Freda Pov
The cold wind blew right through the empty window frame, scattering grey soot across the pine table. I held the edge of a heavy wool blanket against the top log while Mara hammered a thick iron nail through the fabric. Her thumb missed the iron once, and she swore under her breath, her knuckles shaking from the draft that came up from the floorboards.
"Hold it tighter, Freda," Mara said.
"I have it."
I pulled the coarse wool down until it covered the split wood completely. The room went dark by two inches, but the sharp whistling sound of the air stopped. Toby was on his knees near the wood box, using an old horsehair brush to sweep the broken glass into a rusty tin bucket. His movements were slow, and his ribs showed clear against his small shirt every time he reached under the bench.
"We need more nails for the pantry window," Toby said. He dropped a large triangular piece of glass into the bucket with a loud clatter.
