Almanac: the lost goat and the school
Elsa, a farm outside Vell. Autumn. Written in the margin of the egg book, week by week.

First week. Clear and cool. Apples are in at the neighbors. The school at Vell is practicing a play about a fox and a goose. My niece is the goose. She has a very large paper beak.
Second week. Rain on the third and fourth days. The school play is on the seventh. The goat from the next farm is lost. She went out the gate on the second day and has not come back.
Third week. The goat is found. She was in the school hall, asleep behind the stage, with the paper beak in her mouth. The play was a great success.
Weather lore: a thick coat on the goats means a hard winter. This goat has a very thick coat.
Folk at the market say the relay on the northern hill blinked a long message at night. Nobody could read it. Some say it was a storm warning. Some say it was a test. Elsa says: buy salt.
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Almanac: how the marsh follows the sea
Wren, Drybank. For the children of the hamlet, who ask why the boardwalk is wet on some days and dry on others.
The sea is at Saltreach. The marsh is here. They are a day apart by road, but they are one water. When the sea rises at Saltreach, the marsh rises about two hours later. When the sea falls, the marsh falls. So if you know the tide at Saltreach, you know the marsh.
The post. By the boat house there is a post with a notch for every hand's width of water. The top notch is the highest water anyone remembers. We call it Old Fen's mark, because he stood beside it and said, "Never again." He says it every time.
How to read the post.
1. At the third notch, the boardwalk is wet at the third post. Wear boots.
2. At the fifth notch, the lower path floods. Carry the little ones.
3. At the seventh notch, go up to the long boardwalk. Take the cat. Take the kettle. Take the cat first.
Spring tides come a day or two after the new moon and after the full moon. The water goes highest and lowest. Neap tides come between, and the water hardly moves. Watch the moon. The moon knows.
The fish. On a high tide the fish come up the channel, and the weir is full at dawn. On a low tide the weir is empty and the frogs look foolish. The best fishing is the week of the spring tides. Rook says it is the week of the new moon. Rook is right, and does not know why.
Market day. The boats from Saltreach come up the channel to the Lowmarsh market only at high water. So the market follows the moon. It is held the day after each spring tide, on the long boardwalk. That is why it is on the 9th and the 24th one month and the 11th and the 26th the next. Read the post, not the almanac.
The smell. At low water the marsh smells of everything the winter left behind. This is not a sickness. It is the marsh breathing out.
Mud. When the mud cracks in Blossom, the summer will be early and dry. When it stays soft and shines, the summer will be wet. It held last year and the year before. It failed the year before that. I give it two out of three.
A last thing. Moss stood by the post one whole night, because I told it to watch the water. In the morning the water was at the fourth notch. Moss had not moved. I should have said, watch the water and come in to eat. I say that now.
%%
Almanac: signs of the winter
Elsa, egg seller. Autumn. These are the signs I have counted this year. Some are old, some are new. I write them all and let the reader judge.

The old signs.
Geese leave early: hard winter.
Squirrels gather many nuts: hard winter.
Thick husks on the corn: hard winter.
Hens laying late in autumn: mild winter, or the hens are confused.
A ring round the moon: snow in three days.
A red sky at dawn: wet day.
Bees sealing the hive door: cold coming.

The signs of this autumn.
The geese left a week early.
The squirrels have gathered twice as many nuts as last year.
The hens are laying very late. I do not know what that means.
The moon had a ring on the second night, and snow did not come. It rained instead.
The bees sealed the door in Apple. They have not sealed it so early in my life.

The talk in the market.
A cart from the north says there were lights over the hills, green and red, moving slowly. Some say falling stars. Some say a great fire very far away. A boy said they were looking at us. His mother told him to go and wash.
A trader from Copperhold says the miners are staying out of the lower levels. He did not say why. He did not like to.
A woman from Saltreach says the shipyard is building bigger boats than she has ever seen.

I do not know what to make of it. I sell eggs. I have a good dry barn and a basket of salt. If it is a hard winter, I am ready. If it is a mild one, I will have salt for next year.

Sell the eggs early. Keep the hens in at dusk. Keep the torches lit.
%%
Almanac: the gift, and the spring
Kept by Kit, for the last days of Blossom, when the spring is nearly done and the orchard is loud with bees.

Blossom, the twenty-seventh. A gift came up the orchard path this morning, carried by a boy from Ambrook who said his mother had sent it with her thanks for the saplings. It was a small cloth bag, tied with string, and inside it were seeds: white beans, a red bean I did not know, and a packet of something dark and round that the boy said was a melon from the Ambrook garden. He had no idea what it would taste like. Neither had I.

The gift is in the store under the bench, with a card that says: from Ambrook, to be planted with thanks. I will plant the red bean first, by the gate, where it can see the road.

Blossom, the twenty-eighth. A small thing I did not expect. The mended roof of the shed leaked a single drop in the night, right above the bench where the new seed trays are kept. I found it in the morning, a clear bead of water on the wood. I wiped it, and then I checked the rafters, and then I went and sat in the shed for an hour, listening. It has not leaked since. I am still a little proud of it, and I think the carpenter's boys would laugh.
Blossom, the thirtieth. The last day of the spring month. The wheat is three hands high in the long field. The beans have set their pods. The beetroot is red at the stem, and the carrots are green and fine. The melon in the frame has come up, two small leaves, shaped like the palm of a child.

The spring is nearly done. The orchard is full. The gift is planted, most of it. The roof is dry. I have had two cups of cider and one very good bowl of soup, and I am writing this to say that the year is going well so far, and that I am glad of it.

Kit, orchard keeper, Vell.
%%
Almanac: a long winter, day by day
Ula, potter at Lowmarsh. Written in the second half of Deepsnow, when the winter had gone on so long that the people asked for a record of it. A long winter, a short almanac.
Weather: since the first of Frost, there has been no day above freezing. The marsh is solid. Children skate on the weir pond. The ice is as thick as a man's arm.
Water: the village well is covered. We break the ice each morning with the iron bar. The weir is frozen to the bottom. No fish come in. The eel traps are dry.
Wood: Piper at the inn says the woodshed is a third full. Mine is half. We share. Corm the thatcher has gone to the forest with a sled and has not come back. A search will go out at dawn.
Food: wheat, potatoes, beetroot, apples in straw. The salt fish is half gone. Wren says to eat slowly, and share.
Health: the grey cough has not come back. Some say the cold has killed it. Some say it waits for spring. The chest cough is common. Mint tea, honey, a warm room.
Animals: the cats sleep in the kiln. The hens are in the kitchen. The frogs are under the mud and silent. A fox came to the weir inn door yesterday, thin, and was given a fish.
Roads: the Long Road is closed in the north. In the south it is open by cart. The relay on the hill sends and receives. But the messages from the north come short and late. Piper says Northpoint has not sent for nine days. The keeper says it is the cold on the lamp. People say other things. I write them down.
The sky: on the clearest nights, the north shows a green light, low, very slow. Some say it is falling stars. Some say fires on the ice. It does no harm. The children watch it from the boat house roof, wrapped in blankets, and name it. They call it the Curtain.
Spring will come. It always has.
%%
Almanac: the house at the edge of Vell
Kept by the house. Weather and the tides as the carters bring them. The boat is Ned's boat, from Saltreach, which is late.
Leaffall, 25th. Rain from the south all day. Ned's boat was due in on the tide of the second bell. It did not come.
Leaffall, 26th. The carter from the coast says the Saltreach tide was high and the boats went out early. He saw Ned's boat go out. He saw the sail. He says it was a good sail, blue with a white band.
Leaffall, 27th. Still no boat. Wind from the west, strong. The tide at Saltreach was very low at dawn, and the boats that could not get out were left high on the stones.
Leaffall, 28th. Mother lit the lamp in the window at dusk and left it burning all night. She says a lamp is for the boats, and Ned is on the water. Carl says the lamp will not bring a boat home. Mother says it does not need to bring it, it only needs to let it see the way.
Leaffall, 29th. Carter from the coast came up again. He says the boats went out in a hurry, because of the tide and because the quay was crowded with carts. He says Ned's boat was not the only one late. He did not say what the other reasons were.
Leaffall, 30th. Ned came up the hill road at noon, wet and cross, with his sail over his shoulder and a fish in each hand. He says the wind dropped and he had to row. He says he had a good catch and a bad temper. Mother hugged him, then hit him with the broom, then hugged him again.
Leaffall, 30th, evening. Lamp put out. Carl says it was wasted oil. Mother says it was not.
%%
Almanac: the last of the autumn
By Dace, for the Brown Hen, on the last day of Leaffall, when the carts had stopped coming up the road and the road was quiet for the first time in a month.

The first hard frost came in the night. It lay white on the low fields, and on the cart sheets left out to dry, and on the top rail of every gate on the Long Road. The carters came out to look at it, and then went in to their soup.

Stores: the cellar at the Brown Hen is full. The sacks of barley are at the back, and the pears are in straw at the front, and the honey is on the high shelf, where the cook cannot reach it without a stool. Keep the stool by the cellar door.

Roads: the north road is open to Three Wells and no farther. The road to Vell is dry in the middle and muddy at the edges. Keep to the middle. The waymarks are standing, each with its torch on top, and the little stones on the pillars have been added to by every traveler who passed. Some of the stones are very new. Some are very old and worn smooth. You can read the road by them.

Weather: wind from the north this week, sharp at night. The bees are in, and the mice are in, and the hens have stopped laying for the season, which is no surprise to anyone who has tried to make them.

