The Magic

The worst days of the winter. Sara has been out in the dark and the cold since early afternoon on an errand that should have taken an hour and has taken three. She climbs the attic stairs in wet shoes, thinking about the Bastille game she will play to get herself through the evening, and opens the door to her room.

Everything has changed. A fire blazes in the grate — a real fire, lit and burning, not the handful of coal she is allowed on Saturdays. A thick rug covers the floor. Cushions are piled against the wall. On a little table a meal is laid under a cover: soup, toast, muffins, tea. On the bed a warm blanket she has never seen before. On the makeshift bookshelf two new books. Sara stands in the doorway and does not move for a long time.

She pinches herself. She touches the hot coal in the grate on purpose. She eats. When Becky appears, pale-faced at the door, Sara calls her in and makes her sit by the fire. They eat together, looking at each other over the cups with an expression that is not quite certainty. Sara says: someone is my friend. Whoever is my friend, she has a friend. The chapter ends with them both warm, well-fed, and half-afraid to sleep in case it dissolves. It does not dissolve. In the morning the rug is still there.