"I'll wrap it for you," he added, taking a piece of cheap white muslin from the workbench and tucking it around the mask carefully, padding the eyes with little folds of the cloth before tying the corners into a thick knot in the concave hollow at the back. While he was working I sat down and began eating, so that when he was finished he could join me without too much discomfort.
There was plenty to look at, as we ate. Long flats of thin leather lay in a pile next to a pot on a complicated-looking hot plate. Nearby, a wooden upright had a wire structure built around it faintly resembling a face, and next to that were several dried lumps of clay that could be assembled into a nose, mouth, forehead, even ears if you squinted the right way. I caught myself glancing back at Lucas as he ate, studying the shape of his nose, the way the lamp cast little triangular shadows below his eyes.
When the wind began to howl in the eaves I realized that I should be heading homeward if I didn't want to become a house-guest for the night. He saw me to the door through the now-warm kitchen.
"I hope you feel better," I said, carefully shouldering the bag with the mask inside it. I put my boots on, the dried mud cracking off here and there and falling onto the mat.
"I'm sure I'll be fine in a few days," he answered. "I'll come to see you soon."
"Well, don't push yourself, get well first. If you start to feel worse, the Culligan farm's closest – head south where the asphalt starts, they'll drive you in to see Dr. Kirchner."
"Thanks, Christopher," he said, and gave me a smile before he closed the door behind me.
Outside it was still cold and the clouds were turning the light blue, making the wet earth look almost black beneath the grass. Snow began to fall while I was still walking, and by the time I reached the edge of the village I was dusted lightly with white flakes. Children were out and running around in it, scraping the thin layers of snow off the pavement and hurling it at each other. The boy was among them, in fact, and I waved him over to where I stood on the opposite side of the street, avoiding the snowball-fight.
"You come from The Pines?" he asked. "How is he?"
"He's been sick. I want you to take him some food tomorrow, when you go up for tutoring. He says he'll pay you."
His chest puffed out proudly. "I'll do it. You think the snow will stick?"
"At least for a day or two. Ask the grocer to fix up a package of food for the man at The Pines and put it on Christopher Dusk's account. Butter, eggs, some canned soup, bread, some vegetables. Tell Lucas he can send the payment back to Dusk Books with you, or settle next time he's in town. Matters of high finance, now. Are you certain you're up to it?"
"Of course I am!" he said. A stray handful of snow fell nearby and he turned to shout an insult at the girl who'd thrown it. "I better run or they'll hit you too. See you tomorrow!" he added as he ran across the street.
I walked on, down into Low Ferry proper, where people were less jubilant and went everywhere with their collars turned up, muttering about the weather.
I was glad to get back to the warmth of my home and unpack Dottore, setting him on the kitchen table upstairs. The way Lucas had handled him made me treat him with a little more respect than I had at first, and I wasn't certain where I wanted to display him yet.
The door clattered in the shop below and a voice called my name – there'd be plenty of time to decide what to do with him later, while I was serving my customers. I yelled back, gave Dottore one last look, and went down the stairs to the shop.
***
I soon had other artistic concerns regarding the decoration of the bookstore as well. Dusk Books actually had two front doors, one on top of the other: a wooden door that opened out and a glass door that opened in. In the summertime I only used the glass door, hooking the wooden one permanently against the outer wall. When the cold weather set in I usually reversed them, unhooking the wooden door so that it swung shut and propping the thin, uninsulated glass one against the inner wall until spring.
The wooden door was faded and peeling a little, as it usually was come autumn, and I'd been waiting for weeks to paint it. I'd wanted to do it before the snow started, but the humidity rolled in so fast that I hadn't had the chance. In wet weather it would dry too slowly and peel too quickly.
After that first flurry of snow, we had a handful of clear and reasonably dry days and Paula started to harass me about the sorry state of my storefront. So, four days after the snow had melted, when the clear weather seemed likely to hold for a little while longer, I went down to the hardware store and bought a gallon of green paint. I dug the old sanding-block, brushes, roller, and primer out of my closet, set them outside with the paint, and then began loading up a rolling shelf with books.
Considering that a new layer of paint on the door in the winter and a touch-up to my store sign in the spring were the extent of my yearly upkeep on Dusk Books, I felt that I had the right to enjoy them a little. Thus, twice-yearly, Low Ferry's main street was treated to my out-of-doors book sale when the paintbrushes came out.
I set out the second rolling shelf as well, with a pot of coffee and some pastries from the cafe as a lure to get people up the walk and onto the porch to investigate the books. I offer good bargains when I'm in a painting mood, and business is usually brisk.
"Good morning, Christopher!" Charles called, as I was fitting sandpaper into the block and deciding where to begin my attack. "Sanding the door?"
I paused and considered his question. He chuckled.
"That's a yes," he said.
"Something like that," I agreed. I knelt and smoothed my hand over the wood at the bottom of the door.
"Going to start from the bottom or the top?"
"Well, that's always the question. Do I sand top-down and save the crouch-work for last, or do I start at the bottom so that I can be stretching by the time I'm done?" I asked. "Have some coffee."
"Don't mind if I do," Charles said, helping himself to a cup and a danish before stepping back. "Just on my way to see Old Harrison about some firewood."
"Oh yes? For the bonfire?" I asked, lying down and squirming onto one shoulder, starting to sand.
"Bottom-going-up, hm? Yes, bonfire – I thought his boys could build it for us this year. Are you coming?"
"Wouldn't miss it," I replied.
"What about the dancing afterwards?"