Lamps: the lamp on the hill is lit at dusk, and trimmed at dawn. It has been lit every night for as long as the inn has stood, and the keeper says it will be lit every night after this. Nobody has asked her how she knows.

Good luck to the carters going north. Good luck to the carters going south. Good luck to Pell, who is going everywhere, and will complain about all of it.

Dace
%%
Almanac for Hollin Cross, Thaw
Odo, trader, Hollin Cross. Kept on the back of the cart tally, spring of 205.

Day 1: Wind from the north. Ice still on the cistern. Ground soft at the edges only.
Day 2: Snow in the morning, sun by noon. The snow was wet. Good for sliding, bad for the hens.
Day 3: Cold again. The puddle by the well froze in the night. Ada cracked it with her boot, and Ada is not a child.
Day 4: Warm. Melt running off every roof. The old well cover floated away. Found it in the reeds at the bottom of the hill.
Day 5: Rain. The first rain since Frost. The hens did not like it, and said so.
Day 6: Clear. Frost at dawn, thin as paper. Put the seed potatoes out in the sun. Not in the shed. Not yet.
Day 7: Wind from the west, mild. The first crow of the spring at the wood edge. Brann says that means nothing. Brann says that every year.

The thaw here is slow. Plant nothing in the north before the last frost of Thaw. Here that is usually about the twentieth day. If you are not sure, wait another week, and then you will have been right.
%%
Ambrook almanac, Deepsnow 154
House at the east hedge. Ned's book.
First of Deepsnow. Hard frost. The mill pond has a skin of ice near the bank. Keep the sluice shut. Nobody needs a wet boot today.
Second. Snow before noon, then sun. The old apple tree holds three red apples. I left them for the birds. The birds left one for me.
Third. Wind from the north. Bring in the last carrots from the shed. Tie the door with cord. The latch sticks when the wood swells.
Fourth. Clear and cold. Melt snow for the hens. Do not put the bowl by the hearth. The cat has learned to drink from it.
Fifth. Snow again. The mill wheel is still. I sharpened the small saw and mended a basket.
Sixth. Cloud. No work in the orchard. Count the wood. We have enough if we burn one armful each night and stop Ned from putting wet sticks on top.
Seventh. Frost at dawn. The smallest apple has fallen. The hens found it before I did.
%%
Almanac: planting, Sowing
Planting for Sowing at Hollin Brook. The dates are the ones the hill has kept for as long as anybody has counted.

Beetroot goes in during the first week of Sowing, in rows six paces apart. Dig the row deep, and keep the children out of it.
Carrots go in between the beetroot, one carrot for each beetroot, in the second week. Carrots do not mind waiting.
Potatoes go in the bottom bed, on the dry side of the brook. Potatoes in wet ground rot, and then the whole hill smells of it.
Wheat goes in during the last week of Sowing, on the top strip, where the wind is kind to it. Sow it thick. The birds will take some, and that is their share.
Pumpkins go in at the end of the month, by the warm wall of the bakery. Give each one a yard of ground. The pumpkins ask for it.

The fox. A fox came to the hens in the night, in the second week of Sowing. It took two eggs, and a loaf of yesterday's bread from the sill. The hens were not hurt. The loaf was. I have put the bread on the high shelf since. The fox has not come back for the shelf. Foxes are patient, but they are not climbers.

The old map. In the trunk in the loft above the ovens, under a sack of old flour, is a map of the hill, drawn by hand on a skin. It shows the brook, the path down to Copperhold, and a spring by the top field. The spring has a small circle round it and the words good water. I went up with a spade. There is a hollow where the spring was, full of leaves. The water is still there somewhere under them, I think.
%%
Spiders in the boat house
Summer of 190. Briar, for the Lowmarsh board.
Every year the spiders come into the boat house when the nights are warm and the reeds are thick. This year they came early, in Swarm, and they came in numbers.
They hung webs across the door and between the oars and one big one across the tally on the wall, so that you could not read last month's catch without putting your face in it. Nobody likes a spider on the tally.
We swept them out with brooms. We did not kill them, because they eat the flies and the flies are worse. We put torches round the door, and that helped, and we kept the door shut at night, and that helped more.
Then a nest of them got into the boat house loft and came down on the nets. That was too much. We carried the nets out into the sun and shook them, and the spiders went off in a hurry, all legs. Perrin says a spider in the boat house means good fishing. Perrin says a lot of things mean good fishing.
Now we sweep every morning, and we check the corners, and the tally is clean and readable. The catch is good. Maybe Perrin was right. Do not tell him.
%%
Planting days for the north
Odo, trader. Copied out for the carts that go up to Northpoint, which have to plan.

Sowing begins when the soil is dark, not white. Put a hand in. If it is cold and crumbles, leave it. If it is cold and sticks, you are too early and should go and drink something hot.

Plant in this order, because it is the order that works here:
1. Barley, first, in the sun-side field. It takes the cold and does not complain.
2. Oats, in the shade of the wood. The wood is cold, the oats are used to it.
3. Turnips, in a row along the wall. They are hard to kill, and the children like to pull them.
4. Potatoes, last, in the middle of Sowing. They do not like a late frost. Nobody here likes a late frost.
5. Beetroot, only in the walled garden. Outside the wall the foxes take it.

Do not plant carrots this far north unless you are a fool or the carts are late. Carrots need more summer than this place gets.

Weed the turnips twice. Once before they show, once after. The second time is the one nobody does.
%%
Signs of a hard year, as the old men say
Written down by Lorn, who was told them on the slip and wrote them that night, so as not to forget any.

1. The birds go early. The geese came over the harbor in Thaw, not in Longday as usual, and they did not stop. A sign of a cold winter, or of a cold spring, which is the same thing if you are a goose.

2. The reeds are thick and tall. Lowmarsh reeds grow high when the summer is wet and the winter will be long. Dane says he cut his reeds at twice the height he did last year. He is pleased with the reeds. He is not pleased with the rest.

3. The salt is slow to dry. In a hard year the salt pans take longer. This spring they took three more days than last spring. The salt is still good. Nobody can say why it dries slower.

4. The coal is dug deeper. At Copperhold they say the veins go down, and the men go down with them. Now they go below the eighth gate, and then below the seventh, and the coal does not care. Lorn says no more about Copperhold than this, because Copperhold is not his to say.

5. The cough at Lowmarsh. Wren's healing house has more beds than it had. Some blame the water in the marsh. Some blame the ships that come up the river mouth with their holds full. Some blame the mines, and point up the hill to where the dust is. Everyone agrees it does not spread from bed to bed, and nobody sleeps well in the marsh villages.

6. The sea froze at the edge of the harbor for two mornings running, in Thaw. Only a thin skin, which the boats broke by noon. The old men spit on the ice to see if it sinks. It sank.

7. The night noise. Men on the late shift at Copperhold say the rock hums. Lorn did not hear it while he worked there. He heard it in his last month, through his boots, like a cart on a far road that never arrived. He does not know whether that is the mine or himself.

8. The lights. Some say the lights to the north have been seen again. Some say they are only the lamps of the north towers, seen through fog. The fog was not thick that night.
%%
Almanac: tides and carts, Leaffall
By Dace, for the wall of the Brown Hen, for the carters who bring the fish up from Saltreach and the salt down from the coast.

The tide at Saltreach comes in twice a day. High water is at the second bell, and again at the sixth bell, and each day after it is later by about half a bell. Count it on your fingers. Ask the fishers if you are not sure, and they will tell you what you already know, and be proud to say it.

Keep the carts off the harbor road at high water. The harbor wall is good stone, but the road below it floods, and a cart in the flood is a cart with no wheels by morning.

The carts for Three Wells leave Saltreach at the first bell, after the early tide. The carts for Vell go out at the noon bell. The carts for the Brown Hen leave when the innkeeper says, which is never before the soup.

The fish market at Saltreach sells the day's catch by the bell. Cod at six for one emerald. Salmon at four for one. Buy in the morning, or buy in the dusk, when the price falls. Do not buy at the second bell unless you enjoy paying for the fish's long journey.

Leaffall is the month of the great carts. Every farm sends its wheat, its wool and its last apples up the Long Road at once, and the road is crowded from the first bell to the dusk. Give way to the loaded carts going uphill. Give way to the empty carts going down. Give way to Pell, who will not give way to anybody.

