carefully laid these, along with twigs and other tinder, at the bottom while Matt and Will hefted the large, slow-burning logs to the top. Four little Guys—eventually made in a last-minute rush—sat atop the woodpile, their clothes and features indistinguishable in the dusk.
Exertion had forced the men to strip to their shirtsleeves but the female spectators were swaddled in jackets, scarves, and boots. Jake, presumably devastated by Kerry’s absence from the wood-gathering expedition, had gone to great lengths to locate the other size-6 Hunter.
Rowan, Will, and Matt helped the MacBride boys light the fire, men young and old sharing the same serious, primal concentration on the task. Edie watched, strapped into her buggy and at a safe remove from the flames, not frightened but mesmerized. The Guys took the flames more readily than the wood; now every detail was illuminated. A vile green nylon coat, a present for one of the boys, melted rather than burned and shriveled away in an initial burst before the rest of them caught light slowly and steadily. Jake cheered on his own effigy as a curve of flame caught its stuffed head and caused it to roll off. Why did boys always love such gruesome, sinister things? Would Edie, in years to come, be the same? Sophie shivered in the heat. The thought of harm coming to any likeness of Edie’s, no matter how crude, was chilling.
One of the Guys seemed to be burning brighter than the others, almost shooting out sparks. Sophie watched it, first with curiosity and then with horror as she realized that the pyrotechnic display was the burning of the tiny silver threads in her mother’s sweater. For a few seconds it was impossible to tell if the roaring noise was coming from inside her head or from the fire. She could not hear herself think and was unable to blink or move as the garment was consumed the same way it was created, stitch by stitch, row by row, until the urgency of the situation pulled her out of her trance. Only Kerry would have known it was there. Why would she have done something so cruel? She remembered the jealous note in Kerry’s voice when she had talked about her mother. Could that be it?
There wasn’t time to understand why.
“Who put that there?” said Sophie, raising her voice above the roar of the fire.
“Who put what where?” said Felix.
“Who put that . . . what is that
doing
there?” No one spoke, so Sophie grabbed Kerry by the arm and shouted into her face, “What were you thinking? Get that back. I
told
you what it meant to me. Get it back.
Get it back!
”
Felix put himself between Sophie and Kerry. “What are you doing, Sophie? Stop it. Get off her!”
Felix’s casual grip was stronger than Sophie’s most powerful effort could ever be, and she let Kerry go. In the seconds that followed, Sophie was only vaguely sensible of her family screaming and of more dark figures running up behind her. She might not be strong, but she was quick, and she scaled the loose smoking lattice of twigs at the base of the fire and found herself face to face with the blaze itself, her hands forming claws ready to clutch at the sparkling, sparking sweater, to save what she could. She was about to plunge her hand into the flames when she felt Will grab her left arm and another man—Matt, Jake, Felix, she couldn’t tell—seize the right. She persisted until the pain in the sockets of her arms and her shoulders won, then she relaxed as quickly as she had sprung into action, so that all of them fell backward and landed in a heap on the ground. She closed her eyes and listened to her sons’ sobs, her own eyes smarting.
“Jesus,” said Tara. “Someone get the first-aid box.”
Seconds later Tara was applying some kind of balm to her hands. Sophie assessed the damage in a detached sort of way. A single knuckle had swelled into a big pink blister that seemed itself to contain a miniature inferno, but this was the only pain. Kerry was telling Felix that she
Exertion had forced the men to strip to their shirtsleeves but the female spectators were swaddled in jackets, scarves, and boots. Jake, presumably devastated by Kerry’s absence from the wood-gathering expedition, had gone to great lengths to locate the other size-6 Hunter.
Rowan, Will, and Matt helped the MacBride boys light the fire, men young and old sharing the same serious, primal concentration on the task. Edie watched, strapped into her buggy and at a safe remove from the flames, not frightened but mesmerized. The Guys took the flames more readily than the wood; now every detail was illuminated. A vile green nylon coat, a present for one of the boys, melted rather than burned and shriveled away in an initial burst before the rest of them caught light slowly and steadily. Jake cheered on his own effigy as a curve of flame caught its stuffed head and caused it to roll off. Why did boys always love such gruesome, sinister things? Would Edie, in years to come, be the same? Sophie shivered in the heat. The thought of harm coming to any likeness of Edie’s, no matter how crude, was chilling.
One of the Guys seemed to be burning brighter than the others, almost shooting out sparks. Sophie watched it, first with curiosity and then with horror as she realized that the pyrotechnic display was the burning of the tiny silver threads in her mother’s sweater. For a few seconds it was impossible to tell if the roaring noise was coming from inside her head or from the fire. She could not hear herself think and was unable to blink or move as the garment was consumed the same way it was created, stitch by stitch, row by row, until the urgency of the situation pulled her out of her trance. Only Kerry would have known it was there. Why would she have done something so cruel? She remembered the jealous note in Kerry’s voice when she had talked about her mother. Could that be it?
There wasn’t time to understand why.
“Who put that there?” said Sophie, raising her voice above the roar of the fire.
“Who put what where?” said Felix.
“Who put that . . . what is that
doing
there?” No one spoke, so Sophie grabbed Kerry by the arm and shouted into her face, “What were you thinking? Get that back. I
told
you what it meant to me. Get it back.
Get it back!
”
Felix put himself between Sophie and Kerry. “What are you doing, Sophie? Stop it. Get off her!”
Felix’s casual grip was stronger than Sophie’s most powerful effort could ever be, and she let Kerry go. In the seconds that followed, Sophie was only vaguely sensible of her family screaming and of more dark figures running up behind her. She might not be strong, but she was quick, and she scaled the loose smoking lattice of twigs at the base of the fire and found herself face to face with the blaze itself, her hands forming claws ready to clutch at the sparkling, sparking sweater, to save what she could. She was about to plunge her hand into the flames when she felt Will grab her left arm and another man—Matt, Jake, Felix, she couldn’t tell—seize the right. She persisted until the pain in the sockets of her arms and her shoulders won, then she relaxed as quickly as she had sprung into action, so that all of them fell backward and landed in a heap on the ground. She closed her eyes and listened to her sons’ sobs, her own eyes smarting.
“Jesus,” said Tara. “Someone get the first-aid box.”
Seconds later Tara was applying some kind of balm to her hands. Sophie assessed the damage in a detached sort of way. A single knuckle had swelled into a big pink blister that seemed itself to contain a miniature inferno, but this was the only pain. Kerry was telling Felix that she
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