(A taste of) Under a Living Sky

The little spot, perfectly round and clear, had begun to frost over. Mary pressed her nose against the window to make another. She was carrying out an experiment. How much heat would it take to make a small clearing in the sheet of ice that lined the big parlour window? Her nose felt quite cold already. It took a lot of heat, she decided, just to make one little clear spot. And when it was made, you couldn’t see much through so small a clearing.

The ice had stopped in mid-ooze, like a crowd of white paint people caught running and commanded to sit still, by golly, unless they wanted a chore or two to steady them down.

A muffled call came from above, Mother’s. Mary cocked her head, which was difficult because her nose had to be kept tight to the pane of glass. Meanwhile the window breathed in and out, shrieking at the seams and flexing forcefully because of the wind outside. Mary did not reply and in answer to her non-reply she could feel Mother’s aggravation growing. Impatient footsteps sounded on the floorboards of the room above her.

“Mary Elizabeth Vannieuwenhuizen! Do you hear me? You get up here this minute! If you don’t clean up your room, Christmas won’t come, or not for you anyway!”

Mary sighed. She didn’t know why Mother was angry this time. As Papa often said, rooms were only a place to sleep. He also said it was a full-time job these days to guess what would set Mother off. Mary wished Mother would stop being upset and give her some peace for a change. All at once, making little round clearings in that big sighing window seemed a lot less fun. Mary slumped down onto the sofa. Feeling her nose, so numb with cold, she smiled. She gave herself both an “A” and a gold star for her experiment.

There was a crack in the side of her shoe. Wiggling her big toe, Mary stretched open the crack, easier to open every week. Not that the shoe was hers, she thought. This shoe was Judith’s, an annoying shoe, an annoying sister’s annoying shoe. These shoes of Judith’s had been passed down to Mary last spring. No, no, no, said Mary to herself, my shoes will be brand new, not worn out by Judith, not worn ever by anybody. They will not be cracked and scuffed. She sighed. It was pleasant to sit on the sofa and dream of shoes never worn by a soul. They were sure to arrive any day now, maybe the very next day.

That's the first two pages. Buy the book.