Dace
%%
Winter notes from the mill house
Ned, Ambrook, 188
First of Frost. A thin ice at the pond edge. The wheel turns slowly. I took the flour sacks in before the snow came.
Second. Clear, cold, and good for cutting fallen branches. Leave the living apple limbs alone.
Third. Snow in the morning. The roof held. The cat slept in the flour basket and looked offended when moved.
Fourth. Wind from the north. Wrap the jars of honey in wool. The pantry wall is cold.
Fifth. Thaw by noon. Rake leaves from the path so they do not hide the loose plank on the bridge.
Sixth. Rain. The brook is high. Do not open the sluice. The mill pond has enough water.
Seventh. Frost. The bees will not fly. Look at the hives from the hill, but do not knock.
Eighth. Snow. The hens laid one egg. We gave it to Maud, who says she has not had an egg since Reaping.
Ninth. Clear sky. Sort the apple seeds. Keep the sound ones in a dry clay jar.
Tenth. Cold rain. The road is soft, so Pell left his cart by the oak and came on foot. He bought flour and took the wrong basket.
Eleventh. Frost again. We found his basket under the bench. It held two turnips and a very small bell.
Twelfth. Sun. The pond is clear near the wheel. Grind the wheat before the next freeze.
%%
Almanac: the bet at the Kettle Inn
Winter, in the almanac of Olwen the carter. At the Kettle Inn on the ridge road, three men bet on the first day of thaw. It is written down because Olwen is the witness, and a carter's word on a bet is held in good standing.
The three were Brin, the farmer; Tam, whose wheat grows on the top field; and Garn, the stonemason. Each wrote a day on the slate and put one emerald under it.
Brin said: the 14th of Thaw. Tam said: the 3rd of Thaw. Garn said: the 20th of Deepsnow.
All three used their own signs. Brin watches the swallows. Tam watches the ditch. Garn watches the stone. He says it sweats before a thaw.
The days passed. The snow stayed. On the 20th of Deepsnow, Garn said, "I've won." Brin said, "Not yet. Show me the ditch." They walked to the ditch. It was frozen.
On the 29th of Deepsnow, a wind came from the south. By noon the eaves dripped. On the 30th the ditch ran. On the 1st of Thaw the pond had a gray crust, and the farmers called that the thaw. On the 4th the first lark.
Tam had said the 3rd. He was two days out. Garn was eleven days out. Brin was thirteen.
Tam won the emeralds, and bought supper for the other two, and the three of them agreed that the next bet would be about the date of the first swallow.
Olwen notes that the almanac should be consulted for such things, and nobody ever does.
%%
Almanac: weather by the day, Swarm
Swarm, first day. Warm. Wind from the south. Bees out before the dew is off.
Swarm, second day. Hot by noon. Rain at dusk, a short one, and the ground drank it all.
Swarm, third day. Cloud on the hill. A creeper came over the sheep pen fence in the dark and blew up the east wall. Nobody hurt. A hole as wide as a cart. Patched with cobblestone by morning, and a torch set at each corner. The creeper has not been back. We think it did not like the light.
Swarm, fourth day. Wind from the west, cool. The well by the yard is low. The bucket came up with mud in it.
Swarm, fifth day. Clear and still. The well is lower. Carried water from the north well, two buckets each morning. My back has opinions.
Swarm, sixth day. Thunder over the far hill, not near. The sheep are sure of it. Brought them in early.
Swarm, seventh day. Dry. The well by the yard is dry. Dug down with a spade to the old stone, and found only more stone. Someone should measure it. I have written to Vell.
Swarm, eighth day. Warm again. The beetroot is up in the long field. The sheep have eaten the first row, and the second row is watching them.
%%
Almanac: Sowing at Drybank
Weather by the day, and the news of the hamlet, for the month of Sowing in the spring of 207. Written by Wren, who is not a gossip but is always in the room.
1st to 4th. Cold mornings, clear days. Moss and I dug the healer's garden and put in the beetroot and the carrots. The ground was wet, as ground is at Lowmarsh.
5th. Rain from the sea. Warm. The marsh water rose a hand's width.
6th. Rain. Tansy's hens got through the fence into Rook's herb bed and ate the young dandelions. Rook says the fence is Tansy's to mend. Tansy says the fence is Rook's, and the hens were only visiting.
7th to 9th. Showers, then sun. The quarrel has grown. Rook put up a second fence behind the first. Tansy put up a third in front. Three fences now, in a line, in a space meant for one. The frogs sit on top of all of them.
10th. Fine. Both came to the healing house on the same morning with the same headache. I put them on the same bench and gave them tea. I said, tell me what you are afraid of. Rook said, my herbs. Tansy said, my hens. Neither said, the fence.
11th to 14th. Warm. The hens were shut in for four days. Nobody mentioned it.
15th. Mild, with rain at dusk. Rook and Tansy took down two of the three fences. Together. They did not say anything. They left the posts in my shed.
20th. Market day, on the long boardwalk, from dawn. Fish from the weir, reeds, dried moss, a hat. I sold nothing. I gave out a great deal of advice. Rook and Tansy shared a stall. The hens were not invited.
21st to 25th. Fine, with a south wind. Three colds at the house and one stubborn knee. The frogs sang until midnight. Moss sat by the pool all of one evening and watched the water.
26th to 30th. Warm. The beetroot is up. The carrots are up in places. A good month.
The fence between Rook and Tansy now has a gate in it. The hens use it a great deal.
%%
Almanac: signs of a hard winter
Wren, healer, set these down at Copperhold from what the miners and shepherds told her. Autumn.

If the squirrels bury twice what they ate last year, expect a hard winter.
If the wool on the sheep grows thick before Leaffall, expect a hard winter.
If the spiders spin in the barn in autumn, light the torches and expect a hard winter.
If the bees seal their hive early and close it tight, expect a hard winter.
If the deep stone sweats in the mine on a dry day, the cold is coming.
If the first snow comes before the apples are all in, the winter will be short but sharp.
If the geese fly south in a straight line, a mild winter. If they scatter, a wild one.
If the stars are very bright and the air is very still, frost tonight.

Wren says these signs are right about three times in four. Which three, she cannot say.
%%
Almanac: the bee week, the fox
Odo, trader, Hollin Cross. Spring of 205. Kept on the back of the cart tally, one page for each day of a long, cold week.

Day 1: The bees are out for the first time. Warm noon, cold night. The hives by the wood are loud as a market.
Day 2: The bees swarm at noon. Half the hive went up into the birch by the well and hung there like a brown bag. Ada knocked it into a box with a spoon. She says it was calm. The bees did not.
Day 3: The swarm is in the box, and the box is in the cool shed. Ada says the queen is in there with them. Ada says a great many things.
Day 4: Rain. The bees stayed in. So did Ada, and so did I.
Day 5: The fox came to the hens at dusk. A red one, thin, with one ear bent. It went along the wall, looked at the hen house, and looked at me. I looked back. It went away. The hens did not go to sleep for an hour.
Day 6: The fox came again. This time the hens were ready. Brann threw the shovel. The fox did not care for the shovel and took the long way home.
Day 7: The fox is not back. Brann says it has gone up to Northpoint to tell the foxes there. Brann says the foxes at Northpoint will be very upset with him.

Hens lay best when they are not frightened. The bees make the most honey when they are not chased. The fox, I think, is making none of either, only a lot of noise.
%%
Almanac: frost signs for the Long Road
By Dace, as before. The old carters know these signs. The young carters should learn them before the ice learns them first.

A hard winter shows itself in the autumn, if you know where to look:
- The sheep grow their wool thick by the first market, and thicker by the second.
- The ditches freeze at the edges before the middle, and the ponds ice over early.
- The mice leave the fields and move into the inn cellars, and pretend it was an accident.
- The bees eat more of their store than they should, and the keepers must feed them honey back. Ama says this is the worst sign of all.
- The wood piles at the mine gate are high, and the coal carts are slow to come.

When three of these come together, lay in your stores early. Bring the carts in, and keep the animals close to the house. Light the torches along the road, one on a post every twelve blocks, and walk the road yourself before you trust it with a loaded cart.

Dace
%%
Almanac: signs of a hard winter
From the farm outside Kettle Ridge, by Olwen the carter, who has watched a good many winters from a cart seat.
The geese leave early. The squirrels hoard double. The wool on the sheep grows thick before Leaffall. Apples hang late on the tree. The fox's coat comes in gray.
When all five are so, buy wood.
%%
Almanac: the house at the edge of Vell
Kept by the house. Signs of a hard winter, as the old people read them, with the weather of each day in its place.
Signs noted in Leaffall: thick fur on the foxes, seen on the hill. Geese flying low over the south road. Bees gone quiet in the hive by the wall. The old men at the inn say the first snow will come early, on the day after the fair.
Frost, 1st. Frost on the grass at dawn. Thin ice on the trough. Wood stacked against the north wall, as Carl likes it.
Frost, 2nd. Snow flurries after noon, gone by evening. The carters say the pass above Northpoint is already white.
Frost, 3rd. Clear and hard. The bell at Vell rang for the cold, which it does only in the worst years. The mayor has sent a notice to keep the hearth lit in every house.
Frost, 4th. Rabbits coming down to the garden fence. Put out the beet tops, the ones the snails have not had. Mother says rabbits are a sign of hunger in the hills, and hunger is a sign of more hunger, and we must not be frightened of that.
Frost, 5th. Snow all day. Two hands deep by evening. The children built a wall of it along the lane, very neat, and then a second wall, and then a fort, which the wind knocked down by dusk.
Frost, 6th. Snow still on the roofs. Carl cleared the path to the well with the wide shovel. The well is full. The rain barrel is frozen.
Frost, 7th. Warm wind from the south for an hour. Everything dripped. Then it went cold again, harder.
Frost, 8th. Fog so thick that the lamp on the post could not be seen from the door. The lamp was lit anyway. The bell at Vell rang twice, slowly, to say that all was well in the town.
Frost, 9th. Fish stocks salted in the cellar: 14 barrels, which is enough. Dried apples in the loft: 9 sacks. Flour in the bin: 6 sacks, which is not enough, and which Carl says we will have to make last.
%%
Almanac: a winter on the farm
Olwen the carter, writing in winter at the farm outside Kettle Ridge. An almanac of one whole winter, with the chores, the weather and the news. Kept for her nephew, who is taking over the carts.
The first week of Longnight. Frost at dawn. The pond is covered. I walked the ridge road with the horse to see whether the ruts had frozen hard. They had. Carts can go. I took twelve sacks of wheat to the mill at Kettle Ridge and came home with flour.
The second week. Snow. Not deep, but steady. The horse likes it. I do not. I stayed in and mended harness. A strap had split, and the buckle was rusty.
The third week. Wind from the north. The mill wheel is still. Brin lost a hen to the cold. I found it in the straw and buried it by the hedge.
The fourth week. Clear and bright. A good week. Sledges on the ridge. A song contest at the Kettle Inn on the last evening. Tam sang the one about the pig. He was last. He took it well.
The first week of Deepsnow. Hard frost. Wood use doubled. I counted my pile and knew I would be short. I bought a cart of birch from Brin. It was dry and burned clean.
The second week. Snow again. This time deep. For three days the ridge road was closed. I sat by the stove and read the almanac of my grandmother, which says to expect this.
The third week. A wind from the south. Water in the ditch. The first drip from the eaves. A sparrow.
The fourth week. Thaw. Snow gone from the south fields. Mud on the road. The cart wheels sank. I took the long way round.
What I learned. A winter has four weeks of cold and four weeks of weather. The cold you can wait out. The weather you have to meet.
What I would do again. Buy wood in Leaffall. Keep the harness oiled. Visit the neighbors before they get lonely.
What I would not. Sing.
Nephew, you will find the carts in the shed and the horse in the barn. She is a good horse. She knows the road better than I do. Let her.
%%
Almanac: Copperhold, the days of Apple
Written by Wren, healer, who stayed a month at Copperhold to treat a cough that had gone through the miners' houses. She kept the weather and the work as she went. Autumn.

