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soon.
       “Cerryl?” said Dylert.
       “Yes, ser?”
       “I was going to have you clean the pit today, seeing as things are slow.” He coughed. “Dyella, though, she pointed out how the roof of the chicken shed is sagging, and my bones tell me we might yet see more snow. I'd like you to clear that afore you come down to the mill.”
       “Yes, ser.”
       “Got an old pair of mitts.” Dylert glanced toward the narrow table by the door to the porch. “Need those, you will, lest your fingers chill.” He coughed. “Best you keep them till the weather warms.”
       “Thank you, ser.” Cerryl nodded and smiled, trying to show that he appreciated the gesture. “Thank you.”
       “Can't have you getting frozen hands. Darkness, this been a cold winter. Coldest in years.”
       “Coldest I can recall,” added Dyella.
       Cerryl eased off the bench and nodded to Dylert and then Dyella. “Thank you. The porridge was good.”
       “Stick to your bones,” Dyella said.
       After slipping the mitts on and easing out the door onto the porch, Cerryl took the slick steps carefully. Once his boots were on the packed snow of the path, he glanced at the mill. A thick plume of smoke billowed from the chimney.
       At least the mill would be warmer than his cubby. He trudged toward the chicken shed, conscious of how much warmer his hands were in the heavy leather mitts, mitts big enough for a grown man.
       Before he reached the chicken shed, his toes were cold, jammed as they were into his boots. The path went to the door of the chicken house, but the roof was slanted down to the left. Cerryl struggled from the path through the knee-deep snow around to the left side of the building, where he could reach the lower edge of the slanted roof.
       The bottom edge was but chest high, and Cerryl stretched and used his right arm to sweep the snow clear-except the powdery stuff swirled into the air and came down on his face and hair, and sifted down the back of his jacket.
       He brushed off his hair and face, then swept another heavy armful off the lower roof. More snow swirled around him and drifted down his neck, inside his jacket and shirt. Grimly, he swirled aside more snow, and more of the powder sifted around him, even getting into his nose and mouth.
       He stepped back, all too conscious of cold dampness down his back and toes going numb, looking up at the snow beyond his reach.
       “Here! Use this,” said Brental, handing Cerryl a small timber- quarterspan by quarterspan-perhaps six cubits long.
       “Thank you, Brental.” Cerryl gratefully took the timber.
       “No thanks. You be getting it done sooner this way. Da wants the sawpit cleaned later. Said he'd tell you, but Ma feared for the hens if'n the roof went.” The redheaded young man grinned. “I'm off to clear the barn roof.”
       “Lucky you.”
       “When you're taller, you can help.” Brental laughed. “Make sure you brush off that snow 'fore you go into the mill. It be getting warm there now, and you won't be wanting wet clothes.”
       Cerryl nodded. No ... he wouldn't be wanting wet clothes. He took a firm grip on the end of the pine timber and began to sweep the rest of the snow off the chicken house roof.
     
     

White Order
    VII
     
    Cerryl lay on his back, the heavy coarse blankets up to his chin, looking up through the darkness at the wide planks overhead. He could sense, rather than see, the heavy timbers that rested on those planks- the end of the finish timber rack holding oak beams. Almost a dozen score were stacked above Cerryl, seasoning, waiting for a buyer.
       Even in designing where his workers' rooms were, Dylert wasted nothing, not even barn space, since any storage where the rooms were would have been almost inaccessible. Cerryl frowned, thinking about the three men-his father, his uncle, and Dylert. One had failed and died; one had failed, but not died; and one had succeeded. Was it