The Woodcarver's Secret (Samantha Sweet Mysteries) Read Online Free Page A

the
wet cloth to Ethan’s face.
    “I’d best bring in the animals,”
Sean said a few minutes later, wiping his mouth after he stuffed in a sizeable
chunk of bread. “We’ll have milk for the little ones soon.” He walked out into
the moonlight.
    “Every time I get ready to give
him a piece of my mind, he does something like that,” Maggie said, “offering
the first milk to the children.”
    Unless John wanted to start
farming, himself, and get his family into their own cottage, he would have to
live with Sean—his unhelpfulness and his moods. And the truth was, right now
there were no new tenancies available. Unless the baron opened up new lands,
their lot in life was set.
    He went outside to dampen the
cloth again and when he came in Maggie took it and made him take her place at
the table, setting out the last bowl of soup for him. She placed the cool cloth
on Ethan’s forehead before turning to the others, washing their faces and hands
and telling them to go use the privy one last time before bed.
    In the adjoining room, John heard
the sounds of the two goats bleating as Sean penned them into their corner,
followed by the crisp sound of milk from the cow hitting the bottom of a wooden
pail. Maggie spread two more straw pallets on the floor and shook out blankets.
She dipped warm milk from the bucket and gave the three- and four-year-old each
a small cup before settling them onto their beds. Sean had climbed the ladder
to the small half-loft above the room, and they could hear him groaning as he
settled himself for the night.
    “You rest,” John told his wife,
nodding toward the only real bed in the house, the wooden frame standing
against the far wall. “I shall sit up with Ethan and watch him.”
    “Wake me if he gets worse. I can
walk to Mrs. O’Sullivan’s for some herbs.”
    “You’ll do no walking about in
the dark,” he told her, placing a kiss on her forehead. She smelled of sweat
and smoke from the peat fire, but then everyone did. “I can go for help if we
need it.”
    Even among the two-dozen similar
cottages clustered together in what was known as the village, there was always
a woman who specialized in cures. She would be the same one who would come when
Maggie knew the new baby was arriving. The nearest real doctor lived in town
but it cost money to bring him out and, aside from drawing blood from the sick
child, John doubted the man knew any more than Mrs. O’Sullivan about making
their Ethan well. He knelt again beside the boy and felt his face—not a bit
cooler. He found a second cloth and wet it from the cool water in a bowl,
switching it with the overheated one.
    Settling himself against the wall
near the child’s head, John dozed then woke. He replaced the cloth again and
found himself more alert now. He thought of the wooden box he had worked on all
day. With the hinges, it seemed a nicer piece, more finished. He rose quietly
and went out to the cart where he pulled it from under the tarp.
    The design consisted of diagonal
cuts at ninety-degree angles to each other resulting in a quilted look. The high
points between the X-shaped intersections rose in soft pillowy curves. At the
bottom he had smoothed a border around the base, and at the edge of the lid
he’d made a precise row of small raised dots, like beadwork carved of wood. In
the moonlight the piece was nearly beautiful, the uneven effects of the
ill-chosen stain adding depth now. He smiled and opened the lid.
    He would smooth the inside a bit
more and perhaps add a fine cloth lining if he could get the right material. He
ran his index finger around the inner edges of it, starting in the upper corner
and moving down and around, feeling for any small unevenness. When his finger
completed the circuit of all four sides, a jolt shot through his hand, up the
arm to the elbow, and into his body. Blinded and dizzy, he fell to his knees,
dropping the box on the ground.

 
    *
* *

 
    His breath came in short bursts;
panting,