1st. Fog until noon, then bright. Miners working the copper level. The kitchen at the mine gate served pea soup.
2nd. Fine. A good day to dig potatoes.
3rd. Wind from the west. The windmill on the hill at Kettle Ridge could be heard from here, they say, squeaking.
4th. Rain in the morning. Cleared by afternoon.
5th. A gift from the miners: a small iron kettle, hammered by hand, for my herb tea. It holds exactly one pot. I will take it home.
6th. Dry, cold. Frost on the shaft head at dawn.
7th. Hesk came to ask about his knee. I gave him willow bark tea and told him to rest. He said he would rest when he was dead. I said that was not what I meant.
8th. Fine. The last apples are off the trees.
9th. Cloud. Wind in the north.
10th. First light snow on the hill, melted by noon.
11th to 14th. Clear.
15th. The signal lamp at Copperhold blinked a strange message in the night. It was long, and the keeper could not read it. It said something like "bright bright dim dim bright." The keeper sent back to the next tower, and they sent a strange one back. It took until morning to learn the cause. A moth had flown into the lamp room and was beating against the glass, which made the lamp seem to blink. The moth is now in a jar, and has been let out.
16th to 20th. Wet.
21st. A fine day. The miners sang at the gate.
22nd to 28th. Cold and clear. I left on the 28th with the kettle in my bag.

Remedy for the miners' cough: a spoon of honey, a pinch of thyme, hot water. Three times a day. It worked on all but one, and he only coughed to get the honey.
%%
Almanac: tides at Saltreach, Blossom
The tides at Saltreach, as the fishers keep them. Copied by Cade, who bakes the bread the boats eat on their long days out. The bread is always late on a high tide, because the fishers come up early, and always early on a low one, because they come up hungry.

Blossom, first day. High water at dawn. Low water at the second bell after noon. High again at dusk. The boats go out on the first high water and come back on the second. Anything that goes out between the two gets wet.
Blossom, second day. High water one bell later than yesterday, and a little lower. The fishers say the sea is thinking about something. They do not say what.
Blossom, fourth day. Low water at the first bell, so the mud is out past the boat ramp, and the children are out on it looking for shellfish, with their boots in their hands.
Blossom, sixth day. A stiff wind from the sea, and a high tide at the top of the harbor wall. The water came over the bottom step of the bakery door. Cade moved the flour to the top shelf and the bread to the stone. The bread was not impressed.
Blossom, eighth day. High water at the middle of the morning. The boats came in full, and the fishers came up the hill singing, and they ate eleven loaves between them before the second bell.
Blossom, eleventh day. Low water at dusk, which is a bad time for the boats and a good time for the shellfish. The fishers went out for the shellfish. They came back with eleven shellfish, four of which were angry, and one of which was in Cade's hat.
Blossom, fourteenth day. Calm. The tides are small, and the sea is flat as a table. A boy came up the hill and asked whether the sea was always so quiet in spring. Cade said it was. The boy did not believe him, and he was right not to.
%%
Almanac: the first ten days of Longday
Weather by the day, kept at the well-hut outside Three Wells. Yew, well digger. It is summer, so I will not complain about the heat.
1st. Fine and warm. Cut the hay.
2nd. Fine. Hay dry by noon. Turn it.
3rd. Hot. The yard well dropped one rung. Not worried.
4th. Hot. Flies. The cows stood in the pond all day. Do not blame them.
5th. Hot. Market day. The north well was cold and very popular.
6th. Thunder far off. No rain. The dog hid under the bed.
7th. Rain in the night, a good one. The well came back up three rungs.
8th. Cool. Cut the second hay.
9th. Fine. Sow the late beetroot now. It will be ready before the frost.
10th. Fine. A cat slept on the well cover all day. A well cover is a good place for a cat. It is a bad place to be a mouse.
Rule for a dry spell: water the beetroot at dusk, not at noon. The sun is not thirsty. The beetroot is.
%%
Almanac: Apple at Copperhold
Wren, healer of Lowmarsh, kept this while visiting Copperhold. Autumn.

First to tenth of Apple: clear, cool mornings. Good for apples and for drying herbs.
Eleventh to twentieth: rain, three days. Mend roofs before.
Twenty-first to thirtieth: first frost. Bring in the pumpkins. Cover the late carrots.

Healer's note: a cough in Apple is usually the damp. Drink hot water with honey, and keep your feet dry.
%%
Almanac: the tides at Saltreach, winter
Kept by a trader's clerk at the port, copied for the inns on the new road, which have asked for it. Winter, when the tides run long.

The tide comes in twice a day, and goes out twice. In winter it runs late, and the high water comes after the second bell, not before.

Fish come in on the high tide. Do not wait for the fish. The fish do not wait for you, and the best catch is always the first hour of the flood.

When the wind is in the north, the tide runs low. Boats must be pulled up the slip by the dusk bell, or they will sit on the mud until the next flood, and the mud has no manners.

When the wind is in the west, the tide comes high on the harbor wall, and the net menders must bring their nets in from the quay. Marit says she has seen a net swim off the wall in a west wind, and she has not yet seen it come back.

The tide tables are kept at the port. Copy them out, and check them against the board. The board is right, though the sea is sometimes not.
%%
Almanac: planting and reaping
Posted at the Vell market in Deepsnow, from the farmers' reports, set out by Oren, clerk. Last year was a good harvest on the ridge and in the orchards, so this year's almanac is kind. Next year's may not be. An almanac is not a promise.

Thaw. Mend tools. Break the ice. Count the seed.
Sowing. Wheat, beetroot, carrots, the first potatoes.
Blossom. Potatoes. Pumpkin seed indoors. The bees wake.
Swarm. First hay. Thin the carrots. Watch the hives.
Longday. Weed, water, and wait. The melons set.
Melon. Melons ripen. Pumpkins swell. Swim.
Reaping. Wheat in. All hands.
Apple. Apples, beetroot, pumpkins. The fair at Three Wells.
Leaffall. Potatoes up. Store everything. Count again.
Frost. Winter wheat. Sort the stores. Wax the copper.
Longnight. Mend, tell stories, plan.
Deepsnow. Rest. Count the seed.

A good farmer keeps back one sack in ten for seed, in a good year and in a bad. The farmers who forgot this learned it the hard way, which is the only way a farmer learns.

Lost, at the market: one pig, pink, answers to nothing. Last seen at the cheese stall. If found, please return to Brin. If not found, please do not tell him what you had for supper.
%%
Almanac: the storm and the stove
Ula, potter at Lowmarsh. Kept in a long winter, on the back of old glaze tallies, with a pen that froze twice. A weather book for the marsh, with stores and tides, and what we did.
Tides at Saltreach (for the boat folk, copied from the harbor board): high water at dawn on the first, then an hour later each day. The spring tides this month are the highest of the year. The harbor wall has been checked.
Weather by the week.
First week: grey and cold. Snow in flurries. The marsh is frozen at the edges.
Second week: clear. Hard frost every morning. The kiln roof steams.
Third week: the storm. It began on the evening of the nineteenth, with a low wind from the west. By midnight the wind had turned north and was howling. Snow fell sideways. The weir inn lost its sign. The boat house at the end of the boardwalk lost its door. Three posts of the boardwalk came out of the water and lay on the ice.
The storm lasted two nights and a day. Nobody died. Wren went out twice with her bag, roped to her apprentice Moss, and returned both times with a story.
Fourth week: calm. The cleanup. We mended the boardwalk with boards from the old cart shed.
Stores. Wood, enough for three weeks. Food, enough for two months. The salt fish, a little. Lamp oil, a lot. The potatoes sprouted in the cellar; we ate those first.
What we noticed. On the night of the storm, before the wind, there was a low sound under the marsh. A hum, a soft one, like a very large bee in a very small jar. The old people heard it. The children did not. Piper says it was the wind in the reeds. Wren says it was the pressure of the weather. Corm says it was the Deep Works at Copperhold, carried by the ground. I do not know. I wrote it down.
The kiln. The kiln was kept going all through the storm, and the whole village sheltered in the pottery. Forty-one people, six dogs, nine cats and a goat. We fired a batch of bowls at midnight, and they came out well. They are the best bowls I have made. I do not know why. Maybe the company.
Signs for spring: the first heron has returned to the weir pond. It stood on one leg and looked at the ice. We watched it for an hour. It seemed to think the ice was a personal insult. Spring is not far.
Ula
%%
Almanac: the spring fair and the play
Blossom, the twentieth. Fair in the harbor square. Stalls along the quay. Pennants on a rope from the tower to the mast of the net shed.

