Bitter Harvest by Sheila Connolly Page B

the night and was curled against her belly, on the side closest to the fire, and Max lay on the other side of Seth. When Meg slid her arm cautiously out from under her layers of blankets to look at her watch, she was surprised to find that it was after eight o’clock. If her cold nose was any indication, it was freezing in the room, and the fire was out. She lay still, enjoying the lingering warmth under the blankets, and listened. No sound of vehicles on the street. No sound of anything, actually, except the wind and the scratch of snow against the windowpanes. So the forecasters had been right: it was still snowing. How long would it continue?
    She could feel the shift in his body as Seth woke up. “Hey,” he said, into her neck. “You get any sleep?”
    “Enough, I guess. It sounds like it’s still snowing. Do we have to move?”
    “Not on my account.” But at the sound of his master’s voice, Max had gotten up and was now circling them. Seth sighed. “I guess he needs to go out.”
    He disentangled himself from the covers and stood up, pulling his clothes into place. Meg shivered in the cold draft his departure had generated, and decided she might as well get up, too. As she did, she realized why the room was so dark: there was snow piled up against the windows along one side. She crossed the room and said, “Seth, look at this!”
    He joined her by the window. “Wow. I can’t remember that I’ve seen this much snow more than once or twice in my life. And it’s still coming down. We should check the news and see what they’re saying now. Come on, Max.”
    He headed for the kitchen, Max at his heels. Meg followed, and Lolly, not wanting to be abandoned, scampered in front of her.
    In the kitchen Seth pushed the switch on the small television. Nothing happened. He turned it off and on again, with no results. Then he turned toward Meg, looking troubled. “The power’s out.”
    “Oh? Oh.” Meg’s slow brain kicked into gear. No power meant . . . no light. No stove. No hot water. “What are we supposed to do?”
    Seth’s mouth twitched in a half grin. “I guess what people used to do when the house was new. We’ve still got firewood. You have any cast iron cookware?”
    “A couple of skillets, and I think some former tenant left a Dutch oven thing—I put it on a shelf out in the shed because I don’t use it.”
    “Then we can cook. In case you’re worried, you can still flush—that doesn’t take electricity. The cell phones may work, but the batteries won’t last long. Let me take care of Max, and I’ll bring in some more wood so I can get the fire going again. And you can whip up a nice, hearty one-skillet breakfast for us—I don’t want to waste any more wood than necessary.”
    “Yes, sir! I’m on it, sir!”
    Seth pulled open the back door, with Max bouncing at his feet, but then had to wrestle the outer storm door against the piled snow. In the time it took to clear enough space for him to get out, a lot of cold air rushed in, and Meg shivered. Seth was right: they had the essentials, but she had better organize some cooking implements. She wasn’t too sure how to handle cooking in a fireplace. She wondered if coffee was out of the question, and then realized that she had only whole beans, and the grinder wasn’t going to be much use. Too bad she had never acquired one of those kitschy hand-cranked grinders that were usually sold as decoration. Could she just whack the beans with a hammer? It looked as though she was going to have to settle for tea, if she could find something to boil water in. Which she couldn’t do until Seth brought in more wood and started a fire. How the heck had people managed in the old days?
    Meg started pulling open more cabinets—and thinking. Last night had been . . . unexpected. Put two rather conflicted people in forced seclusion in a dark room with a fire, and look what happened. What Seth had said had confirmed some things she had thought or