“You’re so cold, Thomas,” Mrs. Sharp said as she clasped his hands the following afternoon. She’d called Mr. Moran to see if Thomas could help her bring in some firewood, and since Aunt Sadie was too busy at the bank to watch him as she usually did on Tuesdays, Mr. Moran had said yes. If he thought it odd that Mrs. Sharp suddenly needed help, he hadn’t mentioned it.

“Sit here by the fire.” Taking a velvet floor cushion, she set it down on the rug near the fireplace. Giselle made him a cup of lemon balm tea and placed it on the bricks in front of the grate.

While Giselle told Mrs. Sharp about her day at school and determined whether there was anise in the little cookies on the table, Thomas let his finger travel to an image on the rug he hadn’t seen before—an animal half hidden in the bushes at the edge of the woods. The light from the fire moved over the rug, making it seem as if a breeze was blowing through the forest that hid the creature. Thomas leaned in so he could see the whole picture. That’s when he realized it was a little fox, with one paw caught tight in a trap. The rug maker had chosen to capture the fox in that moment of agonizing pain, twisting violently to get away.

“No.” Thomas sat up.

“Thomas? What is it?” Mrs. Sharp set down her cup and started from her chair.

“Nothing. I…The fox,” was all he managed to say.

“Oh.” She sat back down. “Poor creature.”

“The fox?” Giselle said. “What are you talking about, Thomas?”

“I try to keep him tucked under the footstool, but every once in a while someone discovers the poor thing.”

As Mrs. Sharp spoke, Giselle got down on her hands and knees to see what had startled Thomas. He knelt next to her.

“Is that a…Oh, that’s awful! He’s in such pain.” Giselle sat back. “It’s just…he’s frozen there. He’s always going to have his paw in that trap.”

“Think of it as an illustration in a book, Giselle,” Mrs. Sharp said. “How many illustrations have you seen of Snow White sleeping in the casket after she ate the poison apple? But you know very well that’s not how the story ends.”

“But this isn’t a book. It’s a rug!”

“I know. And not every story has a happy ending, though I would like to imagine another ending for this little fox.” Moving over to the fire, Mrs. Sharp repositioned the footstool so that the injured fox was covered up again. “But that’s not why we’re here, so let’s return to Helen. When we last left her, she was lost in a snowstorm.”

Thomas reached for his teacup, but the image wouldn’t leave him. “Maybe…” he began. “What if she comes upon the fox in the woods?”

“Ooh, I like that,” Giselle said. “And rescues him.”

“Think very carefully about that, Thomas,” Mrs. Sharp said. “Not everything can be saved.”

He knew that. Thomas heard his father’s voice telling him the fox was not his concern. “Everyone has problems, Thomas. It’s enough to take care of your own.”

Setting his cup on the bricks, Thomas closed his eyes, trying to erase the fox and invite the snow back in. He waited until snow was swirling all around him, until he could feel the flakes stinging his cheek.

“She’s been walking for hours,” he said. “She’s tired.”

“Where is she?” he heard Giselle ask.

“In the woods. It’s dark, but the snow has stopped and…there’s a moon.” Thomas saw a sliver of light slicing through the trees. “Not a full moon.”

“Is Helen frightened?” Mrs. Sharp was talking now.

Thomas had to concentrate even harder to know what his mother was feeling. Pressing his cheek to his knees, he grabbed the fabric of his pants at his ankles, holding tight.

“You needn’t work so hard, Thomas. Try to relax.”

Taking a deep breath, Thomas imagined an icy wind stinging his cheeks.

Relax! Relax.

Nothing.

A black curtain had fallen in front of the scene. Like the end of a play. He curled up on the floor, letting the fire warm his back. He lay there for a long time, or so it seemed.

Then he felt a poke in his stomach. “Yes,” Dave said. “She is afraid.”

“A little afraid,” Thomas said aloud. He returned to his breath and to the black curtain and resolved to wait until something—anything—appeared. Not long after, he saw a white curl, a wisp of smoke.

The smell moved along easily on the cold crisp air as he followed the trail of smoke to a cottage chimney. It was a hut really. Thomas saw Helen, too, arriving at the top of the rise and glimpsing the light in the gully below her, just as he did.

Thomas opened his hand and closed it again. Around a branch. He held tight. Gazing down, he saw row upon row of feathers, gleaming white in the moonlight. Now he was right there with Helen. He was an owl holding a bag of coins in his beak. The feathers felt so real that he allowed himself to tip forward, testing. As if in a dream, he plunged downward, falling like a stone until he unfurled his wings and flapped—once, twice, gaining height with every stroke.

Helen wheeled around, startled, but when she saw him it was just as if he’d come into the kitchen before she knew he was home, and she held out her arms to gather him in. Now one of her arms was a perch where he settled, gripping the thick fur of her coat to keep himself steady. Helen took the bag from Thomas and tucked it into her coat pocket.

“I was wondering when you’d get here,” she said, rubbing her cheek against his feathers. They watched the cottage in silence, knowing that a hut like this in the middle of the forest was just as likely to house a witch or an evil huntsman as it was a fairy or a kindly old woman. The path the moon cut through the trees ended at a wooden door.

“I have to go in,” Helen said. “Don’t you agree?”

Thomas was not sure. He opened his mouth to speak, but all that came out was an owl noise—Ooo ooo. He searched his mind for even one fairy tale where the heroine passes a hut ablaze with a fire on a cold winter’s night without knocking. He couldn’t think of one.

Flapping his wings, Thomas flew to the roof of the hut to indicate his answer. There he sat, on the lip of the chimney, facing outward and away from the smoke, watching Helen approach the door.

She knocked, and Thomas craned his neck to see what would happen next.

“Thomas.” Giselle was squeezing his shoulder. “Did you fall asleep?”

Thomas opened his owl eyes and regarded Giselle. Pushing himself up on his elbows, he tried to accustom himself to the light in the room, the warmth of the fire. He concentrated on the creases of skin on her cheeks—Giselle’s dimples—trying to remember.

“I know what comes next,” he said.

“Will you tell us?” Giselle said, scooting her chair closer.

“Giselle,” Mrs. Sharp admonished, “don’t crowd him.”

Giselle picked up the cold cup of tea beside Thomas and took it into the kitchen. She must have emptied the tea into the sink; when she returned, she made him a fresh cup and placed it on the bricks before going back to her chair. There she sat, bending forward, hands on her knees, waiting.

Giselle could never be an owl, Thomas thought. She has no patience.

Turning to face the fire so she couldn’t distract him, he told them what had happened.

“You must be a snowy owl,” Giselle spoke in a soft voice. “They live in the Arctic.”

“I wasn’t sure if she should go in, but…I told her to anyway.”

“Good work, Thomas,” said Mrs. Sharp. “Of course Helen has to go in. She’s taking a risk, but certainly whoever lives in that hut knows the woods better than she.”

“Thomas, I hate to say it, but I have to go home and practice my cello,” Giselle said. “Mrs. Turkalo gets cross when I’m not prepared. Do you know more? Will you save it for next time?”

Mrs. Sharp was gathering up the teacups. “We can work on the story again in a day or two.”

Thomas nodded. “She will go in and warm herself by the fire,” he said.

It was the least he could do.