The biggest melon won a blue ribbon. Hal grew it on the terraces above the harbor. It was as big as a barrel. The judges weighed it on the fish scale, and the scale broke. They argued about the scale for a long time, and then they gave Hal the ribbon anyway. The second prize went to a melon the size of a dog. The dog was not pleased.

The school play was on the steps of the harbor school. Eleven children, aged six to twelve. It was called The Gull Who Wanted a Boat. It lasted ten minutes. The gull fell off the stage once. Nobody was hurt, and the gull got a bow.

Ferris, Corin's son, played the sea. He wore blue cloth and stood very still through the whole of the second act. Nobody in the audience moved either, which the children said was the best part. When he came off, he asked if the sea had been good. Everyone said yes.

Late in the evening the lamps went up along the quay. Then, out over the water to the north, a light rose and hung there, low over the swell. It stayed for the time it takes to count to thirty. Then it went out.

Nobody on the quay knew what it was. Some said a fishing boat signaling its friends. Some said a fire on the far rocks. The old boatman said nothing at all and went home. In the morning the sea was flat and the far rocks were bare.
%%
Almanac: the tides at Saltreach
From Olwen the carter, winter, who drives to Saltreach often for fish and keeps the tide table because a cart on the shore road must not be caught by the sea. Checked against the harbor master's board.
At Saltreach the sea rises and falls twice in a day. High water comes about an hour later each day than the one before. In winter the highs run bigger than in summer.
Longnight, the 1st. High water at the third bell and again at the fifteenth. Low water at the ninth.
The 5th. High water an hour later. A big tide. The shore road is under water for an hour at the second bell.
The 10th. Neap tide. The sea hardly moves. Boats stay in.
The 15th. High water at midday and midnight. The moon is full. Spring tide. Very high. Do not park the cart on the quay.
The 20th. High water again at the third bell. Slack. Calm.
The 25th. A big tide again. Sea gray, with a swell. The harbor master hangs a red flag.
The 30th. High water at the ninth bell. A gentle one.
Signs of weather from the sea.
When the gulls fly inland, a storm is coming.
When the sea is flat and the sky is red at dawn, rain by noon.
When the water smells of weed, wind from the west.
When the fish go deep, cold.
When the tide runs slow, fog.
A carter's rules. Never cross the shore road in the hour of the highest tide. Never trust a sea that looks too calm. Carry a lantern after the second bell. Always leave the quay by the wall road if there is doubt.
The harbor master says this is a very good tide table. He says he checks it every day against the sea. The sea does not always agree. Olwen has learned to side with the sea.
%%
Almanac: the house at the edge of Vell
Kept by the house. Written for whoever plants the south slope next, so that they will not have to ask.
Thaw, 1st. Ground soft on the south slope. Plant the beans in the last week of Thaw, not before. The frost comes back twice in Sowing, and the beans will not forgive you.
Thaw, 14th. Potatoes into the bottom field, in rows, with the eyes up. Carl says the eyes must be up. Mother says Carl has never once looked at a potato.
Sowing, 3rd. Wheat on the south slope, six sacks, in the morning before the wind. The wheat must go in before the rain. If it rains first, plant on the north side of the wall, which is sheltered.
Sowing, 19th. Carrots, the long ones, in the sandy strip by the well. Thin them when they are a finger high, or they will fight each other.
Blossom, 2nd. Beetroot. The little red ones in the front row, the big ones at the back, where the sun is kind. Carl says beetroot grows best in the shade of a hedge. Carl says a lot of things.
Swarm, 10th. Pumpkins on the mound by the pig pen. The pig will not eat the vines. The pig does not eat anything it is not supposed to eat. Mother says the pig is the wisest animal on the farm.
Longday, 4th. Melons, two plants, in the warm corner under the glass. Water them at dawn, never at night. The glass will crack in frost if you forget the lamp.
Reaping, 1st. Harvest of the south slope. Cut the wheat at the top of the stalk. Bind it in sheaves of twelve. Dry it for six days before the flail. A wet sheaf rots before it reaches the mill.
Leaffall, 14th. Apples from the orchard. Keep the best in the loft, wrapped in straw. The bad ones go to the pig, who does not mind.
%%
Tides at Saltreach, Longday
Copied from the harbor wall at Saltreach for my cousin Ree, who rows a net boat out of the harbor and forgets the tide. The harbor keeper sent it up the line to the Three Wells board. I copied it there. Yew, outside Three Wells.
How the tide goes. The sea comes in twice a day and goes out twice a day. From high water to low water is about six hours. High water comes about an hour later each day. So you only need a few days to know them all.
Spring tides. These come just after the new moon and the full moon. The water goes highest and lowest. In Longday, new moon is on the 3rd and full moon is on the 18th. So the spring tides are on the 4th and the 19th.
On a spring day, high water is at first light and again in the evening. The sea climbs the harbor wall to the fourth step. Low water is at noon and again in the middle of the night. The bar at the harbor mouth shows its back, and no boat should cross it.
Neap tides. These come in between, when the moon is half. The water does not go far. In Longday, neaps are on the 11th and the 26th.
On a neap day, high water is at noon and again at midnight. The sea reaches the first step and goes no higher.
To find the tide on any day:
1. Find the nearest spring day. The 4th or the 19th.
2. Count the days since it.
3. Add one hour for each day to first light. That is the morning high water. The evening one is twelve hours after.
Example: the 8th is four days after the 4th. High water is four hours after first light, which is a little before the first bell. The evening one is a little after the dusk bell.
Crossing the bar. A boat should cross within two hours of high water, going out or coming in. Corin's slip launches at high water too, so that the new boat slides down into deep water and does not sit in the mud and think.
Sea signs. A flat grey sea in the morning, with fog, is a neap sea. The fog burns off by the noon bell. When the dolphins come into the bay, the fish come behind them. When the gulls walk on the pier and do not fly, rain is coming.
Ree has read this twice. Last Longday Ree crossed the bar at low water and sat on the sand for a night, eating dried kelp and telling the moon what it thought. Ree says it was not that bad. The kelp was good.
%%
Hill farm diary, a new apprentice

Autumn of 204. Written by Bel's cousin's son, who is sixteen and runs the farm now with his mother.

Big day. We bought an apprentice at the fair at Three Wells. Copper and iron, taller than me at the shoulder, very shiny, a paper tied to its arm that says it passed the field drill. The trader in the red hat said it is a good one, quiet and steady. I said I hope so, for that many emeralds. He said the emeralds buy the copper and the patience buys the rest. Everyone says that. I think it is in a book somewhere.

We have named it Cobb. My mother wanted to name it after her father. I said Cobb is shorter. She said fine. The apprentice does not care what it is called. It cares about the fields, I think. It walked the top field and stopped at the ditch and looked down at the water a long time. Then it walked the long field and the bottom field and came back and stood by the barn.

The first order I gave it was: bring me some potatoes. I wrote it on the card the way the manual says. It went to the clamp, took two potatoes, and brought them to me and stood there. I gave it a third order to see. It did that too. My mother said, well, that is one thing it can do. I said it can do eight things, that is the whole list. She said eight is plenty.

The cat will not stay out. Ember is old now and grey about the face and has decided that the hearth is the only place worth being. I put her out at night and she sits at the door and looks at me. Cobb stood and looked at her and looked at me. I do not think Cobb knows what a cat is. The cat does not care what Cobb is.

Frost came on the fourth of Apple. Light. We covered the pumpkins. The bees are sealing the hive, which my mother says means a hard winter, and the foxes are thick, and the frogs went quiet early, so that is three signs and we are getting the wood in. Cobb carried the wood. All of it. It did not stop. I think it liked the work. It is hard to tell.
%%
Almanac: the signs of a hard winter
Written at the end of Melon, when the hay is in and the ridge is quiet and the year is half gone. Kept for the ones who come after. Some of these signs are true every year. Some are true only when the winter is hard. Nobody has yet written down which is which, so I have tried.

The first sign is the bees. When they hurry in Apple and seal the combs early, expect a long winter. A bee that is in no hurry has a short winter in mind.

The second is the wheat. A hard winter comes after a wet Melon and a dry Reaping, when the stalks grow tall and thin and bend over in the wind.

The third is the geese. They fly south early and low, and they call as they go. The old people say they are running from something. Mostly they are running from the cold, which is the same thing.

The fourth is the foxes. In a hard winter they grow their coats long before the first snow, and they come close to the farms at dusk, looking for hens. Keep the hens in at dusk. Keep the torches lit by the coop.

The fifth is the apples. If they fall early and hard, and the grass under the trees is thick with them, eat the fallen ones quickly. A hard winter will take the apples left on the trees before they can be picked.

The sixth is the beetroot, which grows its roots very deep in a hard year. Pull one. If the root goes down past your elbow, you will need more firewood.

The seventh is the frogs. They stop singing before the leaves turn. Wren says the frogs know more about cold than we do, and I believe her.

The eighth sign is the one nobody believes. Old Gil says a hard winter is coming when the children stop running in the evenings and sit by the fire to hear stories. Gil says it has never failed him. I think it is because the children are cold, not because the winter is coming. But I write it down anyway.

Stores, for a hard winter. Two sacks of wheat for each person, and one more for the animals. Five barrels of salt pork. Ten of beetroot in the cellar. Honey, if you can get it. Coal in the lean-to, a bucket for each day from Frost to Deepsnow. Wood by the stove, stacked on the north side so it does not get wet.

