Peter Belden scowled as his two older brothers stepped into the crisp winter afternoon, the kitchen door slamming shut after allowing a gust of frigid air into the kitchen of Crabapple Farm. “I want to go, too!” he protested, watching through the window as Andy and Harry tramped down the driveway and then veered into the woods.

“I know you do,” his mother consoled him. “But the boys are walking all the way to the Broms’ house to deliver staples, and then they’re gathering firewood and making sure they’re all set for the next month or so while Mr. Brom recovers from surgery. It’s too far for you to walk in this cold, especially since you still have that cough.”

“I’m almost completely all better!” Peter protested, furtively wiping his runny nose. “They could have pulled me on the toboggan,” he said, turning away from the window when his brothers disappeared from sight.

“The toboggan is full of supplies for the Broms, so there isn’t room for you,” his mother reminded him. “And besides, you’re getting so big now that the boys might not be strong enough to pull you!”

Miss Edwards, his second-grade teacher, always said how good he was at math. Right now, Peter was almost certain that his mother’s math wasn’t adding up. How could he be too little to walk all the way to Broms’, but too big to be pulled on the wooden toboggan? It wasn’t fair! His lower lip began to tremble.

His mother set a mixing bowl on the counter and placed ingredients beside it. “I’m making the dough for the sugar cookies now, and once it’s chilled you and I can cut them into shapes. Maybe some Christmas trees!” she suggested. “Why don’t you go see what your grandfather is doing?”

Peter sniffed. Grandpa Belden never did anything unless you counted sitting in the overstuffed rocking chair in the living room and reading. Not that reading was all bad. It wasn’t as much fun as math, of course, but he did like the stories about Peter Rabbit that Grandpa Belden sometimes read to him.

“Grandpa?” he called, wandering into the living room. “Grandpa, do you want—”

Graham Belden startled awake with a loud snort and Peter giggled, his sulky mood forgotten.

“I wasn’t sleeping,” Grandpa Belden said, and pushed up the glasses that had slid down his nose. “I was just—”

“Reading with your eyes closed,” Peter finished for him, snickering.

Graham narrowed his eyes in mock annoyance. “You just see how tired your eyes are when you’re my age, young man.”

Peter scrambled onto his lap, pushing aside the book his grandpa had been reading before he fell asleep. “I’ll never be old,” he mourned. “Andy and Harry will always be older than me!”

“That might be true,” Graham agreed. “But will they get to lick the batter from the bowl after your mother makes cookies?”

Peter shook his head.

“And will they get to ice the cookies?” He leaned close to his grandson’s ear. “From what I remember,” he whispered, “it’s possible to ‘accidentally’ eat quite a bit of frosting while you’re decorating the cookies.”

Peter brightened. “I do like frosting,” he agreed. He settled himself more comfortably on his grandfather’s lap and stared out the window. The sunlight was cold and sharp, the snowbanks forming stiff peaks carved by wind. He fidgeted, wanting to be out in the snow. What was the good of winter if you couldn’t spend it building snowmen and having snowball fights and watching Blue, their heeler puppy, crash through the snowbanks to send snow flying?

“What should we read today?” Grandpa Belden asked. “Shall we see what Peter Rabbit is up to?”

Peter kicked his legs, sending the rocking chair into motion. “I bet Peter Rabbit doesn’t have to stay home when he’s sick,” he groused, kicking harder and sending the chair into an erratic rhythm.

Ignoring Peter’s petulance, Grandpa Belden asked, “Did I ever tell you the story about the sick man that your great-grandmother nursed back to health?” He caught Peter’s eye and continued, his tone meaningful. “He was the one who had to walk for days through the snow when he was already sick.” He paused. “He almost didn’t survive, as I recall.”

Peter scowled. It wasn’t as if walking to the Broms’ would kill him. He was barely sick! His throat spasmed, sending him into a paroxysm of deep, rasping coughs. “I remember,” Peter mumbled when he could speak, and gave a forceful kick to set the chair rocking again.

“I thought so,” Grandpa Belden agreed. He gradually eased the rocking of the chair to a more sedate pace. He handed Peter a glass of water and watched as the boy took careful sips to help keep the coughing under control. “I wonder if I ever told you about—”

Peter wanted to interrupt him and say that yes, he probably had. Grandpa Belden’s stories were great, but he’d heard them all before. Some of them he’d heard so often that he could repeat them, word for word, complete with his grandfather’s intonation. But he coughed again, and Grandpa Belden continued.

“—the time the nutcracker saved me?”

Peter choked on his water. Was Grandpa Belden teasing him? He twisted to look at him, but the older man’s eyes were focused on the Christmas tree that dominated one corner of the living room. Peter followed his gaze, fixing it on one of the many small nutcrackers adorning the pine tree. Mr. Brom made a new one for them every year. It was even possible that he would send this year’s ornament home with Andy and Harry today. After all, Christmas was only a few days away.

“One of those little things saved you?” Peter asked doubtfully and frowned at the three-inch figures. They were fun to play with, but he didn’t see how they could help anyone.

