The Isadora Interviews (The Network Series #1.5)(18)

“Sure.”

“Why do I have to sing the soup song?”

“Because it helps the soup cook better. Just like the bread song makes bread fluffy, and the pie song makes pie sweeter. It’s part of the magic.”

Mace thought for a second, his eyebrows pulling together.

“Papa doesn’t like it when you use magic to cook,” he said. “He says food tastes fine on its own.”

Michelle handed him the spoon and ruffled his thick brown hair.

“Yes, well, Papa eats the food anyway, doesn’t he? Here, you take over. I’m going to go get some more firewood. You don’t have to sing if you don’t want to.”

Mace took the spoon and started to sing a song about dragons under his breath. It wasn’t the soup song, but he seemed pleased with it. Michelle chuckled softly, swung a knitted shawl over her shoulders, and plunged into the winter snowscape outside. The fading light meant that each minute the world grew colder. Against a freeze this piercing, her homemade shawl was no more protection than a coat of butterfly wings.

The wind slid past in an arctic blast, whipping the lazy snowflakes into whirls about her waist. Blankets of snow piled up against the trees at the far end of the yard. Letum Wood looked especially dark and menacing against the snow.

Shivering, Michelle stepped onto the packed trail that forked in three different directions. One to the barn, one to the well, and one to the lean-to where the firewood waited.

The cold bit the end of her nose. She lifted a hand to cover it and promptly lost her balance on a patch of ice, falling into the nearest snowbank with a poof. She muttered under her breath in frustration, pushed off the fluffy pile, and continued on.

The lean-to door creaked when she pulled it open. Rust covered the nails, tearing them away bit by bit in the constant exposure. I feel like that sometimes, Michelle thought. Useful, but stuck. She shook her unfaithful thoughts away. The shanty might get boring in the winter at times, and the scenery never changed, but at least she had a warm bed. Many of the farmers and foresters out here didn’t have even that, not in this forsaken, quiet part of Letum Wood on the southern edge of the Network. The village a couple miles away didn’t even have a name it was so small.

Her billowing breath obscured the view of the firewood as she stood there, trying to figure out the best place to start. They needed a big log to bank for the night and smaller pieces to keep it warm. Moving quickly, Michelle grabbed as many logs as could fit in her arms, which was a substantial number for a girl, and turned to go. Like her father, she was built strong and thick, able to carry as much as her older brother Blain.

By the time she made it back into the log house, Mace was stirring the pot with a gusto that had slopped soup over the sides and dribbled it close to the fire. With every wave of soup he made a crashing sound.

“Mace!” she scolded. “You’re wasting food.”

Although the door had slammed against the wall when she entered, Mace jumped at the sound of her voice anyway, too absorbed in his song to have heard her approach. A blush crept across his cheeks.

“Sorry, Meesh.”

The sweet tone of Mace calling her by the old family nickname stopped her annoyance. She could never stay frustrated with him for long.

“Just be careful,” she said and dropped the logs by the fire. They continued working in silence as Michelle pulled a loaf of bread from the old stove and grabbed a pat of butter to smear it with. The edges of the crust had turned a dusky brown, and the middle sank in.

“I can never get it right,” she muttered in frustration.

Mace took a break from stirring to stoke the fire. The back door flew open, admitting a troop of four burly, towering men.

“You’re early!” Mace cried, jumping off the stool. “Why are you back so soon?”

Ted, the oldest, spoke first.

“Too cold to cut. The ice is forming around the tree trunks. We can barely even stand without falling.”

Taking the hint, Michelle grabbed a few logs from the stack, built up the fire, and then pushed the chairs from the table around the flames. With everyone home, the cabin filled with life and bodies and a surprising quiet. Michelle continued her duties without a word. As the men began to thaw out, their talk increased, but never rose above an easy, steady hum. That’s what Michelle liked about home. It was quiet, even when it was loud.

By the time her brothers had taken off their thick coats and hung them on the pegs by the back door, Mace had peered into the pot and looked back to Michelle.

“Is it ready?”

“I think so.”

Mace gave it another stir and announced, “It’s ready.” Then shot Michelle another look to make sure he was right. She nodded once. “It’s ready!” he repeated, this time with his usual dramatic gusto, and flung himself off the stool again, headed towards his older brothers, who began tossing him around.

The four men stood up, shuffling around the table already set with bowls and spoons. They were a troop of giants—at least, that’s what the other foresters called them, even though the foresters that lived and worked in the wintry bowels of southern Letum Wood were historically a brawny people. Michelle lifted the heavy pot, hefting it over to the table, and setting it in the middle. Her father nodded his approval.

“Smells good.”

Her brothers mumbled a response. Mace brought over the imperfect loaf of bread, set it next to the dish of butter, and settled beside Ted. Once Michelle sat down, dinner began.