Mend the roof before the first snow. Mend the hinges on the barn door. Oil the windmill, if you have one, and grease the cart wheels, and keep the axes sharp. The axes are the first thing you will need, and the last thing you will think of.

And if the winter is not hard after all, you will have wasted a great deal of effort, and nobody will mention it. That is the best kind of mistake.
%%
Almanac: the first days of Sowing
Kept by Kit, orchard keeper at Vell, for the archive gardens and the orchard below the hill.

Sowing, the first. Rain in the night and a pale sun in the morning. The ground is still cold. Left the peas for another week.
Sowing, the sixth. Frost on the water butts at dawn, and the snow gone by noon. The orchard likes this weather. The apples will not forgive me for saying so.
%%
Almanac: what to plant, what to put by
Ula, potter at Lowmarsh. For the marsh gardens, written in winter for the spring after, because a winter is for planning.
Thaw: nothing in the ground. Mend the beds. Spread ashes.
Sowing: peas, if the ground is soft. Carrots under a cloth. Beetroot, a few rows. Do not plant potatoes yet; the frost comes back.
Blossom: potatoes, now. Plant them eyes up. Melons under glass, if you have glass, or in a sunny corner.
Swarm: weed. Water at dawn. Check the bees.
Longday: harvest the first carrots. Pick the mint, dry the thyme.
Melon: melons and pumpkins swell. Lay straw under them or they rot on the wet.
Reaping: harvest the wheat, beetroot, the last of the carrots. Dig potatoes on a dry day.
Apple: apples, in bushels. Store the best in straw. Make cider of the rest.
Leaffall: put the gardens to bed. Cover with leaves.
Frost: mend tools. Salt fish.
Longnight and Deepsnow: sit by the fire. Think of spring.
Notes. This winter the old people say the frost came earlier and the thaw will come later than any they remember. Some say we should plant a little more of everything, in case. Some say plant what we always plant and trust the marsh. I will plant a bit more beetroot. It keeps.
%%
Almanac: signs of a hard winter
Ula, potter at Lowmarsh. Kept on the kiln wall, for anyone who asks.
Old marsh folk read the signs.
Geese leave early and fly low: hard winter.
Frogs go under the mud before Leaffall ends: hard winter.
The bees pack the hive door with wax: hard winter.
Thick fur on the foxes by the reeds: hard winter.
This year: all four. I have bought extra wood.
%%
Almanac: the house at Ambrook moves
Kept by Aven, trader, at the house by the mill, which was not the house that the family had been living in until the spring. Written at the new house, in the long winter of the fourth year of the new road. A move of the whole house, with the hearth stone, the table and the goat.

Frost, the 2nd. The family has decided to move. The old house is by the orchard, and the orchard is full of frost in the morning, and the roof leaks on the east side. The new house is by the new road, which goes all the way to Vell. The father says it is a sensible move. The mother says it is a move. The children say it is a long walk for a cart.

Frost, the 9th. The move begins at the first bell. The brothers carried the stone to the gate, and then to the cart, and then the cart had to be pulled out of the ditch by the horse, the goat, and the miller. The goat came out of the ditch first, and was not pleased to be the first.

Frost, the 11th. Wind from the north, and the stone is in the new house. It sits on the new floor by the new hearth, and it has not moved since. The mother says that is the right place for a stone. The father says it is the right place for a stone that did not have to be carried any further.

Frost, the 14th. The long winter is come. The snow is to the window sill at the old house and not yet at the new one. The new house has a good roof and a bad door, and the door is being mended by the father, who has been told by the mother that the door will not be better for being looked at.

Frost, the 18th. Trader's news from the north road: the new relay tower on the hill above Ambrook has its lamp up, and the keeper is glad of company. The lamp can be seen from the new house on a clear night, which the children say is the best thing about the move.

Longnight, the 3rd. Longest night of the year. The new house is warm, the stone is warm, and the bread is risen. The children are asleep by the hearth with their boots on. The old house is still there by the orchard, with the roof that leaks, and nobody has said they miss it. The father says it will be a good house in spring. The mother says it is already a good house.

Deepsnow, the 2nd. First clear morning in a month. The family walked to the new road and looked at the lamp on the hill, which was lit. They walked back. The mother said she had not thought she would like the new house, and that she was surprised, and that she had wanted to be surprised for a long time.

Deepsnow, the 15th. Last entry of the winter book. Hearth lit, stone warm, bread risen, door shut. The old orchard is still there by the old house, and the frost is still in the morning, and the family goes past it once a week on the way to the mill, and waves.
%%
Tide table, Saltreach harbour
Summer of 173. Kept by Briar of Lowmarsh, who cannot read the sea but can count.
High water at the harbour wall, as near as we can tell from the posts:
First of Swarm: dawn, then just past dark.
Second: a little later each day, by about the width of a hand.
By the tenth the water is highest, and the fishermen say mind the long pier.
By the twentieth it is low and lazy, and the mud shows at the fish market steps.
Tides come early when the wind is from the north and late when it is soft from the south. That is all I know. Ask a boatman for the rest. They will tell you for free and twice.
%%
Almanac: the copper vein
Winter, from the almanac of Olwen the carter, in the farm outside Kettle Ridge. A month of weather and one piece of news.
Deepsnow.
1st: clear. Cold. A hard morning.
2nd: snow. Light. The ridge road is white.
3rd: snow, heavy. The carts do not move.
4th: wind. Drifts. Brin's gate is buried.
5th: clear. The sun makes the snow too bright to look at.
6th: cold. A fox in the yard.
7th: milder. A little rain. The snow goes gray.
8th: a hard frost again.
9th: gray. A rider from Copperhold, with news.
The news was this. A new vein of copper has been found on the north slope of the Deep Works, wide and bright. The miners call it the Green Seam. Hesk saw it first and was so pleased he stood still for a quarter of an hour. A rider was sent to every town to say so.
The price of copper fell by a quarter the same week. This was not good for the miners, but the roofers were glad, because the new sheet costs less.
10th: clear. A carter from Kettle Ridge hauls the first load of copper ore to the forge, over snow.
11th to 20th: cold and still. The copper comes up the ridge road, a cart a day.
21st to 30th: thaw begins. Water in the ditch.
What to do. The copper road is busy. Keep the ridge road clear. A farmer who owns a cart can earn four emeralds a day.
Olwen bought a second cart on the strength of it and has not regretted it.
%%
Almanac: Lowmarsh
Ula, potter at Lowmarsh. Weather by the day, as I saw it from the kiln door.
1st. Grey. Wind from the north, light. Marsh frozen at the edges.
2nd. Snow in the afternoon. A hand deep by dusk.
3rd. Clear and bitter. Breath smokes. The kiln is the warmest place in the village.
4th. Snow again. Quiet.
5th. Thaw at noon. Water on the boards. Freezing again at dusk, so the boards are glass. Wear spikes.
6th. Fog. The boat lamps look like drops in milk.
7th. Fog lifts. Frost on every reed.
8th. Wind from the north-east. The old people say a storm is coming. Their knees say so. Their knees are usually right.
9th. Storm. It began after supper and blew all night. The thatch on the weir inn lost a corner.
10th. Calm. Broken branches everywhere. Two boats loose from the posts, found against the reeds.
Signs this month: the fire in the kiln burns with a blue edge on cold nights. I do not know why. My mother said it did the same in the year of the great frost. She said nothing else about it.
%%
Almanac: the house at the edge of Vell
Kept by the house. A poor harvest year. Notes on each day are for the next year's planting.
Leaffall, 14th. The beetroot came up soft. Half the rows are mush. The other half is small and sweet, which Carl says is worth the trouble.
Leaffall, 15th. Potatoes dug in the bottom field. Forty sacks where we had seventy last year. The rain came too early and then not at all.
Leaffall, 16th. Wheat from the south slope cut short. The ears are light. Mill says it will grind to half the flour. We will sell the bran for the animals.
Leaffall, 17th. Fog. Carl says the carters are not coming up from the coast because the coast road is too wet. The price of wheat at the board is three times the price of last Leaffall.
Leaffall, 18th. Pumpkins split on the vine. The children are very cross about it. They wanted to carve them.
Leaffall, 19th. A hard frost in the night. The last of the runner beans are dead. Pulled them up and put them on the heap.
Leaffall, 20th. Notice from the mayor's house at Vell. Every house with grain put by is asked to share with the houses with none. Carl says we have enough for ourselves and a little over. Mother says a little over is enough for the Hendersons. Carl says the Hendersons are poor because they never plant. Mother says they plant. Carl says they plant late. We will share the little over.
Leaffall, 21st. Clear. Stars very bright. Carl walked up the hill and counted them. He says there are more than last year. Mother says Carl cannot count stars, and that he is only counting worries.
%%
Saltreach almanac, spring
Kept by Lorn, who came down from Copperhold in the autumn and has not gone back up. He says the sea air is better for his chest. He is a miner. He does not say what his chest was doing before.

Thaw, the third. Wind from the sea, wet and cold. The boats stay on the slip.
Thaw, the twelfth. Rain all day. The harbor wall ran with water. The gulls sat on the bollards and looked offended.
Blossom, the first. Fog at dawn, lifted by noon. The first sail came in through it like a ghost. It was only Dane's cart on the sand road, with a load of salt.
Blossom, the ninth. High tide at dawn and again at dusk. The fish market set its prices on the board. Silver fish are up. Grey fish are down. The fishwife at the end stall says that means nothing. Then she tells everyone.