“No, not one of those.” He pulled out his pipe, and Peter settled back into the crook of his arm. The chair was only just barely big enough for the two of them, and he had a brief moment of worry that one day soon his grandpa would say he was too big to sit on his lap. For now, though, there was enough space. Peter watched as he fished out a little silver spoon and a scraper and began methodically cleaning his pipe. His coughing under control for the moment, Peter settled back, his eyes fixed on the pipe and his grandfather’s deft fingers.

“Do you see the nutcracker on the fireplace?”

Peter nodded, shifting so that his head rested on his grandfather’s chest. It wasn’t because he was tired. It was just that this position made it easier for Grandpa Belden to move his arms.

“The tall one?” he questioned, though there was only one nutcracker his grandfather could mean. It stood on the mantle, watching over Crabapple Farm during the month of December. It was the only one they owned that was too big to serve as a tree ornament and it looked like a mouse, which didn’t make any sense to him at all. Nutcrackers were supposed to protect. What use was a mouse?

Graham nodded, the motion as rhythmic as the gentle rocking of the chair. “One Christmas, when I was a few years older than you, I broke my leg.”

Peter closed his eyes. This might be a brand-new story, but it wasn’t off to a particularly thrilling start. Having a broken leg didn’t start adventures, it kept someone from adventures.

“That wasn’t the exciting part,” he continued. “But it did make the rest of that night more challenging.”

Peter propped one eye open while Grandpa Belden set aside the tools that he had used to clean his pipe. He watched avidly as he placed tobacco in the pipe, the rich aroma filling the room.

“You remember Rufus,” he continued as he tamped down the tobacco, referring to the former slave that Peter’s grandmother had nursed back to health over the course of several weeks when he’d stopped at Crabapple Farm as part of his journey on the Underground Railroad.

Peter nodded, his head moving in time with the rocking chair.

“Rufus was an exception. Most of the Underground Railroad travelers spent only one night at Crabapple Farm before continuing on their journey.” He reached for a match, and Peter sat up straighter so he could see the magical moment of the pipe coming to life. “One night only,” he repeated. “But oh, sometimes they chose quite the night.”

He took a steady breath in and then blew out a perfect ring of smoke. Peter watched as he repeated the process, his eyes growing heavy as the room became hazy.

Crabapple Farm, pre-Civil War

“There. That ought to do it,” Marna Belden declared. She leaned back in the stiff wooden chair and rolled her shoulders, aching from the arduous task of setting her son’s broken leg.

Twelve-year-old Graham Belden made a sound halfway between a grunt and a whimper. “Thanks, Ma,” he said, forcing the words through gritted teeth.

Marna pressed her lips together and draped a blanket over his legs. “It was a clean break,” she said, her Scottish accent strong. It tended to thicken when she was angry or worried. “There’s always a risk of infection, but if you stay off your feet and refrain from chasing your dog across frozen ponds, you ought to recover quickly.” She raised her eyebrows and waited.

“Yes, Ma,” Graham agreed, these words even more forced. The sudden, excruciating pain of the break had faded to a consistent throbbing ache, but at the moment, he’d agree to never setting foot outdoors again if only the pain would go away completely. What was the good, he grumbled to himself, of having a doctor for a father and a nurse for a mother if they couldn’t find a way to rid him of the pain?

As if reading his mind, Marna dusted her hands and stood. “I believe a cup of Mrs. Vanderpoel’s tea is in order,” she said, and began gathering the extra bandages and splints strewn on the floor. She grinned. “She won’t tell either your father or I what’s in it, but it works a treat.”

Graham tried valiantly not to grimace. The tea did help, he knew. But it also tasted like something that came from the bottom of the pond. He closed his eyes, and it felt like only seconds later that he heard the whistle of the kettle from the kitchen.

“Drink this and you’ll have a wee bit of shut eye,” Marna advised, setting the tea on the side table in order to help him sit up. Despite the fact that it was one of the coldest days of the year, sweat beaded on his forehead as he struggled not to jostle his leg. When he was finally upright and the room had stopped spinning, he saw that his mother had moved to stare out the window.

“That doesn’t sound like your father,” she frowned.

Graham squinted into the weak late-afternoon sun and saw a dishevelled man gallop into the yard on an agitated horse.

“Oh, dear,” Marna sighed, and hurried from the room. “That’s Mr. Lytell. Your father must need my help with Mrs. Lytell’s baby.” She shrugged into a heavy cloak. “Look after your sister,” she cautioned, “and your father and I will be back as soon as possible.”

She hurried out the back door and tramped through the snow to meet the obviously flustered young man. With a final wave, she allowed herself to be pulled up to sit behind Mr. Lytell, and the horse set off back the way it had arrived.

Graham watched until they disappeared from sight, and then dedicated himself to downing the tea. It was even worse than he remembered, and he was hard-pressed to keep from spitting it back into the cup. Almost immediately, however, he could feel the hot liquid relaxing his body. He closed his eyes for just a moment, and when he opened them, the room was considerably darker.

“Grame?” A small hand patted his stomach. “Grame, is your leg all better?”

Graham winced as the pats grew more insistent. “Almost,” he told his youngest sister. Six-year-old Hannah hopped up onto the couch, landing only inches from his feet.

