“You’re wearing metal!” said the Bard, yanking the silver necklace up to the light. Lucy shrieked.

“Don’t hurt her!” cried Father.

“And you, Giles, knew she had it,” the old man said.

“It was to honor St. Lucy,” Father protested.

“Don’t give me that drivel! She cried and you gave in to her. Weak, impossibly foolish man! It was up to you to direct her. She’s only a child. You have endangered the whole village.”

Giles Crookleg recoiled, and Jack’s heart went out to him even though he knew his father was in the wrong. Grumbles rose from the other men. “After all that work,” muttered the blacksmith.

“My hands are full of splinters—and for what?” said John the Fletcher. Lucy burst into tears and buried her face in Mother’s dress.

“We will not argue,” the Bard said firmly. “The life force is not served by anger, not mine nor anyone’s. We’ve worked with one heart, and it’s possible that harm will not spread beyond this child.” Father looked up, shocked. Jack was startled too, for he’d thought about only the need-fire being spoiled, not that actual harm would come to Lucy.

“We need another girl to pass the flame to the rest of the village,” said the Bard.

“The baker has a girl and the tanner’s widow has two,” said the chief. “It will take time to fetch them.”

“There’s no need. We have someone here,” came Brother Aiden’s gentle voice. Till now the little monk hadn’t taken part in the ceremony. It was, after all, a pagan rite. “There’s Pega.”

“Pega?” said the chief. “She’s only a slave.”

“More’s the pity. She’s a good child with a loving heart.”

“But she’s so—so—”

“Ugly,” finished the blacksmith, who had two handsome grown-up daughters.

“Not inside,” said Brother Aiden quietly.

“He’s right,” the Bard agreed. “Fate has not been kind to Pega, but the life force shines in her. Come, my dear,” he said, holding his hand out to the terrified girl, who was being pushed forward by the men. “This night you will save the village.”

“What about me?” wailed Lucy, who was still clinging to Mother’s dress. “ I’msupposed to be St. Lucy.”

“Hush,” said Mother, attempting to hold her in her arms. Lucy shoved her away.

“I’mthe most important person in the village! I’mbeautiful! I’mnot a froggy slave!”

Father swept her up. He took the crown from her head and handed it shamefacedly to the Bard. He untied the yellow sash from her dress as she tried to kick him. “Sorry,” he said in a strangled voice.

“Da! You can’t let them do this,” shrieked Lucy. “I’mLucy! I’mthe lost princess!” Giles Crookleg carried her screaming and protesting to the far end of the hall. Jack heard him promise her all sorts of treats if only she would be quiet and not cry and forgive him. Tears ran down Mother’s face, but she did not leave her place by the fire. Even Jack felt shaken.

“Come, child,” the Bard told Pega.

“You won’t—beat me?” Pega said. She had a surprisingly sweet voice. Jack realized it was the first time he’d heard it.

“Never,” promised the old man. “You are the bringer of light to the new year.” He put the crown of yew on her head and tied the belt, dyed with the sunlit color gathered by bees, around the girl’s shabby dress. Pega looked up and smiled. She didhave an awfully froggy mouth, Jack decided, but there was no denying the goodness in her eyes.

The Bard took a candle—not the one Lucy had dropped on the floor—and handed it to Pega. “What should I do, sir?” she asked.

“Light it and hold it out so that others may take fire from you.”

Pega obeyed, and one by one the men in the room lit their lamps. They left at once to kindle their own hearths or bring fire to those who were too ill or old to attend. Last of all, Mother lit her two lamps. “These are for you,” she told the Bard and Brother Aiden, giving each of them four of her precious beeswax candles.

Pega, meanwhile, gazed at her candle in a kind of rapture. “I never had one of these,” she murmured. “It’s so soft and creamy. I believe it’s the prettiest thing I ever saw.”

“Then you may keep it,” Mother said. “Put it out for now. It has done its work. When you feel the need, it will brighten your nights.”

“I won’t burn it. I’ll keep it forever,” Pega declared. “And when I die, I’ll be buried with it.”

“Don’t speak of death on this night!” said the Bard. The girl looked so stricken that he patted her on the shoulder. “There, I’m only joking. We’ve put death behind us, thanks to you. It’s time to be happy.” He gently lifted the crown of yew from her head. He untied the yellow belt and handed it to Mother. Pega blew out her candle. With its light gone, something seemed to go out in her as well. The old, frightened look crept back into her eyes, and she looked down to hide her face.

“What should I do with this?” Mother pushed Lucy’s discarded candle with her foot.

“I’ll deal with it, Alditha,” the Bard said. “Brother Aiden and I are going to sleep here. Are you staying?”

“We’d planned to, but—” Mother nodded at Father and Lucy huddled at the far end of the hall, then gazed at the chief scowling by the door. “Now may not be a good time.”

So Jack took a lamp and went to fetch Bluebell. The donkey was even more unwilling to move this time, having found herself a warm nest between two cows. Jack pulled and smacked her on the rump until he had wrestled her back to the chief’s door. Father came out with Lucy, but she screamed and refused to let go of him.

Jack saw, just before the door closed, the chief, the Bard, and Brother Aiden warming their hands at the fire. Pega was heating a poker to make them hot cider.

They started out, with Father carrying Lucy, and Jack hauling on Bluebell’s rope. Light was building behind the heavy snow clouds. The long night was over and the sun was returning. The frost giants were retreating. The wolf of winter, though still healthy, would grow lean as the weeks passed. Lucy stirred in Father’s arms and said, in a sleepy voice, “You willremember what you promised me? I’ve been sucha good girl.”

Everyone slept late. Jack forced himself to crawl out of the warm sheepskins and return the rooster to his flock. The hens were huddled together in the straw of their enclosure. They barely stirred when Jack opened the barn door. Clouds blanketed the sky, and again snowflakes swirled on the wind. From the privy, Jack could hardly see his own house.

It was a day of rest, although no day on a farm was completely without work. Father coiled straw into beehives for use when spring came. He fastened sticks across the top for the bees to hang their combs and covered the basket with a tight-fitting lid. Mother spun wool.

Jack brought hay to Bluebell and fed the chickens, pigeons, and geese. Once there had been only chickens, but Father had increased his stock with the silver Jack had given him. The herd of sheep had grown from twenty to thirty. It was good to have more animals, but it also meant more work.

Jack trudged across the snow-covered garden to a tiny shed blanketed with turf. It was here Mother preserved her winter hives. Most had to be destroyed in fall because it was impossible to keep them through the cold, but Mother always saved five or six of her best producers. They were special bees, unlike the small, dark bees of the forest. They had come from Rome long ago, when Roman armies had ruled the land. The armies had gone, leaving behind the house where the Bard lived, a road going north through the forest, and the bees.

Jack crawled through the door of the shed and put his ear to the straw of the nearest hive. Its hum was low and sleepy. There were no sounds of distress or the chirps that meant the bees were starving. A faint warmth rose from the straw as if an animal slept inside. Jack smiled. He liked working with bees. He went from hive to hive, making sure they were healthy. Nearer spring, he would feed them bread soaked in cider and honey, to give them the strength to emerge.