Warm Toes
The snow stopped while Rumi was pulling on their second pair of socks. Outside, the sky had swept itself clean, and the cold came in sharp and bright. Rumi opened the door and breathed a whole cloud. Rosa hopped down from the bench, one ear up, one ear flopped over. On the stove sat a round grey river stone, warm as a new loaf. Rumi wrapped it in a wool cloth and tucked the bundle under one arm. "For the hill," Rumi said. "For our toes." Rosa pressed her nose against the wool and held it there a moment. Then they stepped out into the muffled street together.
They went down the lane where the lamps were already lit. The snow squeaked under Rumi's boots like new shoes on a wooden floor. Steam curled from somebody's kettle and vanished. Beside the well, Rosa stopped and pointed her nose at the low wall, where someone had set a lantern down and then lifted it away. A little dip was pressed into the snow there, smooth and round and blue inside. "A warm thing leaves a soft round hole," Rosa said. Rumi crouched and touched the dip with one bare finger. The cold bit, and the finger went back into the mitten fast. Then Rumi lay down and made an angel in the snow.
At the top of the hill, Rumi spread the wool cloth flat and sat on it. The cloth was cold. Rumi patted it, then patted their coat pockets, then patted the snow all around. No stone. Back by the wall, when the angel was being made, the bundle had been set down, and only the cloth had been picked up again. Rosa hopped close and rested her chin on Rumi's knee. "Warm toes?" she asked. Rumi looked at the stars coming out, one and then another. "Warm toes," Rumi said. The words sat down in their chest like a small cold pebble and stayed there.
The cold came up through the cloth and into Rumi's legs. Their nose went stiff. Below them the village breathed out little threads of smoke, and every window was a square of butter-coloured light. Rosa shivered once, tucked her paws under herself, and spoke without looking up. "I left the door open this morning," she said. "That is why the stove went low. I did not tell you." Her flopped ear twitched. The saying of it seemed to make her smaller and lighter at the same time, like a bird shaking snow off. Rumi felt the pebble in their chest turn over.
Rumi breathed out a long slow cloud and watched it go. "The stone isn't in the cloth," they said. "I put it down by the wall to make the angel. Then I said warm toes, and my toes were freezing." It was harder to say than to keep. But the pebble went out with the words, and Rumi's chest felt roomy and strange. Rosa's up-ear swung round. She did not sigh and she did not scold. "Then we know exactly where to look," she said, and she was already hopping, and Rumi was already standing, and the hill was behind them both.
Down the lane, under the lamps, they went slowly and looked hard. The snow was smooth everywhere, silver on top and blue in the dents. Rumi ran a mitten over the wall, over the hoofprints, over nothing. Then Rosa stopped. "A warm thing leaves a soft round hole," she said. There it was, close to the wall: a hollow deeper than a lantern's, with a grey curve at the bottom of it. Rumi lifted the stone out with both hands. It had gone from loaf-warm to just barely warm, the way a cup is warm long after the tea.
They carried it home between them, Rumi holding the stone and Rosa pressed against Rumi's coat, and the last of the warmth went into whoever needed it most. Inside, Rumi fed the stove two pieces of wood and set the stone on top to think about being hot again. The kitchen smelled of wool drying. Rumi's cheeks burned pink in that good sore way. Later the stone went under the blankets at the foot of the bed, and Rumi's toes found it, and Rosa found the warm dip beside Rumi's knee and settled in it.
The candle on the sill was down to a stub. Frost made feathers on the glass, and beyond the glass the village had gone quiet under its deep white quilt. "A warm thing leaves a soft round hole," Rumi said, almost asleep. Rosa's one ear tipped forward in agreement. Rumi reached out, cupped a hand behind the little flame, and blew. The light went out. In the dark the stone kept its heat under the blankets, and the room held onto the smell of the candle, and somewhere outside, very softly, more snow began to come down.