“I’m hungry. Are you hungry?” she asked, bouncing on the springy cushion.

He was, but he wasn’t sure he was ready to walk all the way to the kitchen. And he especially wasn’t eager to figure out what to eat. His little sister was nothing if not picky.

Cute, but definitely picky.

“I can make jelly sandwiches,” Hannah continued, bouncing more and setting Graham’s teeth on edge as the couch jostled. “Ma said I should take care of you.”

“That’s a great idea,” he told her. Gently picking her up, he placed her on the floor and watched as the blonde tornado scampered into the kitchen. With any luck she would put together the sandwiches with minimal destruction. And surely either Ma or Dad would be home soon. It wasn’t often that they left the children alone after dark, even though he was more than old enough to take care of himself and his sister. He glanced down at his leg. Well, maybe today would be a good day for them to be home, he acknowledged reluctantly. He felt loads better after the tea and the rest but keeping up with Hannah was a challenge even without a broken leg.

Ignoring the clatter emanating from the kitchen, Graham lit two candles. The late afternoon light hadn’t entirely faded, but it was a near thing, and he didn’t like the idea of Hannah around sharp knives in the low light. He hoisted himself to his feet and found that Hannah had somehow located the simple wooden crutches in their dad’s office and placed them within easy reach. He shook his head, marvelling at both her thoughtfulness and resourcefulness.

“Hannah,” he called, fitting the crutches under his arms, “how are the sandwiches coming?”

Hannah started to answer, but movement outside the window caught Graham’s attention. Ma and Dad were back! Except this horse was pulling a wagon instead of carrying a person. He frowned, trying to make out the driver of the wagon through the indigo twilight.

“Mr. Hutchins!” Hannah exclaimed, scrambling to peer out the living room window beside him. She clutched a half-eaten sandwich in one hand, crabapple jelly slowly tracking down the long sleeve of her dress. “He always brings me a treat!”

“Hannah,” Graham warned absentmindedly, his eyes fixed on the portly, middle-aged man alighting from the wagon. “Don’t be rude.”

She jammed the rest of the sandwich in her mouth and wiped her sticky hands on the apron of her dress. “I’ll get the door,” she called, leaving him to follow as he tried to co-ordinate the crutches.

“Well, hello, there, Miss Belden!” Mr. Hutchins greeted the girl but peered around her. “Are your parents at home?”

Graham hobbled into the kitchen. “I’m sorry, sir, but they’re out helping Mrs. Lytell with the new baby.” He paused. “Did you have a package for us?” He wasn’t sure he wanted the answer, but he didn’t see as there was much choice, either.

Mr. Hutchins eyed him warily.

“A package?” Hannah’s eyes lit up. “Is it Christmas presents? Or maybe material for the new Christmas dress Ma is going to sew me!”

“Hannah, why don’t you go upstairs and check on your dolls?” Graham urged, maintaining eye contact with the older man.

“But—”

“Now, Hannah,” he insisted. “And I’ll play with you the whole evening. And read you as many stories as you like.”

Scowling, she obeyed.

Graham looked at Mr. Hutchins expectantly, but the older man hesitated.

“This delivery wasn’t supposed to arrive until tomorrow,” he said, “but there were some,” he paused, “ difficulties up the line.”

Graham nodded even though he had only a vague understanding of what that meant.

Mr. Hutchins hesitated. “I doubt your parents will make it home tonight,” he warned. “The snow is already almost too thick for travel, and it’s a new moon. I wouldn’t have come out, but we barely got the package out of the last station before it was searched.” He peered into the fully dark night and the thick, heavy snowflakes. “It’s dangerous to try to make it to the next station, but I don’t like the idea of leaving the package here without your parents at home.” He looked at Graham doubtfully.

Graham straightened to his full height, balancing his weight carefully on his good leg and the crutches. His chest grew uncomfortably tight, and he wasn’t sure if it was from resolution or fear. “I know what to do,” he assured the older man. “The package will be safe.” He glanced at the cart, hoping for more details.

Mr. Hutchins pressed his lips together in a tight line of worry. “It will have to do,” he said, more to himself than to Graham. “It’s too stormy to travel all the way to the next station, and I don’t know how far they are behind us.”

This time, Graham was certain that the tight feeling in his chest was from fear. He knew that what they did was dangerous, but it had never seemed so imminently dangerous when his parents were home.

But they weren’t home, and it was up to him to keep the package safe.

Mr. Hutchins glanced over his shoulder, peering into the dark yard. The horse tossed his mane and shifted in place, though he was careful not to jostle the wagon. “No time like the present,” he muttered, and ventured back out. Though it was impossible to see more than a few feet in any direction, he scanned all directions before flipping up the lid of the wagon seat. Graham heard a single grunt, and then saw Mr. Hutchins straighten, a wrapped bundle in his arms. He’d drawn the horse and wagon so close to the house that only a few steps brought him back. He deposited the bundle on the kitchen floor, and then hesitated.

“The package will move on tomorrow night,” he promised. He stepped back into the dark. “Be safe,” he cautioned, and then he was gone, the sound of the horse’s hoofs muffled by the fresh snowfall.

