Even when the snow fell fastest, they could see by the light of the porch lamp wolves circling round and round the cottage. Gentian huddled close to her older sister Philomena, who wrapped a fold of her should around Gentian's shoulders as they stood by the frosty window, which seemed to give cold as a fire gives heat.

"I shouldn't have taken the carving," Gentian whispered.

"Shh. They're not here because of that," Philomena said.

"Are you sure? Because if it is - if I give it back to them - " But Gentian shuddered as she said it, for even now she didn't want to give that carving up: the leaping wolf, carved from the lithe graceful curve of an antler.

"No, no," Philomena said. "It's nothing to do with that."

She slipped the warm folds of her shawl around Gentian's shoulders. Gentian, squinting to see through the swirling snow, didn't look up till the hinges squeaked. Then she cried out, and dived after her sister, but the door swung shut with a final gust of snow, and though Gentian tried the handle, Philomena had spelled it shut.

Gentian ran back to the window. Briefly she saw Philomena's dark hair and white blouse, but then both dissolved in the falling snow, which now hid even the wolves.

A wolf howled. Gentian shuddered, clutching her shawl close in fisted hands.

The door opened. A gust of snow blew Philomena into the room. Gentian jumped to her side, and together they pressed the door closed against the powerful wind. \

Then Gentian wound the shawl around her shivering sister, and took her cold hand to lead her to the fire, and set the kettle to boil.

Philomena's shivering eased as she sipped a cup of chamomile. Gentian sat with her cold hands clenched in her heavy wool skirts. "Well?"

Philomena shook her head. "I don't understand it," she said. "They didn't attack. But they won't let me pass."