By the time Thomas got home from Giselle’s, Aunt Sadie was gone. His father made dinner, and after they ate and did the dishes, he returned to his office to finish his work.

Thomas snuck outside to get the plastic bag containing the next installment of his story. He took it to his room, moved aside the storage boxes, and crawled into UnderLand. Turning on the Christmas lights, he began to read.

After Helen said good-bye to the fox she got to her feet. Standing next to her was a massive polar bear, far larger than the one who’d met her at her car.

“Are you—” Helen began.

“Yes, the one you’ve been seeking. Do not be afraid, my dear; I will not hurt you,” said the polar bear queen. “It was your kind act toward this little fox that summoned me. Come close and let me warm you.” Helen let herself be wrapped in the bear’s embrace. “You’ve come such a long way. And yet…and yet…I have to tell you, Helen, your baby is not in my kingdom.”

Helen pressed her face to the polar bear’s sleek fur and began to cry.

“Go ahead and cry. What else can we do when nothing is as we imagined it would be? But you did not come this long, difficult way in vain, Helen. Your quest is just different than you thought. Are you afraid of what lies ahead?” The queen turned her head so that she could regard Helen with one great brown eye.

“A little,” Helen said. “Will it hurt?”

“I’m afraid so, but change is often painful, isn’t it?”

Helen nodded. She didn’t like change.

“In order for you to go home, you must save three lives. Unbeknownst to you, you have already begun by springing the trap for this fox.”

Helen nodded. She’d come this far. She must continue to be brave. With a glance up at Thomas, who was watching and listening from a nearby branch, she took a step back and straightened her shoulders, waiting for what would come next.

“Then…you wish to go on?”

Helen nodded. “I do.”

“You must find the other two that need saving.” And with that, the polar bear queen disappeared into the snowy landscape.

Helen beckoned to Thomas. “Where will I find them?” she asked when he’d landed on her shoulder.

More than anything, Thomas wanted to help his mother, but he did not know, any more than she did, which way to go. Once again, Helen said good-bye to the fox, and with Thomas still on her shoulder she walked through the snow until they came to a rutted lane worn from the tracks of sleds passing through.

They followed it, and before long they heard a commotion coming from beyond a hedge of dead wood and brambles. As they came closer, they saw a farmer cursing his pony. Harnessed to a plow, the pony strained mightily but couldn’t make a dent in the frozen furrow. The man showered the pony with blows until she buckled and collapsed on the ground. Helen started plunging into the snowdrift, parting the brambles with her bare hands, calling out to the farmer to stop. Thomas flew to a branch of a nearby tree.

“What business is this of yours?” the farmer asked, waving the stick at Helen.

Thomas was about to dive at the horrible man, to let him feel his sharp talons, but then he realized this pony might be one of the lives Helen had to save before she could return home. So he waited nearby, ready to defend his mother if it was necessary.

“Have compassion, sir. This pony is too weak to do as you ask.”

“Not after a taste of this stick.”

“No.” Helen grabbed hold of the man’s arm. “Let me buy her then.”

From inside her coat pocket, Helen produced the bag of coins that Thomas had provided. She handed it to the farmer, who took the bag and pulled out a coin. “What’s this, then?” He held the coin close to his face. “You’re not from around here. What use have I with these? They’d laugh in the marketplace if I tried to use them. Keep your coins.” He tossed the coin and the bag at Helen, who watched as they sank into the snow.

Helen knelt down by the pony. She stroked her knotted mane. “There must be something I have that you want. Would you…would you accept my coat in exchange for your pony?”

No! Thomas did not like this idea. He winged his way to the space between them and settled on the ground. Helen mustn’t give this awful man her coat.

“Such a coat could warm me through the deepest cold,” he said, eyeing it appreciatively. “But she is a fine pony. Add the owl to the bargain and you’ll have a deal.”

“The owl is not mine to give. It will have to be the coat or nothing.” Helen stood and began to remove her coat as if the deal were sealed. And it was. The man threw down his patched coat and held out his hand for Helen’s. After handing hers over, she picked up his old coat and put it on.