Graham stared at the lumpy blanket on the kitchen floor, frozen for a long moment.

“What’s that?” Hannah asked, poking her head around the kitchen doorframe. “Something for Christmas?”

Graham snapped into action. “Hannah! I told you to go upstairs!” He moved to stand between her and the package, though he wasn’t sure what possible good it could do now. Once Hannah fixed her attention on something, it didn’t waver.

“I did go upstairs,” she protested. “And then I came back down.” She edged past him and crouched beside the blanket.

“Hannah!” Graham hobbled toward her, banging the crutches clumsily against the floor. His palms grew sweaty with exertion and panic. Hannah wasn’t supposed to know anything about Crabapple Farm being a station! His parents had worked hard to keep her natural curiosity from ferreting out the truth, and now, the very first time he was in charge, the cat was out of the bag! The sick sensation in the pit of his stomach grew, worse than the nausea he’d felt when the bone in his leg had snapped.

Before he could reach her, Hannah had loosened the cords of rough twine that looped the blanket. The thick wool fell away, revealing a boy only a few years older than Hannah.

Hannah’s face lit up, like sunshine on a summer afternoon. “You’re here to stay in the attic!” she beamed. The boy remained silent and motionless, his eyes darting between the siblings. “Well, come on! I’ll show you where it is. Are you hungry? I made sandwiches, but then I ate them. But I can make more! Do you like crabapple jelly? We make it from our very own crabapple trees, and it’s my favourite. But I like strawberry jam, too. Which is your favourite?” She didn’t wait for an answer, but tugged his hand, urging him to follow her. “The attic is up here. It’s dusty, but it’s nice and dark so no one will know you’re there.”

Graham’s mouth hung open. Hannah wasn’t supposed to know that they were a stop on the Underground Railroad, and she certainly wasn’t supposed to know exactly where in the house the people hid!

“I’ll take you there, and then I’ll be right back as soon as I make more sandwiches,” Hannah told the silent boy as he followed her up the staircase. She picked her way carefully, avoiding the steps that creaked, and he did the same.

Graham sank into a kitchen chair. Hannah was a force of nature. Anyone who had met her knew that. But this went far beyond her normal shenanigans. Her incessant babbling had led him to believe that she wasn’t capable of keeping a secret, but that obviously wasn’t the case! He took a deep breath as she tiptoed back down the stairs, her blonde ringlets glowing in the light of the candle that she carried.

“Samuel likes the attic,” she beamed. “And he’s never had crabapple jelly! Can you imagine? I’m going to make him a sandwich now. He hasn’t eaten since this morning!” She dragged a chair across the kitchen the floor so that she could reach the bread on the counter.

Graham hopped to the counter on his good leg, leaving the crutches by his chair. “Why don’t I cut the bread?” he offered, and Hannah reluctantly relinquished the sharp implement.

They worked in silence, creating several thick sandwiches dripping with homemade jelly, until Graham couldn’t stand it anymore.

“Hannah, how did you know about the people who stay in the attic?” he asked in a hushed voice, screwing the lid back on the mason jar. He wasn’t sure why he was whispering, except that it had been a very big secret for so long that it felt wrong to discuss it openly.

Hannah hopped down from the chair and then reached for the platter of sandwiches. “My bedroom is next to the attic,” she confided. “And the stairs squeak.”

And that, Graham reflected, was all that the far-too-intelligent girl had needed to ferret out the secret. And though it didn’t really matter, he couldn’t help but be relieved that it hadn’t been his fault that she’d figured it out since she’d obviously been aware of the clandestine activities at Crabapple Farm for quite some time.

“You can’t tell anyone,” he cautioned, and she tossed her blonde braid over her shoulder. It would have been more effective if half of her hair hadn’t already come loose and framed her face in wispy curls. It was uncanny how angelic his little sister could look if he didn’t think about all the scrapes she invariably landed herself in.

“Of course, I won’t tell anyone,” she retorted, her tone scathing. “I’m not a baby!” With an indignant sniff, she marched up the stairs, carefully balancing the tray of sandwiches. Graham sighed as he realized that, for the second time that evening, he’d been left without supper.

Unsurprisingly, he had been left with the mess. Suddenly exhausted, he pieced together a sandwich made of the heels of the loaf of bread and spread the last of the jelly on it. He hopped back to the kitchen table and took a few bites before leaning back and resting his eyes. His leg didn’t exactly hurt, but he was starting to wish that Ma was there to make him another cup of Mrs. Vanderpoel’s mystery tea.

It felt like only seconds later when Hannah shook him awake, her grip surprisingly strong. He blinked, his mind foggy as he registered the increasing dull ache of his broken leg.

“Grame. Grame!” Hannah shook him so hard that his teeth snapped together and his vision doubled.

He grunted as the room came back into focus.

“Grame, there’s someone here! And it’s not Ma or Dad! Grame!”

Graham bolted to his feet and nearly collapsed at the sudden pain and dizziness. He gripped the edge of the table and fought a wave of nausea. Sure enough, he could see a figure astride a horse galloping into the clearing surrounding Crabapple Farm. The rider pulled hard on the reins, stopping short at the door. Though the horse tossed its head and reared, the rider dismounted and threw the reins over the hitching post. Footsteps pounded on the porch, followed by insistent banging on the door.

