Small Favors

by Erin A. Craig

  Moonlight cast stark highlights down his profile, and it was too dark to accurately read his eyes. “What do you plan to do?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. I’d give up just about anyth—”

  He held up a hand, swiftly silencing me. “Be careful what you say in the dark of the night, Ellerie Downing, lest you promise something you might regret.”

  I tilted my head, not understanding him. “What?”

  “You were about to say you’d give up anything for that sugar, weren’t you?”

  I nodded.

  “But you wouldn’t, not truly.”

  “I would,” I insisted with fervor.

  “Not anything. Not your sisters, for example?”

  My mouth fell open in horror. “Of course not!”

  He raised one eyebrow at me. “Then choose your wording carefully. You never know who might be listening.”

  He lowered his voice and waved his hands toward the whispering pines with wild theatricality. Though I knew he meant to be teasing me, my blood ran cold, thinking of all the things that could be out there, watching us now.

  Things dressed in white, with fingers grown too long.

  With all of the morning’s chaos, I’d forgotten about seeing it. Seeing her. Seeing whatever it was.

  “How much did you say you needed?” he asked. “Thirty pounds?”

  “You have sugar?” I asked, a glimmer of hope daring to spark in my chest and pushing back thoughts of the woman for a second time that day. “That much?”

  He said nothing, only leaned back on his hands, watching me.

  “Whitaker, truly?” I pressed. The tiny glimmer was quickly spiraling into a blaze, racing through me, impossible to check.

  This could solve everything.

  This could save the bees.

  He grinned. “We have sugar, back at camp. Winter rations. Off the top of my head, I don’t know exactly how many pounds there are, but—I’m sure Burnish will lend some of his, and any bit ought to help, right?”

  “Ought to? Whitaker, this will save us! You’ve no idea how— This is just— Thank you!” Coherent thought failed me, and I threw my arms around his neck, pulling him into a grateful embrace. He paused for a moment, then folded me to him, his fingers sinking into the base of my braid. I felt a soft pressure at the crown of my head, as though he’d pressed a quick kiss to it, but it happened so fast, I wasn’t certain.

  “But I can’t just take your sugar. I’d need to pay you. And Burnish too,” I added, remembering the man with the top hat.

  He shook his head. “He owes me a favor.”

  “You, then,” I insisted.

  “You have no money,” he reminded me with an endearing smile.

  “A trade, then.”

  Whitaker settled back, the space between us suddenly feeling too big and too cold. “There’s nothing I want or need,” he said gently. “Just take the sugar, Ellerie.”

  “But that’s not right. I can’t just—”

  “Take it,” he insisted. “What am I going to do with that many pounds of sugar?”

  “You bought it,” I pointed out. “You’ll need it for rations, as you said.”

  He waved his hand, dismissing my concerns. “It was part of the kits we got at our last trading post. There’s no way we’d come even close to using all of it. We’ll have to carry it out of the valley when we pack up camp. You’d be doing me a favor, honestly.”

  My stomach twinged at the thought of him leaving in the spring. I’d known he would. It’s what all trappers did once their furs were ready. But I’d thought—no, I’d hoped—Whitaker might be different. I’d hoped he might see a reason to stay.

  He pressed his lips together, studying me, and for one dreadful heated moment, I worried he’d somehow read my thoughts.

  “Do you gamble much?” he asked.

  “Gamble?” I repeated, confused at the turn in conversation.

  His eyes crinkled in amusement. “I didn’t think so. Oftentimes when people are playing cards, making bets, they’ll use a marker as a substitute for the actual item being pledged. I might want to bet my horse on a good hand, but I can’t exactly pony him up to the table, see?”

  I nodded reluctantly, unsure what any of this had to do with our deal.

  “Why don’t I take a marker from you tonight? You can get the sugar now, but I won’t be left without anything.”

  “That sounds…fair,” I allowed. “But what am I pledging to give you?”