Delighted with his deal, the farmer strutted up and down the row. But Thomas could only think of Helen, her small figure inside the thin coat she now wore. How would it keep her warm enough?

“It’s time for my lunch. You’d best be gone when I come back.”

Thomas watched the man walk away as Helen knelt in the snow urging the pony to stand. She broke up the last of her bread and offered it up on the palm of her hand. “You must be starving, poor thing.”

Licking at her hand, the pony opened her eyes. She tried to lift her head.

“We’ll stay here until you have regained your strength.” Helen tore a piece of cloth from the hem of her dress. Dipping it in snow, she began to wipe the blood from the pony’s flank. “You will get through this. You will,” she murmured. “We’re here now. I’m going to call you Sadie after my sister. She’s the strong one, isn’t that right, Thomas?”

Helen unbuckled the harness and they waited for Sadie to revive. By and by, she did and, after several tries, rolled herself up to standing. With slow careful steps, Helen led the pony to the road, and they were on their way once again.

As Thomas flew overhead, scanning the ground for what danger might come next, he watched as Helen and the lame pony struggled in the deep snow. Neither figure seemed to have the strength to carry on. But when he flew closer, he could see they were leaning into each other for support and warmth, just as Helen had always done with her sister.

Thomas wriggled out of UnderLand, folded the papers, and stuck them in his back pocket. He needed to get a message to Mrs. Sharp right away. They must find a way to help his mother.

Thomas retrieved Giselle’s coins from the box, went downstairs, and put his coat on before he found his father in his office. Tearing a page from the pad on his father’s desk, he wrote: “I have to return these to Giselle. She let me borrow them.”

Taking the bag of coins, his father said, “For a school project?”

“No,” Thomas wrote. He paused. He hadn’t realized that all this writing gave his father evidence of anything he might say that wasn’t exactly true. “I like to look at old things.”

“You do?”

Thomas nodded.

“And it has to be tonight? It’s eight thirty.”

Thomas nodded.

“Go on then, but come right back.” His father looked as if he’d like to say more, but he stayed silent.

Once outside, Thomas ran until he reached Giselle’s door.

Nadine answered his knock, holding a jar that smelled like rotten eggs. “Hello, Thomas. I’m having some kimchi. Would you like some?”

Thomas shook his head.

“You should eat something fermented every day. It’s good for your gut.”

“Who is it, Mom?” Giselle appeared at her mother’s side. “You’re not eating that awful stuff in front of Thomas.” Pushing the jar away, Giselle crinkled her nose. “It’s so stinky.”

“I’m sorry optimum health offends you, my dear.” Ms. Dover kissed the top of Giselle’s head.

“Come on.” Giselle led Thomas into the kitchen, where a much nicer smell was coming from the stove.

Handing Giselle the bag of coins and the folded sheets of paper, Thomas sat down on a stool and waited for Giselle to read what Mrs. Sharp had written.

“Oh no. She’ll freeze to death for sure.”

Thomas pulled out a small pad and pencil he’d begun carrying around in his back pocket and wrote: “I wanted her to find Aunt Sadie, but she found a pony instead. Why didn’t the coins work? And why did she have to give up her coat?”

“Maybe a snack will help you think your way out of this,” Giselle suggested. “I made apple cider and spiced it with cloves and cinnamon sticks.”

She reached for the cupboard door, but Thomas held her arm and pointed back to his paper. “What if my mother blows the whistle?” he wrote. “Do you think this means it’s the right time?”

Giselle poured their cider, thinking. “I don’t know.”

“The bear said she could only use it once,” Thomas wrote on his pad.

“If the bear doesn’t come to help, do you think your mom and the pony can stay warm enough? I hate to think what will happen to them when night falls.”

Thomas knew that the bear would save his mother if she blew the whistle. Why then did his mouth suddenly go dry—as if the powdery scales Dave shed from his wings had settled on his tongue—when he thought about it?

He took a deep breath and wrote:

Dear Mrs. Sharp,

Do you think it is time for my mother to blow the whistle?

Sincerely, Thomas