Graham and Hannah both moved to the door, but Hannah easily outpaced him as he swung his crutches in clumsy arcs. Before he could stop her, she flung open the door.

“Hi! I’m Hannah Belden,” she bubbled. “Who are you?” Before he could answer, she peered past him into the stormy night. “Isn’t it too stormy to be out? My Ma and Dad are stuck at the Lytells’ because Mrs. Lytell is having her baby, and they can’t come home in the snow. Why are you out? Does your horse need hay? We have some in the stable.” She frowned. “But Graham can’t help because he broke his leg. Have you ever broken your leg? It means everyone around you has to help. I’m helping by making sandwiches for supper. Would you like a crabapple jelly sandwich?”

He dismissed her with a sneer.

“Where’s the boy at?” he demanded, shouldering his way past Hannah into the kitchen and fixing Graham with a penetrating glare.

Graham bristled at the blatant disregard of manners and common decency and shuffled on his crutches to stand in front of his sister. “I’m right here, sir,” he said, his words polite, but stiff. “Do I know you?”

His head tilted to the side, he stared up at the ceiling, as if he had heard something. “I know he’s here,” he said, his voice an ominous rasp.

“I don’t know who you’re talking about, sir,” Graham said, and he desperately hoped that he was the only one who had heard his voice break, “but if you come back when our parents are home—”

The man forced his way further into the room, shouldering Graham aside and causing him to waver on his unstable leg. Hannah flanked him, providing support until he could regain his balance.

“Ma says it’s not polite to come in without an invitation,” she said, her high voice clear and strong.

Graham didn’t know whether to applaud his sister’s moxie or to wish that she was more like the little girls he saw in church every Sunday who never spoke out of turn and hid behind their mother’s skirts.

“I don’t need an invitation,” he snarled. “I’m William T. Jones, and I’ve come in search of the freedom seeker you’re harbouring.” He strode through the kitchen and into the parlour, leaving puddles of melted snow in his wake.

“Mr. Jones,” Graham hobbled after him as quickly as he could, nearly slipping as the tip of the crutch skidded in the melted snow. “Mr. Jones, I don’t know what you think you’re doing—”

“I’m doing my job,” he snapped, peering around the corner of the parlour and into Mr. Belden’s office. “I’ve the legal right to search the premises, and you’d best believe that I’ll scour every nook and cranny until—”

“Oh!” Hannah exclaimed, beaming. “I can show you the house! I have lots of favourite hiding places,” she confided. “Would you like to see them, Mr. Jonesy?”

The recovery agent turned his full attention to the little girl. “Why, yes, Miss Belden. I would.” He smiled, and Graham suppressed a shudder at the slimy calculation in his expression. Graham tamped down his anxiety, knowing that he had to put on a brave face. But what was Hannah thinking? He’d thought that she understood the importance of keeping the fugitive safe, but she was only six years old. What if she led Mr. Jones straight to the hiding place? Their parents had taught them to respect authority. He hadn’t thought the lesson had stuck particularly well with his sister, but this would be the worst possible time to discover that it had.

“This one’s my favourite,” Hannah said, and led the man to a narrow door in the kitchen. She opened it, revealing a tiny closet filled with various food staples and cleaning supplies. “If I squeeze in right here,” Hannah said, pointing to a back corner, “Ma can’t see me when she opens the door.”

Mr. Jones raised his lantern, inspecting the dark recesses of the closet. The light flickered over the shelves of preserves and lingered on the corner against which the mop and broom were propped. He even swung the lantern to inspect the ceiling.

“That’s where you’ve been hiding?” Graham asked, impressed despite the tension. He’d had his own hiding spots when he was her age, but he’d never thought to fold himself into such a small space.

“Don’t tell!” Hannah insisted. “This is where I go when it’s time to practice embroidery.”

“Enough,” Jones snapped, and both Beldens jumped.

Hannah flounced away from the closet. “Well, come along, then,” she commanded. “Would you like to see upstairs?” Without waiting for an answer, she skipped up the stairs, making every last one of them creak. Jones followed, his heavy tread an ominous rumble. Graham stared at the flight and wondered when it had grown so high and steep. Sighing, he began the arduous journey of propelling himself up the stairs, grunting with the effort of maneuvering his crutches. By the time he reached the second floor he was covered in a fine sheen of perspiration. To make matters worse, Jones had already inspected one of the bedrooms, pulling the bed away from the wall, kicking aside the rug Grandma Belden had made, and even shoving the chest of drawers to the side.

Still panting from the exertion of climbing the stairs, Graham frowned at the disregard for the Beldens’ property. “Is this necessary?” he asked. “I don’t think you’re supposed to destroy the house as you search!”

Jones raised an eyebrow. Maintaining eye contact, he reached into the pocket of his overcoat and withdrew a small tin.

Cigarettes , Graham realized with disgust. The smell of cheap, stale tobacco filled the room until he had to struggle not to cough. Dad smoked a pipe, but only occasionally. And Dad’s pipe smelled like a crackling fire on a winter night. Not like something that had turned sour long ago.