  He shrugged, wholly unconcerned. “We can work that out later—maybe a honey cake, once the bees have survived the winter.”

  “The harvest won’t be ready till summer’s end,” I worried pragmatically.

  Whitaker smiled. “I said ‘maybe.’ Nothing needs deciding tonight.”

  “Then what should I give you for a marker?”

  He cocked his head, thinking. “There’s a kind of oath. It’s what most gamblers use—the simplest of all pledges, but the most sincere.”

  “What kind of oath?”

  He took my hand in his, studying it. “Prick your finger and press it to a handkerchief. Say…three times? A drop of blood for every ten pounds of sugar.” He ran his pointer finger across my palm, following the arc of my heart line and sending ticklish tremors through my core.

  “I…” I paused, trying to picture what Papa would do, but the image wouldn’t form. Papa would never have gotten into a situation where he’d have to borrow anything in the first place. When he needed something, he paid for it outright.

  But wasn’t that all a marker was? A payment, of sorts?

  I looked across the charred fields to the bee boxes. Even in the dark, their white sides could be seen, but just barely. They didn’t look like bustling hives of activity and work.

  In truth, they looked like tombstones.

  “Yes,” I agreed definitively, pushing the images of graves and Papa from my imagination. Papa wasn’t here, and Papa didn’t have a stupid brother who ruined everything he touched before running away like a coward. I was the one who had to take care of the messes Sam created, and this one was too big for me to handle on my own. I’d be a fool to not accept help where I could.

  Whitaker pulled a knife from the back of his belt and before I even knew what was happening, he sliced the silver blade across the pad of my ring finger.

  With a cry, I snatched my hand free. Blood welled from the wound, as dark as cursed rubies under the night sky.

  He reached inside his coat even as I wore it. I jerked backward as he pulled free a handkerchief from the inner pocket.

  “Blot it on that,” he said, tossing me the little bit of cotton. Something was embroidered on one corner, but it was too dark for me to make out the monogram.

  “You stabbed me!” My voice squeaked too high with indignation. It hadn’t truly hurt, but the speed at which he’d done it had taken me by surprise.

  “Not deeply,” he said, unconcerned. “But you’ll want to press the drops in before the blood stops. Otherwise we’ll just have to open it back up again.”

  I blotted the cloth, once, twice, three times, then wrapped it around my finger, staunching the flow. After a moment, I threw the handkerchief at him.

  “Thank you,” he said, folding it. “Now hold out your hand.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “I swear your fingertips are safe from me.” He secreted the knife away as if to prove it.

  And then, quite suddenly, there was a bag of sugar between us.

  One second, his hand had been empty; the next, he’d held a paper sack, bulging and full. “Take it,” he said, offering it out. When I hesitated, he broke the wax seal, opening the top. It was chockful of sugar. In the moonlight, the white granules sparkled like quartz.

  “How…how did you do that
?” I whispered in awe, my indignation instantly forgotten.

  “Doesn’t matter. It’s only about five pounds. I’ll make sure the rest is at your house before sunrise. You have my word.” He laughed at my bewilderment. “Take it; it’s yours. You paid in full. Well, nearly.” There was a flash of white and red as he pocketed the handkerchief.

  My fingers itched to snatch the bag away, but I waited, uncertain of what was happening. Things didn’t appear just because you wanted them. Life was not like the fairy tales we girls had pored over. Magic wasn’t real.

  Then I saw it.

  “Your rucksack,” I said, remembering the worn bag, hidden in the shadows. “The sugar was in there all along. You just—” I pantomimed the reveal. I certainly couldn’t have pulled off such dexterous sleight of hand, but it didn’t mean it couldn’t be done. I’d read a book once about a boy who went to a circus and saw magicians do all sorts of impossible trickery. When he stayed after the show, one of the performers explained the tricks to him, showing how wholly pragmatic and logical they were.

