Of Needles and Haystacks by Ann Fryer (the beginning after the end novel read TXT) 📕

and mice. I smiled too. My oatmeal must have been to their liking, as I heard no complaints.

The MacDonald boys showed up. At least this is what Helen told me when she dashed inside for extra mittens. I caught a glimpse now and then from my window. Though tall and lean, at a distance they appeared small as the baby mice. They joined Ernest on the steepest hill just beyond the farthest barn—out by the graveyard. Poor Helen. To be smitten is often to be disappointed. I wondered at the difference between the two fellows and which one she favors. I suppose I shall meet them sooner or later. Perhaps in church come Sunday.

I forsook sledding. T’would be looked down upon for a grieving daughter to sled, wouldn’t it? One moment I was jealous, the next I was glad to have a quiet stretch of time.

Helen shied away from them and joined the younger siblings on the more gentle slopes. From my perch in the family room, I watched as they scampered up steep hills and flew down again. I pulled out my sketch book ...so many details to make this picture complete.

I worked in earnest, amazed at the capacity for nature—despite its cursed condition—to  not only to provide work but play as well. I wonder if anyone can look around and see the ground and appreciate its permanence. See how things are. The sky, the snow, the terrain, the cloud. The blazing fire and fudge that wait for them...

My poor rendition has pleased Aunt very much. She asked to have it when I am done. I confess a small swell of pride, but I know Mother would have executed a far superior drawing. I shall pull out Mother’s portfolio and continue to learn... See Mother, I still need you to teach me.

My soul smiles at having pleased Aunt, but I know I shan’t make a living from drawing.

The girls came in sooner than the boys to make the fudge. Since little Ruby and Toliver were put down for a nap, I was given the honor of licking the stirring-spoon after the fudge had been poured. There I stood in my black, silk gown clutching that chocolate covered spoon as if it were my golden destiny. I nearly wept as Aunt had earlier this morning. It must have been the warm kitchen, the sweet aroma...

Hours ago, I would not have expected such an evening. Even now, as my lamp sputters for lack of oil, I hear them laughing downstairs. Uncle and his guest...

No one informed me of company. An oversight? I doubted it. He arrived just after we roasted apples. Mine had reached the perfect temperature, and when I took my first bite—my very first, I had not eaten a roasted apple before—I knew the earthy-sweet, apple-sauce flavor had also been seasoned with the cheer Aunt had spoken of that morning.

We were sitting on the floor in Aunt’s parlor, a place she had declared a gift for her family and not guests alone. Blankets spread about in all directions. How good it was to be surrounded by Mother’s kin, how lovely it was to hear them laugh about their day on the slopes.

Uncle snatched a nearby book and began reading The Blackberry Queen when someone whacked the front entry door as though using a riding whip. Ernest opened the door. I pulled a hanky from my sleeve and quickly wiped my sticky chin of any trace of my present enjoyment. One mustn’t be informal with strangers, of course. I rose and pressed myself into a cold corner of bookshelves.

“It’s David!”

Uncle rose to his feet and limped to the satchel-laden figure that filled the entry. The little ones scampered about his legs instantly, holding on to him like a buoy in a bay. Toliver had already found his hiding place beneath Aunt’s apron again. She had remained sitting in a low rocking chair and one might think she appeared great with child, except for Toliver’s dirty stocking-feet poking out.

My cousins thrilled at this strange man’s arrival—a chatter of questions compared to the shy reception I received. Obviously, they already knew him, were comfortable with him.

The man, finally released from his many admirers, stepped into the lamp light. I squeezed farther back into the corner. His face transfixed me.

I thought I knew what it meant to live with heartache each day. This man meets suffering each time he beholds his own reflection. The mirror a constant reminder. Some brutality had plagued him, distorted him, and I instantly feared knowing how it had happened. And the man himself. Unfair, certainly, and yet my curiosity was terribly provoked.

Uncle bid me to meet him. I did not want to be touched by further pain, but I am a proper young lady. I could hardly avoid the contact. “This is my niece, Dorothy Trafton,” he said.

He offered his scarred right hand, I forced mine to take it as my left hand clutched the sticky-saucy apple.

This suffering-David looked me in the eye, boldly, before bending over my hand. I confess I am glad he did not press his half-melted lips upon them. I suppose this is cruel but can’t help myself. Alright then, I know it is a cruel thought and should feel ashamed. However, I am only being honest about that uncomfortable moment. He is but a stranger, not family.

The clear side of his face smiled, forcing the left side to twist as though Comedy and Tragedy vied for center stage. “I am James Bleu.”

James? Why did everyone else call him David?

“I am pleased to meet you.” I am not in the habit of lying, but when is it ever good to be rude? I knew that I ought to have been pleased to meet him. Though I tried, I could see nothing in his visage to merit such delight from my cousins.

If he sensed my apprehension, he did not show it. I imagine he is accustomed to sensing dread from others unless surrounded solely by