“You should try smoking a pipe, Mr. Jonesy,” Hannah informed him. “They smell better.”

Jones let the cigarette ash drop to the meticulously waxed hardwood floor.

“And it isn’t polite to smoke in someone’s home without their permission,” she continued. “Didn’t your Ma teach you manners?”

Jones deliberately tapped the cigarette again, causing more ash to sprinkle on the floor. Graham repressed a swell of anger at the blatant insult but kept his temper in check. Hannah was providing enough cheek for the both of them, and he suspected that Jones was looking for an excuse to escalate his rough treatment to people instead of limiting it to their possessions.

Jones pushed past the Belden siblings and back into the hallway. Silently, and with callous efficiency, he executed similar searches in each of the remaining bedrooms. When he appeared to find satisfaction in roughly tossing every one of Hannah’s stuffed toys from her bed, Hannah put her arm around him to soothe him as he silently seethed.

“Mr. Jonesy, you must not have any stuffed toys of your own,” Hannah observed, and handed him a stuffed bear that he’d thrown aside. “Would you like to take Mr. Bear home with you?”

Without a word, Jones let the bear drop to the floor. “Show me the attic,” he demanded.

Hannah bit her lip and looked at Graham nervously. For the first time, Graham felt real fear. Had Hannah misunderstood and taken the fugitive to one of the very first places sure to be searched? He knew he ought to have done it himself. Just because she said she knew where the fugitives hid didn’t mean that she actually knew. She was only six, after all!

A cruel smile lifted the corner of Jones’ lips and he watched the byplay between the siblings. “The attic, is it?” He shook his head. “Fools.”

“It’s just that I’m scared of the attic,” Hannah blurted. She ducked her head, the very picture of trepidation. It wasn’t an expression he had ever seen his sister wear, and it took him a moment to identify it. As he did, the wild thumping of his heart eased. If the fugitive were really in the upper attic, Hannah would be too incensed to bother with pretending to be afraid.

Luckily, Mr. Jones didn’t know Hannah nearly as well as Graham did. He followed the little girl, his face twisted with cruel anticipation. When she opened the narrow door next to her own bedroom and revealed the steep staircase, he practically salivated. Shoving past her, he mounted the stairs, his stooped shoulder slowing his progress. Graham shuddered at the ominous thud of his heavy footsteps, imagining the dread that Samuel must be feeling.

Hannah hovered at the foot of the staircase, Mr. Bear dangling from her hand. “I don’t like the attic,” she repeated. “Ma says there aren’t any mice in it, but I think there must be, don’t you? Wouldn’t you want to live in an attic if you were a little mouse?”

Mr. Jones grunted as he neared the top of the staircase. “A little mouse,” he repeated, his voice rough from exertion. He swung his light to illuminate the dark and dusty room. “If there is a little mouse in this attic, young lady, you can be sure that I’ll find it. I’ll even get rid of it for you. For good.”

Graham’s face flushed with outrage at the thinly veiled threat. Shuffling forward, he tried to follow Jonesy up the staircase, but a stab of pain in his leg followed by a wave of nausea pulled him up short. The last thing he needed was to pass out and leave Hannah to deal with the odious man.

As if reading his mind, Hannah moved closer to him. Instead of clinging to him for comfort, she slipped one arm around his back to help support him, and planted her other fist on her hip. She scowled at the top of the flight of stairs where Jonesy continued his search, out of their sight. “Are you finding any mice, Mr. Jonesy?” she called, her voice deceptively innocent. “Maybe if you find a mouse, Ma will let us get a cat. I’ve always wanted a cat. Haven’t you? If I had a cat, she would sleep in my room with me but she’d hunt mice in the attic to earn her keep and I would name her Sally. Don’t you think Sally is a good name for a cat? That’s what my friend Diana Lynch named her doll, but I think it would be a better name for a cat, don’t you?”

Graham felt light-headed, and he wasn’t sure if it was from the pain in his leg, his worry that Mr. Jones would find Samuel, or general confusion from Hannah’s stream of consciousness babbling. He traced Jonesy’s path as the stoop-shouldered man shuffled through the attic above them. Based on the grunts, muffled thumps, and curses, Graham could almost see the powerfully built man stumbling into the discarded furniture and low ceiling. It wasn’t kind to laugh at the misfortune of others, but it didn’t stop Graham’s lips from twitching when he heard a crack that could only be Jonesy’s head connecting with the exposed ceiling beams. Moments later, he appeared at the top of the flight of stairs, looking considerably more dishevelled than when he’d entered the attic. Particles of dust glittered in the flickering light of his lantern as he shuffled down the stairs, each step heavier than the previous.

“No mice?” Hannah asked, blinking up at him. She frowned. “I really wanted a cat.”

Jonesy shoved past them and stood in the hallway, arms crossed over his chest as he attempted to bore holes through the walls with his eyes. He pivoted, and Graham’s chest clenched when the man’s outstretched arm caught Hannah’s door and swung it closed. He didn’t allow himself to so much as glance at the stretch of wall previously blocked by the open door, but it was already too late. Jonesy’s eyes sparked with malignant interest.

