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and just enough light to make Dara’s task look impressively daunting.  With a sigh, she got to work, after warming her hands in front of the flame.
    It didn’t take long to put the few remaining possessions out of the way.  The old clay chamberpot she tucked under the bed, the battered teakettle she returned to the fireplace, and assembling the Widow’s few spoons and knife in her cup was simple.  She removed the larger pieces of trash from the floor and piled it all outside the door for later disposal.  
    She’d noticed a musty smell that she tracked to the leaky clay cistern.  Built into the wall next to the fireplace, the clay tub held four or five gallons of rainwater . . . but a leak had rotted out the pole under it, which had allowed a hole to open in the roof.
    With a critical eye Dara assessed the damage.  The entire pole would have to be replaced, she decided, which would be a bit of a job.  Until then, a piece of leather or oilcloth could be used to stop the leak, but until it was replaced the cottage would not be respectfully usable – certainly not up to her aunt’s standards.  
    Worse, the constant dribble of water had eroded the clay of the wall.  That would have to be patched, too, Dara decided.  She made note of it, and continued cleaning.
    Unlike her older sister, Linta, who could not go ten heartbeats without speaking, sometimes, Dara did not mind the quiet and solitude of the remote cottage.  Indeed, she reveled in it.  Things were always so busy around the Hall, with someone always telling her what to do or where to be, but here, in the quiet of the nutwoods, Dara was perfectly comfortable.  She even hummed – poorly off-key – as she swept the bare floor clean of the remaining trash and dust with an ancient besom.
    That’s when she realized she wasn’t alone.   She felt eyes on her.
    She glanced up quickly to the door, just in time to see a tiny furry head duck out of the way.
    “Hello?” she called.  “Are you visiting?”
    She went to investigate, and saw a furry ringed tail disappear around the corner of the cottage.  She froze.  In a moment, a tiny black nose peeked around the corner, followed by two little eyes in a bandit’s mask.
    “Hello, little raccoon!” she smiled.  This close to the manor she hadn’t been worried about one of the predators of the forest sneaking up on her, but it was always a possibility.  “Aren’t you supposed to be a night walker?” she asked the furry little animal, as it tentatively stepped toward her and chittered.
    He seemed to be questioning her.
    Perhaps, she reasoned, he had been an acquaintance of Widow Ama.  Elders often doted on pets, and the pensioners frequently kept a cat or small dog for company, but perhaps the widow had made animal friends in the wood, instead of supporting them on her meager allowance.
    “She’s gone, now,” Dara explained to the raccoon, who chattered again.  “She’s . . . she’s passed on ,” Dara said, not knowing just how one explained the concept of death and the afterlife to a raccoon.  “Were you a friend of hers?”
    The raccoon ignored the question when it spied the pile of garbage.  Not seeing Dara as a threat, it walked right up to the pile and began sorting through it with his clever paws, sniffing every piece with interest.  
    “Try not to make too much of a mess,” she cautioned.  “But take what you like.  How many days have you been by here without seeing anyone, I wonder?” she asked, aloud.  The raccoon, for all its friendliness, had no answer for that.
    Dara brushed dirt off her hands, realizing that the sun was already beginning to set behind the ridge.  No wonder the creature was out and about – she’d been so busy she’d forgotten the time.  It was near to dusk.  The manor’s dinner bell began pealing in the distance, emphasizing the lateness of the day.
    “Time to go!” she said, returning inside to bank the fire, and gather up a few things to take