Not even last week.
But the moment that Tor Halvorsan slammed the door to the schoolhouse, she stuffed her fist into her mouth, stifling a sob; every nerve strained to erupt, the atmosphere was so suffocating, she was suddenly fretful, fearful. This, she thought, is how it is when the world ends.
The sun had vanished, swallowed by the cloud that wasn’t a cloud, but a black wall of fury—sparks of lightning preceded it, bluish flashes of electricity tumbling over the snow like wagon wheels. She’d felt that shock, when she and Fredrik touched in the schoolyard; she swore she’d heard a hissing sound when she felt the jolt. They’d fled from it, leading the children back into the schoolhouse just in time.
And now, inside, the air was too close, squeezing her chest, and the howling sound wasn’t just the fury of the winds pounding the rickety building; it was also the strangled cries from the smaller students, tiny Sofia Nyquist sobbing uncontrollably, wrapping her arms around Teacher’s legs.
Teacher, too, looked shaken; she stared out the window, at the blackness, the electric sparks—even the little stove in the middle of the room was giving off eerie flares. What was it that was so crushing, that made Anette want to clamp her hands over her ears and fall to the floor? It was a blizzard, for sure—but every one of them had seen prairie blizzards. Every one of them had witnessed the furies of prairie weather; the tornadoes in the spring, the fires, even grasshoppers forming living clouds and marching across the land eating everything in their path. Floods when all the year’s rain fell at one time, and when all the snow melted.
But this was different and Anette couldn’t begin to figure out why; she only knew that the furious cloud that had now completely blotted out the sun and was pummeling the schoolhouse until the boards creaked and the windows rattled seemed to have overtaken her heart, too, and made her want to howl with terror.
She was shivering, but it wasn’t only from the fear; the temperature had plummeted. Teacher shooed them all away from the window toward the stove. But it didn’t seem much warmer there.
“Go put on your cloaks, children,” Teacher said, her voice unnaturally high and singsong.
They shuffled into the cloakroom—even colder there—and hurriedly bundled themselves up before rushing back to the stove. Anette looked around; hardly any of them had worn their usual winter layers, heavy cloaks and coats and wool stockings and petticoats, knit hats, mittens, scarves. Only one or two children were adequately dressed; the rest of them, like Anette herself, had gleefully left most of the layers behind this morning. It was so warm—
It had been so warm.
“Good,” Teacher said, but her pretty blue eyes betrayed some fear. Probably only Anette saw it, though; she’d seen it before, many times, back at the Pedersens’. “Now, Tor, can you fetch the rest of the wood?”
Tor went back to the cloakroom, where the sticks of wood were stored; he came back with one armful, dropped it, and when Teacher looked at him expectantly, he shook his head.
“It’s all we have.”
“Oh” was all that Teacher said. She went back to the window. Snow was swirling from all directions, violently enough that it pinged the thin glass. The heavy curtain of snow blocking the view only added to the stifling feeling pressing down on all of them inside.
“Well, let’s sit down. It will probably blow over soon.” She turned abruptly away from the window and went to the cloakroom, where she put on her own heavy shawl—all she’d worn this morning, Anette remembered. Teacher came back and opened the McGuffey Reader on her desk, but then she slammed it shut and went back to the window.
Anette wanted her to say something, anything. She looked around; all the students were gazing hopefully at Teacher, who must have felt it like a pressing weight on the back of her neck.
But Teacher was strangely silent.
* * *
—
RAINA WAS TRYING TO THINK, but the swirling snow and ice outside seemed to make the same swirling mess of her mind; thoughts whirled about but she couldn’t grab any one of them. A blizzard. Fine. We’ve all seen blizzards before. But not at this time of day, during school. Wait it out. That’s the thing. But the wood. The wood isn’t enough. Burn the desks if we have to. But then what? No food. Little children crying—Enid, now little Sofia, weeping at their desks, weeping for their mothers. The boys. Send them out? Try to get help? They’re big, especially Tor. He’s bigger than I am. He’s a good, sturdy boy and his farm is only, what—half a mile away? But people get lost in blizzards on the plains. Even patient, sturdy people.
And above the chaos in her head, one thought, one sentence, one promise stood out.
I will take care of you.
It was the promise he made last week. After Anna Pedersen caught them—doing nothing but looking.
No, that wasn’t true.
He had waited until Raina was in bed, trying to sleep but unable to, imagining his sure, strong hands touching her in places she herself hadn’t ever been able to touch, for the shame of it. Anette was quiet, hopefully asleep, when he crept up the stairs and knelt beside Raina’s bed, and he put his hand upon her shoulder—the only time he’d ever touched her—and he whispered, “I will take care of you, no matter what happens.” And he leaned closer, his lips grazing her ear, she trembled, she quaked…
She believed him. Then she didn’t. Then she did again—a chain between their hearts, that’s what it felt like; it was so heavy, it tugged, then went slack, then tugged again. Yes, she believed him—his eyes were wet with emotion, his touch so gentle. Opportunity had presented itself before then and he’d never taken advantage of his desire to do more; at times, she’d ached for him to, and she’d been so angry when he hadn’t, she’d wanted to slap him just to feel him beneath her hand.
But his honor invited her trust that night; it was like the fragile hope of peace that comes before a war. Peace destined to be shattered.
So surely, he would come for her now? Come for her and Anette—he loved Anette, he did, that was another sign of the goodness in him, he treated the little girl much more kindly than his wife did—he would come. To take them home, and then he could take the rest of the children, too. And although she cringed at the idea of bringing these innocents into that spider’s web, right now she could think of no better alternative. They would freeze to death if they stayed here overnight. There was enough fuel to last a couple more hours, including the desks and books. But who knew how long this storm would last?
So. She had decided—just as she had decided upon him last week; she had decided.
He would come for them. For her.
“Children.” She turned from the window. “It looks like we’re going to stay in school late today, because of the storm. Let’s pass the time by playing a game!” Maybe if they ran around, they’d stay warm. “Let’s play tag—I haven’t played it for so long! Tor, tag—you’re it!” Tor, his eyebrows drawn together with worry, leapt in surprise when she tapped his shoulder. He looked startled, then shy; his face turned ruddy. She understood—she wasn’t supposed to play games, she was Miss Olsen. They all looked embarrassed, but she nudged Tor and he obeyed, running slowly around in circles until the other children got into the spirit, began to giggle, began to run, too.