“What’s this?” he mused and tapped the piece of panelling that had been painted white to match the walls.

Graham and Hannah stared at the three-foot panel. Graham opened his mouth, but the words caught in his throat, thick enough to choke him.

“That’s my playroom,” Hannah informed him. “Ma said she was tired of tripping over my toys every time she came in my room, so now I keep them in there.”

The ease with which his sister blended truth and convenience was almost as terrifying as the man who was most likely about to ruin several lives. Jonesy grunted as he ran his hands over the panel and tried to prise it open. It felt like forever, and far too soon, when he discovered the hidden indentations and slid the panel up to reveal a small square opening. The three of them peered into the pitch-black space it revealed.

“Looks like a mighty fine place for a mouse,” Jonesy observed.

Hannah huffed impatiently. “I told you. That’s where my toys are. I wish there were mice, though. So we could get a cat,” she reminded him. “If there were mice this close to the bedrooms, Ma would for sure say yes!”

Ignoring her, Jonesy placed his lantern inside the second-floor attic and followed, simultaneously lifting a leg over the raised opening and ducking his head to fit through the opening. His splayed limbs, hinged at the elbows and knees, made Graham think of an enormous predatory spider creeping through the house in search of prey. He swallowed hard and turned to Hannah, searching for words of assurance to help her. His sister, though, was studying Jonesy, her head tilted to the side.

“He looks a little like Mr. Maypenny’s scarecrow, doesn’t he?” Hannah whispered, stretching as tall as she could and tugging him toward her so she could put her mouth next to his ear. The image of a spider disappeared, and Graham straightened his back and ignored the dull ache of his leg.

“This is ridiculous,” he decided, and hopped on his good leg to the opening. Bracing his arms on the wall, he called, “Mr. Jones?” and squinted into the dark space. Much to his surprise, the arc of light from Jonesy’s lantern illuminated a scattering of toys on the unfinished wood floor. He’d thought Hannah was fibbing when she’d claimed that she used the space as a playroom. And maybe, Graham thought, it would have been a fib, up until she’d entertained Samuel and given him supper while Graham had dozed at the kitchen table. She must have brought toys from her own room into the second-floor attic for them to play with together.

Graham fixed his eyes on Jonesy, determined not to look anywhere that might give away Samuel’s location. He didn’t know how well the boy was hidden, or if Hannah had thought to show him the tiny space at the very back of the attic, where the ceiling almost met the floor. If Samuel was crouched under the eaves, tucked behind the small chest of drawers, he had a chance of remaining undiscovered. If not… Graham tested the weight of his crutch and wondered if he was both brave enough and strong enough to use it as a weapon.

“Hey!” Hannah protested when Jonesy kicked at a toy and sent it rolling across the floor. “Those are the special nutcrackers that Mr. Brom carves for our Christmas tree!”

Jonesy’s eyes glinted as he returned the little girl’s glare. Without looking away from her, he kicked again, scattering the rest of the wooden figures.

“I wonder what other treasures you’re hiding away in here,” he mused. Despite the cramped, close walls and the exposed beams of the ceiling, he set the lantern on the floor and lit a cigarette as if he had all the time and space in the world. He inhaled slowly and then held his breath before exhaling a long, steady stream of putrid smoke. If his leg wasn’t aching so badly that he could barely think, Graham would have fidgeted to break the unbearable tension. Instead, he gripped the handle of the crutch until his fingers throbbed, and wondered how difficult it would be to deliver a blow that would knock the man out, but not kill him. He glanced uneasily at his little sister and prayed that it wouldn’t come to violence.

When his cigarette was reduced to almost nothing, Jonesy tapped the last of the ashes to the floor and reached to pick up the lantern. As his hand closed around the handle, he flinched, as if his stooped shoulder had locked in position. The lantern tipped to the floor, and light careening in unexpected arcs that penetrated the deepest corners of the dark attic. All three of them froze in wide-eyed surprise when the bouncing yellow beam revealed a pair of very human eyes at the back of the room, almost level with the floor.

It turned out that a man with a stooped shoulder could move astonishingly quickly when he chose to.

Jonesy lunged in the direction of the eyes while Hannah screamed and Graham made a sound that was halfway between a battle cry and a grunt of pain. The siblings both lunged for the opening to the attic, Graham hopping on his good leg and dragging the injured one. Hannah beat him to the opening and was scooting through when Jonesy bellowed in rage and crumpled to the floor, sending the nutcracker he’d tripped over rolling across the floor.

“Blasted toys,” he swore, and struggled to his feet. Breathing heavily, he picked up the lantern and aimed it in the direction of the eyes they’d all glimpsed. “There you are,” he breathed, when the lantern once more illuminated the whites of a pair of dark eyes.

Before either Hannah or Graham could reach him, he lunged forward and closed his hands around a… nutcracker?

He stared at the foot-high carving in mingled chagrin and rage. “What tomfoolery is this?” he demanded, squeezing the neck of the nutcracker as if it were capable of giving him the answers he sought.