  Whitaker’s eyes twinkled as he studied me. “You caught me, Ellerie Downing.” He waggled his fingers playfully. “Magic.”

  “But…I can have it? It’s mine?”

  He sealed the bag before hefting it in my direction. It fell into my arms, heavy and solid and very, very real.

  “All yours,” he swore, swiping an X across his heart. “Feeling better now?”

  My fingers wrapped around the bag, still wary that I was about to wake up and find this had all been a strange and terrible dream. But I took a deep breath and could even smell the sugar. Light and altogether too sweet, it played through my nose like a coy spring breeze, there one moment and gone the next.

  “I am,” I decided.

  Whitaker broke into a smile. “Good. Why don’t you head back inside, then? It’s late, and I’m starting to wish I’d not been so gallant in loaning you my coat.” He rubbed his hands up and down his arms, warming himself.

  I slipped out of his coat and returned it with already trembling limbs. The temperature must have dropped ten degrees while we’d sat outside. “Thank you….You saved everything.”

  He pushed aside my words of praise. “Your caring saved those bees. All I did was provide the sugar.” He tapped me on the nose. “Get inside before you freeze. I’ll have the rest to you by morning.”

  I wasn’t sure how to end the conversation, so I stuck my hand out, like Papa would after working a trade with the farmers in town. Whitaker shook it with an amused smile and nodded toward the house.

  After scooping up my precious bag of sugar, I raced across the lawn. When I turned to wave good night, he was already gone.

  The morning sun cast deep golden rays through the sitting room, catching a flurry of dust motes dancing through the air. As I turned the corner, going into the kitchen to start coffee, I fully expected the worktable to be as bare as it had been when I’d gone to bed with Merry and Sadie the night before.

  But there the bag of sugar sat, unmistakably real.

  I circled the table, staring warily at the sack as if it might contain a poisonous snake, agitated and ready to strike. After a moment, I opened it and examined the crystals, even sampled them. The lingering sweetness confirmed everything for me.

  It was sugar.

  It hadn’t been a dream.

  My shawl hung by the back door. I grabbed it and wrapped it around my shoulders before slipping out to the porch. Curiosity burned in my veins.

  They sat on the steps, positioned so I couldn’t miss them. Five sacks of sugar waiting for me, just as Whitaker had promised.

  Five bags of five pounds, plus the sixth from last night.

  Thirty pounds of sugar. Exactly what I needed.

  I couldn’t help but burst into giddy laughter. All of yesterday’s worries had vanished with three drops of blood.

  Whitaker had saved us.

  He’d saved the bees, he’d saved my sanity. I couldn’t wait for Merry and Sadie to come down and see our good fortune.

  I brought the sacks in and lined them across the kitchen table. Standing back, I inspected my work with a critical eye. They didn’t look particularly impressive that way. Maybe if I put them in a basket, like a cornucopia of good fortune?

  But that looked wrong too.

  Perhaps if I laid out Mama’s best tablecloth—it was cause for celebration, after all. But as I knelt beside the basket of linens in the larder, I realized what bothered me about the entire setup.

  The sugar was precious.

  Too precious to lay out.

  I couldn’t leave it out in the open, I decided. It would be too tempting to steal pinches of it. Pinches would turn to sprinkles, sprinkles to tablespoons, and soon we’d be baking enough cookies and pies to cater to every sweet tooth in the Falls.

  The safest course of action was to make the sugar cakes and be done with it, but until we got a hard frost, the cakes would be in danger of drawing ants. They’d invade the hive boxes, and we’d be in an even bigger mess. We’d have to slip the cakes in sometime after the first real snow. I wanted to laugh—or cry—as I pictured us resurrecting those ridiculous canvas tarps.

  No. I’d have to hide the sugar.

  But where?

  I glanced over the shelves of the pantry, but they seemed an obvious choice if someone came looking for sugar.

