It spattered hard on the roof: an angry sound against the logs, the chunks of clay, and the chimney stones. Stout Lucy, the cat, hated it. She curled herself up on the quilt next to my feet. I thought of the likeness of Lucy that was lying near my pallet. It had been drawn on a mushroom with a nail, and showed her irritable face. That cat was always angry. I couldn’t sleep. Was it because I had forgotten something? What was it? Not the sheep. I had closed their gate, so it wasn’t that. Why did I picture Miller standing on top of our henhouse, nails in his mouth, hammer in his hand, the day our neighbors had built it together? And then I knew. The henhouse! I climbed down from the loft, and in the glow of the banked fireplace ashes, I let myself out without a sound. Old Gerard had taught me that—to watch my footsteps, to tread carefully. “Important for the hunter,” he’d said. I ducked my head against the storm. Facing me was the river, the shallows white against the rocks, and the center pockmarked with fierce drops.
