He looked toward the boarded pantry.
Then toward the bolted doors.
Then the windows.
“What in God’s name?”
Clara’s expression had changed from fear to anger.
“I want this explained.”
“So do I.”
“No.”
She pointed toward the pear.
“I want it explained today.”
Samuel almost laughed.
“You’re giving the mystery a deadline?”
“Yes.”
“Should I inform it?”
“Please.”
He picked up the pear with the cloth.
Fresh.
Yellow-green.
Unbruised.
They had not seen a fresh pear since early autumn.
Clara circled the room.
Her movements were slow but purposeful.
At her size, changing direction in the cramped cabin took effort. Samuel had learned not to crowd her. He stepped aside as she moved toward the southern wall.
“Roof,” she said.
“I checked.”
“Check again.”
“Clara—”
“Either food is walking through timber or we have missed something.”
That was difficult to argue with.
Samuel spent the morning in the loft.
He examined rafters.
Ran his hands along the roof joints.
Removed two small interior boards.
Found mouse nests, old straw, and enough dust to prove nobody had recently moved through any gap large enough to matter.
He came down with cobwebs in his beard.
Clara looked up from the stove.
“Well?”
“Mice.”
“Carrying pears?”
“No.”
“Then continue.”
“You enjoy this.”
“I enjoy being right.”
“About what?”
“That we missed something.”
Samuel wiped his beard.
“You don’t know that yet.”
“I do.”
“How?”
“Because cabbages are not supernatural.”
“You sound very confident for a woman who slept with a fireplace poker.”
“Practical skepticism still carries iron.”
That evening, Clara examined the pantry herself.
Samuel had removed the board.
She stood inside for nearly ten minutes.
At first she simply looked.
Then touched.
Shelf brackets.
Nails.
Wood grain.
Corners.
She asked Samuel:
“Who built this pantry?”
“I did.”
“When?”
“About thirteen years ago.”
“What was here before?”
“Storage alcove.”
“With shelves?”
“One.”
“What was behind it?”
“The hill.”
“You know that?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“The cabin is cut into the slope.”
Clara glanced toward the back wall.
“How thick?”
“I don’t know.”
“That is not knowing.”
Samuel frowned.
“I crawled under the cabin. The foundation goes into rock.”
“Rock everywhere?”
“Mostly.”
“Mostly is not everywhere.”
She lowered herself carefully onto a reinforced stool.
Samuel immediately moved toward her.
She raised one hand.
“I am sitting by choice, not collapsing.”