Hannah grinned up at him. “That’s a nutcracker!” she informed him. “They’re supposed to be protectors. Mr. Brom gives one to us every year for Christmas. He makes them himself! Have you ever carved a toy from wood, Mr. Jonesy? Mr. Brom could teach you!”

Jonesy stared at the carefully painted eyes of the nutcracker. Even from the entrance, in the poor light of the lantern, Graham could tell that the eyes they’d all seen when Jonesy had dropped the lantern bore only a rudimentary similarity to the nutcracker’s. Jonesy frowned as if he, too, sensed there was more amiss than an errant toy standing guard in the darkest recess of the attic. But when he waved the lantern to illuminate every inch of the room, it only revealed more toys and dust.

“No mice?” Hannah asked innocently.

Jonesy grunted in reply and, after a last long look around the room, strode past Hannah and forced his way through the small opening. He stomped down the stairs to the main level but paused before throwing open the back door where his horse, covered in snow, waited. By the time Graham managed to follow him down the stairs and into the back entrance, Jonesy was staring up at the windows of Crabapple Farm and taking one last drag from his cigarette, he flicked the ashes into the snow. Before the glowing embers had fully melted, he’d mounted the horse and trotted out of the yard and into the dark, cold night.

“I wonder if Santa will bring him any presents,” Hannah wondered, the tall nutcracker from the attic tucked under her arm. “I don’t think he’s on the Nice List.”

Graham sank onto a kitchen chair, exhausted. “No, Hannah, I don’t think he is, either.” He eyed the nutcracker. “I didn’t realize Mr. Brom already gave us a new nutcracker this year.”

Hannah tilted her head to the side, her brow furrowed as she studied the nutcracker that looked like the smaller ones they’d been collecting for years but was somehow just a little different. “He didn’t. But, Grame, look! It really is a mouse! A mouse king! Do you think Ma will let us get a cat now?”

Graham stared at Hannah for a long moment before taking the nutcracker from her and placing it gently on the kitchen table. “Why don’t we see how Samuel is doing?” he asked. “He has to be tired of crouching behind that chest of drawers at the back of the attic.”

Hannah nodded, her unruly blonde hair gleaming like a halo in the dim light of the kitchen. “And maybe we can bring him some of Ma’s Christmas baking.” She lowered her voice and grinned mischievously. “I know where she hides it.”

Graham laughed aloud, the sickening tension of the night slowly draining out of his system. He was exhausted, his leg ached, and he suspected he’d have nightmares for weeks, but he was also couldn’t remember when he’d ever been so happy. “That’s a great idea, Hannah.”

As he followed Hannah from the kitchen, he turned back for a last look at the nutcracker. Even though Hannah had carried the lantern out of the room, the bright eyes of the nutcracker gleamed just as they had in the attic, as if they were lit from within. Graham tipped his head in acknowledgement, and then hurried to follow his sister.

Comfortably nestled in the rocking chair and tucked under his grandfather’s arm, Peter Belden had forgotten all about his runny nose and stuffy head. “Where did the nutcracker come from?” he demanded. “Did Mr. Brom make it?” He hesitated. “And what about Samuel? Jonesy didn’t come back to look for him again, did he?”

Graham tapped his pipe thoughtfully. “Samuel continued on his way the very next night,” he assured him. “And Jonesy did come back eventually, but when he did, your great-grandmother was home.” He smiled at the memory. “There was no one in the attic that time, but she followed him through the house, pointing her shotgun at him the entire time.”

Peter’s eyes grew wide as he pictured it.

“As for the nutcracker…” Graham used his pipe to point at the gleaming wood mantle encasing the fireplace. On the polished shelf stood a nutcracker, far taller than the ornaments the Brom family had been making for the Beldens’ for generations. “Mr. Brom never said one way or the other if he carved it. He did give us a small nutcracker, just like usual, that year.”

Peter’s eyes drifted to the decorated Christmas tree, its branches weighed down by the many nutcracker ornaments they’d received over the years.

“Crabapple Farm is lucky to have so many protectors,” Graham said, and Peter nodded earnestly.

“There you are!” Peter’s mother swept into the room, carrying a tray with a sturdy mug and a plate of iced cookies. “Drink the tea first,” she advised, setting the snack on the side table. “I added sugar, but it’s bound to taste bitter if you eat the cookies first.”

“Sugar!” Graham shifted so that Peter could sit up straight enough to drink the hot liquid. “You’re a lucky man. Ma always said sugar was for baking, not drinking.”

Peter eyed the mug dubiously. Not even sugar could help Mrs. Vanderpoel’s medicinal tea taste like anything other than swamp water. But he sipped obediently, watching out the window as thick snowflakes swirled and tapped against the window. The wind howled, but he was toasty warm sitting with his grandfather. Probably Harry and Andy were freezing, he thought, his eyelids growing heavy.

“A little shut-eye will do you good,” Graham said, the rhythmic rocking of the chair lulling Peter further.

Peter struggled to open his eyes—just because he was sick didn’t mean he was tired!—but the sight of the nutcracker, his eyes brighter than the rest of his painted body, made his own eyes even heavier.

As his own eyes drifted closed, he could have sworn that the nutcracker winked.