Planting. Peas on the lee side of the wall. Carrots now, if the ground is not soft. Potatoes wait for the warm nights, the last week of Blossom.

Lowmarsh has the best reeds for the roofs. Saltreach has the best salt. Copperhold has the best coal and the worst temper. That is what the old men say, and they are right about the coal.
%%
Almanac: the first days of Apple
Written out by Dace, mayor of Three Wells, for the wall of the Brown Hen, where travelers read it while the soup goes cold. Kept fresh by Tessa, who keeps the inn now.

The first day of Apple: wind from the west, warm and dry. Good for drying the late hay. Keep the dog out of the hay.
The second day: rain by the second bell, gone by the fourth. Do not wash the carts before the rain. Wash them after.
The third day: fog in the morning. It lifts by noon, and the roof of the inn steams like a pie left out to cool.
Plant: the last carrots in the south bed, before the frost, which is not yet, but is coming.
Harvest: the early pears at Ambrook, by the basket. The Brown Hen will buy them if you bring them by the second bell.
Weather: the hens are slow to lay. The bees are working the late flowers along the stable wall. Expect a dry week, then a wet one, then the frost in its own time, and not a day sooner.

Dace
%%
Almanac: the tides at Saltreach
Kept for the Vell market by Oren, clerk, from the tide book of the harbor master, Kell, who sent it by Pell. For the carters and traders who go down to the sea in winter and want to know when the boats are in.

The rule. High water at Saltreach comes about three quarters of an hour later each day. So it comes round to the same hour again in about thirty days, which is a month. Low water is about six hours after high water. Boats go out on the falling tide and come home on the rising tide.

High water, in hours after dawn. Each day has two. When the second number is over 24, take away 24, and it falls after the next dawn.
1st: 0 and 12.
5th: 3 and 15.
9th: 6 and 18.
13th: 9 and 21.
17th: 12 and 24.
21st: 15 and 27.
25th: 18 and 30.
29th: 21 and 33.

The big tides. When the moon is round or when it is dark, the tides run biggest. The water comes up the harbor wall nearly to the top, and the fish market's lowest stalls get wet. When the moon is half, the tides are small. Kell calls the small ones lazy tides.

Winter notes. Fish are fewer in Deepsnow, and deeper. The harbor does not freeze, but the quay is icy. Sand it. The nets are mended at the quay, by the window light, in the afternoon.

Kell asks that these times be read as a guide. A wind from the sea piles the water up, and a wind from the land holds it back. The sea does not read the almanac.
%%
Almanac: the weather of Deepsnow
Kept for the Vell market by Oren, clerk, from the weather log of last winter. Posted at the market gate for those who plan by it.

1st to 6th. Snow, light. Wind from the north. The market open each day.
7th to 9th. Clear and hard. Ice on the trough by dawn. The wells at Three Wells steamed.
10th to 14th. Snow, heavy. The hill road closed on the 12th. The market moved into the covered hall.
15th. A thaw for one day. Everyone said it was spring. It was not spring.
16th to 22nd. Hard frost. The Archive steps iced at the door, and the clerks sanded them.
23rd to 26th. Fog in the morning, clear by noon.
27th to 30th. Snow again, then still.

Totals: snow on 14 days, frost on 21, fog on 4, clear on 9. Some days are counted twice. Oren counts everything twice.

Note: the farmers ask me what the weather will do this year. I tell them what it did last year. They say that is no use. I say it is the only thing I have.
%%
Almanac: the mended roof of the shed
Blossom, the twentieth. The roof of the tool shed by the orchard gate has leaked since Thaw. Water on the tools, rust on the saws, a puddle on the potting bench. Hired the carpenter's boys from the tutor house. There were three of them, which is two more than we needed and exactly right.

They took off the old shingles one by one, and laid new ones of split oak over the rafters. The rafters were sound. The shingles were not. The boys sang while they worked, and the song was about a cow who wanted to be a bird, which is not a sensible song for roofing.

Blossom, the twenty-third. The roof is done. A storm came up from the north in the afternoon, and I sat in the shed with a cup of cider and listened to nothing dripping. A dry shed is the best sound in Vell.
%%
Almanac: a summer, and what is said
Written by Hob, healer, at the farm outside Three Wells. Weather by the day, planting, and what the carters bring up the Long Road. I write down the rumors as rumors. Some are true. I do not know which.

Longday, first day. Warm, and dry. Sowed the beetroot in the long field before the bees could complain.
Longday, third day. Storm at night. Torches out in the yard. The creeper came over the sheep pen fence again and blew up the east wall, stones and good cobblestone and all. Patched it with what was left. The creeper did not stay to see it fixed.
Longday, fifth day. Cloud, and then rain. The well by the yard has gone to mud at the bottom. There is a spade in it now and nothing else.
Longday, ninth day. Carried water from the north well in the cart, four barrels a day. The sheep came to watch. They know the sound of the cart.
Longday, twelfth day. The carter from the Brown Hen came through and said the north road is empty. No carts from Northpoint since Swarm. Nobody has been up there that he knows. He did not say why he was asking.
Melon, first day. The potatoes are up. Set the eyes deep, as the book says.
Melon, fourth day. A child at the Brown Hen says the lights were seen again over the north, from the top of the Long Road. Falling stars, some say. Fires, say others. The child said they were looking at us. The innkeeper gave her an extra pie to stop her talking.
Melon, sixth day. The carter from Saltreach says the big ships in the yard are longer than the pier now. Another carter says he saw the same ships from the road, and they are not longer, only higher. Hob cannot be in two places.
Melon, ninth day. A keeper on the north line did not answer the lamp for a whole day, the carter at the fork says. Then the answer came, but the message was cut short in the middle. Hob thinks both cannot be true. He writes down both.
Melon, twelfth day. Rain at dusk. The dry well is still dry. The creeper has not come back.
Melon, fifteenth day. A boy from Copperhold came up with a basket of stone. He said the stone under the mine is warm to the hand now, and the miners stop at a certain level and will not go down. He said it as if he was telling me the weather.
Melon, nineteenth day. Harvest begins in the bottom field. Potatoes first, then carrots. The wheat is ready in Reaping, which is near.
Melon, twentieth day. The well by the yard is dry still. I have written to the mayor at Three Wells and asked him to send someone to measure the stone. He has written back that the council will consider it at the next meeting.
%%
Almanac: tide and weather
Elsa, egg seller. Autumn, near the close of the season. A farm outside Vell, on the hill road. I put the tides in because my sister lives at Saltreach and sends me the figures, and I put in everything else because I have always done so.

Weather by the day.
First: cloud. Second: rain. Third: fog. Fourth: bright and cold. Fifth: bright. Sixth: wind. Seventh: wind and cloud. Eighth: still. Ninth: frost. Tenth: frost.

Tides at Saltreach, as my sister counts them. High water at noon on the first and the fifteenth. Low water at dawn. The spring tides are the highest of the year. She says the harbor wall is wet to the third course.

To plant now. Winter wheat in the top field. Carrots in the south bed. Apple trees, if the ground is soft.
To harvest now. The last of the beetroot. The potatoes. The apples, before the frost takes them.

Signs of a hard winter. I have written them all above. This year they all point one way, except the hens, who point another.

The talk. A neighbor says the Deep Works at Copperhold hum at night, and the stone is warm. Another says that is the forge. A third says the forge has been cold for a month. A fourth says nothing, and goes on digging.

Another neighbor says the north relays are going dark, one at a time. A lamp that blinks each night for years, and one night, does not. They say it began at Northpoint. They say Mira kept the lamp lit as long as she could, and I believe it.

Another says it is only the cold. Another says it is only the dark.

I do not know. I have a hundred hens and a lantern. I will light the lantern. I will feed the hens. It is what I can do.

My niece has been given the part of the fox in the spring play. She is very pleased. She says a fox does not need a beak.
%%
Almanac of the hill farm, with notes

Autumn of 208. Kept by Bel, who is grown now and keeps the book for the family, with notes by the boy who runs the farm.

Weather by the day, as we keep it: the wind on the hill comes from the west. When it turns north, cover the greens. When the smoke goes straight up, a still cold night. When the crows line the fence, rain by evening. When the bees crowd the hive mouth and seal it early, a hard winter is coming. This year they sealed on the second of Apple. We are getting the wood in early.

When to plant and harvest: wheat in Sowing, cut at Reaping when the heads bend. Beetroot in Sowing, pulled before hard frost, stored in sand. Potatoes in Sowing and lifted in Reaping. Carrots after a light frost are sweeter. Pumpkins when the stem is cork and the knock is hollow. Do not plant by the moon. Plant by the frost. The old rule holds.

Tides at Saltreach, for anyone going down for fish: out and in twice a day, roughly. Go out on the rising water, come back on the falling. Do not argue with the tide.

Signs of a hard winter: bees sealing early, foxes thick and bold, frogs quiet before their time, cold stone in the Deep Works. Three signs together and you prepare. We have three this year. The boy says the humming of the deep stone is a fourth sign. I said the humming is new and not in the book. He said then put it in the book. So: the stone hums at night and is warm. I do not know what it means. It is not the frost sign. I have written it down anyway.

Notes on the apprentice: Cobb is four years old now and steady. It farms better than the boy in some rows and worse in others. The boy says it does not know when to stop, and the boy does not know when to start, so they even out. Cobb built the new hen house wall by the pattern in the manual and it is straighter than the old one. It did not stop to eat because it does not eat. The boy stopped to eat and Cobb waited. That is a good apprentice.

