, and she was almost looking forward to having none, because when she did, she would have to sleep with the rest of the den until Carver came home.