  The supply shed was out of the question. Anyone could access it without our knowledge, and while I didn’t want to think poorly of our friends and neighbors, it was impossible to forget that one had so recently set fire to the shed, gravely wounding my mother in the process.

  I spotted two tall, empty metal canisters stored at the top of the larder. They’d once held coffee, but the beans were long gone. Mama had liked the cheery red paint and had kept the tins for storage. The six sacks would neatly fit within them, sealing off the sugar and preventing it from contamination.

  As I pulled the second one down, standing on tiptoes and stretching my arms, a wave of clarity washed over me.

  I was being patently ridiculous.

  No one was out to get our sugar.

  No one even knew we had it.

  No one except Whitaker.

  Why was I going to such absurd lengths to keep it safe?

  I shook my head, feeling the last bit of possessive concern dissipate. I would leave the sugar right where it was and wait for Merry and Sadie to wake. We’d take the afternoon off to celebrate. No chores, no work. I might even pack us a picnic lunch. We could go down to the big rocks near the waterfalls—the sun warmed them like an oven even on the chilliest days—and we could skip rocks into the Greenswold.

  It would be the perfect day.

  Through the open doorway I spotted a dappled shape perched on the kitchen table.

  Buttons.

  He was poised near the sugar sacks, batting at the last one in line with his outstretched paw, wholly intent on knocking it over.

  “Buttons, no,” I whispered, then dove for the bag as he pushed it off the table. I imagined it striking the ground and bursting open. The sugar would explode everywhere, like dynamite in the mines. Five pounds lost in an instant.

  The coffee canisters clattered to the ground as I dropped them. My only concern was saving the sugar. I lunged in time to catch the sack.

  Buttons sauntered away with an extra swish of his tail, as if pleased to see me in such an undignified posture.

  I cradled the sugar bag in my arms like a baby.

  I wasn’t being overly protective.

  The sugar did need safeguarding.

  It needed to be kept somewhere out of the way and hidden. Someplace where no one could find it, neither roving neighbor nor malicious pet. I’d need to think through it carefully, choose the right and perfect spot.

  The sugar was to
o precious for anything else.

  Picking up the coffee tins, I went to work.

  Bessie’s milk hit the side of the empty pail with a hiss, steaming in the frigid morning air. Her udders were warm in my hands, full but pliant, and she snorted softly as I worked, as if pleased to have me there.

  After three pulls, I paused and leaned backward, looking out the stall.

  The two canisters were in the center of a makeshift table in the middle of the barn.

  It was just an hour or so before sunrise, truly too early to be up and working, but I’d not been able to fall asleep. I’d spent half the night jumping out of and back into bed, checking on the canisters, moving them around the house to safer locations, certain Buttons was on the prowl, ready to destroy them.

  When I could slip into shallow rest, my sleep was plagued with nightmares of Cyrus Danforth’s mystery woman, a shift of white always lurking in the corner of my vision, eyes glowing an eerie silver, elongated fingers stretching out for me.

  My restlessness finally woke Merry, who’d snapped irritably before covering her head with a pillow. After a moment’s indecision, I’d grabbed the tins and spent the rest of the night pacing the sitting room, jumping at every sound, certain the woman had come out of my dreams and was now stalking about the house.

  When the grandfather clock had chimed four, I’d thrown on Papa’s work coat and knit hat.

  Making my way to the barn, the clouds had seemed low enough to touch. I’d whispered a prayer for snow before ducking inside.

  Today we’d boil down the sugar and make the bees’ cakes.

  We had to.

  I felt as if I was going mad.

  Bessie shifted impatiently from foot to foot, bumping against me with her round side to win back my attention. Dragging my eyes from the sugar, I turned to the cow and the task before me.

  And the bucket full of blood.

  I slipped off the low milking stool, landed hard, and nearly knocked over the tainted pail. Bessie swung her head around, mildly concerned at the crash. She was working on a mouthful of cud and chewed it thoughtfully as she regarded me with docile brown eyes.