The cat will still not stay out. Ember is very old and very grey and has not been out at night in three years. The boy's little sister has named a new kitten Coal, and Coal is worse. Coal climbs the ladder to the loft and will not come down. Cobb went up and brought Coal down and set it on the hearth and Coal walked straight back up. We have decided the loft is Coal's now. The cat will not stay out, and the loft will not stay catless. Some things the book just records.
%%
Almanac: signs of a hard winter
Kept by Aven, trader, in the second year of the new road. Winter.

The old carters have five signs of a hard winter.

The sheep grow their wool early, in Leaffall, and thick at the neck.
The hedge berries are heavy, and the birch leaves stay on late.
The bees are slow to leave the hive in the morning, and cross when they do.
The frost comes early to the bottom field and stays on the top.

If three of these come together, lay in wood. If all five come, lay in two winters' wood.
%%
Wren's almanac, the first days of Thaw
Written at Drybank, the hamlet above Lowmarsh. Spring of 205. Weather by the day.
1st. Cold and clear. The ice on the pool cracked in the night. Moss carried the first pail of marsh water to the house, and it did not freeze on the way.
2nd. Grey and still. One frog began to sing. He sang alone for an hour. Nobody joined him. I felt for him.
3rd. Mild. Ten frogs.
4th. Mild and wet. Every frog in the marsh. Nobody slept. A loud spring is a green one.
5th. Rain. The first dandelion leaves. Soup tonight.
Rule: do not pick the first dandelion leaves. Pick the second. The first are for the bees.
%%
Ambrook house almanac, winter 171
Kept by Ned, miller at the pond.
First of Longnight. Gray cloud over the hill. The wheel turned until noon, then the stream slowed. We ground two sacks of wheat and one of beetroot seed for the press. Do not leave seed by the door. A mouse carried a whole handful under the bench last year.
Second. Frost. Cut dry wood from the stack. Leave the apple trees alone. The ground is too hard for a spade.
Third. Snow, light and steady. Check the roof over the flour room. Put a pan under the drip if the wind shifts east.
Fourth. Cold wind. The bees stay quiet in their boxes. I tapped each lid once. No answer, which is their usual answer in winter.
Fifth. Sun for an hour. Turn the wheel while the pond edge is open. Store the meal in the dry bin.
Sixth. Frost again. Feed the hens before opening the gate. They rush out as if the snow has laid a table.
Seventh. Cloud and a little rain. The road is mud below the bridge. Keep the cart on the stones.
Eighth. Clear. Count the jars of honey. There are six. One is empty because my sister says she was only tasting it.
Ninth. Snow at dusk. Bring in the apples from the shelf. Plant no seeds now. Save them for Blossom.
%%
Almanac: weather by the day, Blossom
Almanac for Hollin Brook, Blossom. The weather is written each day at the first bell, and the hens are counted at the second, because the hens are less reliable than the sky.

Blossom, first day. Warm from dawn. Clouds from the west, high and thin. The apple trees by the brook have come out in one night, as if somebody had given an order.
Blossom, second day. Rain before breakfast, sun before lunch, and then rain again. The rain was short and thorough. The hens stayed in, and laid nine eggs, which is a sulk.
Blossom, fourth day. Clear and still. The first bee came up the lane at the second bell, looked at the bakery, and went away, as if it had found the bread wanting.
Blossom, fifth day. Wind from the north, cold. The oven cracked along one side, because the cold air got in at the wrong moment. Cade has mended it with clay. The bread is still good, but it has a slight lean to it.
Blossom, seventh day. Thunder over Copperhold in the afternoon, a long roll of it. The mine gate sent up a cart of coal for the bakery, which was kind, and a note saying the coal was late, which was not.
Blossom, ninth day. Fog in the morning, thick enough to lose a sheep in. Nobody lost a sheep, though a sheep was found on the step of the bakery, looking as though it had come to complain about the fog.
Blossom, twelfth day. Sun all day, and the brook at its best. The frogs are singing in the reeds at the bottom. The children are told not to listen too hard, in case they learn the song.
Blossom, fourteenth day. A good day. The bread rose evenly. The hens laid twelve. Cade went up to the top field, and sat by the hollow where the spring was, and it was warm, and nobody needed him, and he said so out loud, and the hens agreed.
%%
Almanac: tides at Saltreach, the summer
The tide at Saltreach comes in and goes out twice a day. It comes a little later each day, by about the length of a long breath. Count from the morning bell, and you will not be far wrong.

Longday, the first. High water at the morning bell, and again at dusk. The boats go out on the first high water and come home on the second. The fishers say the mackerel come in with the high tides of Longday, and they are not wrong.

Longday, the eleventh. High water a little after noon. The new harbor wall has held through the spring tides, and the stones have not moved. The masons are proud of it, and they say so at the inn every night.

Melon, the second. High water near the middle of the morning. Low water at dusk, so the boats must come in with the light. The tide book says the lowest water of the summer falls in Melon. It does. Walk the flats at low water and you will find crabs, cockles, and a boot that is not yours.

Melon, the twentieth. High water at the bell. The fish market is full. Corin had a boat slide down the new slip this morning, and the whole harbor cheered. The slip is wide and long, and it is the best slip on the coast. Corin will not say so, but everyone else does.

Melon, the twenty-sixth. High water at dawn. A fog came in over the water at noon and sat on the harbor until dusk. The bell rang through it every hour, so the boats could find their way. Not one boat was lost.

A note for the boat men. Watch the water, not the sun. The sun does not know about the sea.
%%
Almanac: planting by the day
Kept by Kit, for the spring, with the planting set out day by day, so that the work is not forgotten when the weather comes in.

Sowing, the eleventh. Warm enough at noon to put the seed in. Beans and peas in the bed by the wall. Plant the squash in a hill, with three seeds to a hill, and pull two when the leaves come up.

Sowing, the fourteenth. Cold again. The hill of squash is frozen at the top, so cover it with straw. Nothing is lost by waiting. The apples taught me that.

Sowing, the seventeenth. Wind from the hills. Set the young apple trees along the north terrace, in a row, and tie each one to a stake. Trees planted in a row hold each other up when the wind comes, the way people do.

Sowing, the twentieth. The first rain of the month, a good soft one. Sow the wheat in the long field. Do not sow it in the dry corner by the gate, where the ground is stony. The stones will keep the seed warm and the wheat will not come up.

Sowing, the twenty-fourth. Beetroot. Sow the seed a finger deep, and thin when the leaves are as big as a thumb. Save the thinnings for the copying room, which takes them without complaint.

Blossom, the second. Carrots in the garden below the big window. They like the morning sun, and they dislike wet feet. Make the rows high on the side of the hill, where the water runs away.

Blossom, the sixth. Pumpkin seeds in the south bed, in hills, with a bit of old straw under each. The pumpkins will want the warm ground and the long days.

Blossom, the tenth. Check the bees. The hive by the gate is busy, and the hive on the hill is quiet. Look inside the quiet one, and if the comb is light, give it a spoon of honey from the store.

Blossom, the fifteenth. Weeding. Weeds are everywhere, and they grow faster than the seed. Pull them when the ground is wet, so the roots come out whole. A weed left half in the ground is a weed that comes back, laughing.

Blossom, the twentieth. Melon seed in the warm frame, in pots, one seed to a pot. Keep the frame shut at night and open by day. Melons do not like to be surprised.

Blossom, the twenty-sixth. The wheat is up in the long field, green in rows. The beans have their first flowers, which look like small white moths. Walk the rows at dusk and count. Count again in the morning. The number will be the same, and that is a good sign for the year.
%%
Almanac: the healer's garden
When to sow and when to pick, in the herb bed behind the healing house at Drybank. Wren. Moss digs. I point.
Thaw, the last week. Plant the potatoes.
Sowing, the first half. Sow the beetroot and the carrots in rows a hand apart. Sow the oxeye daisies and the cornflowers along the edge. Cover them with reed cuttings against the frost.
Sowing, the second half. Thin the carrots. Eat what you pull. Sow the poppies, but only after the last frost. A poppy sown too early sulks all summer.
Blossom. Pick the first dandelion flowers for tea. Leave the rest for the bees.
Longday. Pick the daisies when they are open and dry. Hang them head down in the shed.
Never in the garden: lily of the valley. It grows by itself in the wood, and that is near enough.
The garden has a gate. The gate is for people. The frogs use the drain.
%%
Hill farm log, the cat and the frost

Autumn of 189. Kept by Bel's cousin, who is not a farmer but is learning.

The cat is called Ember because it sleeps by the fire and glows. It will not stay out at night. I put it out. It sits at the door and looks at me through the glass. I let it in. It walks to the hearth and goes to sleep. This happens every night. It is not a farm cat. It is a house cat that has learned to live on a farm.

Frost came on the ninth of Apple. Not hard. A white skin on the water butt, gone by mid morning. I covered the last of the pumpkins with straw. The carrots are still in and sweet. I pulled one and ate it standing in the field. Cold and good.

The bees are sealing the hive. I watched them at the entrance, crowding, pushing. My uncle says that means a hard winter. He also says the foxes are thick this year and the frogs went quiet early. He says all three signs together is a sure thing. I say three signs is a good guess. He says a good guess is how you farm.

Harvest is mostly in. The wheat is stacked in the barn, the beetroot is in sand in the cellar, the potatoes are in the clamp under straw. The hens have stopped laying much. The pigs are fat. One pig is called Turnip and is not for eating, my uncle says, because Turnip is a friend. I do not ask how the other pigs feel about this.

I walk down to Copperhold on market day with eggs and honey. The road is cobblestone at the town and packed earth on the hill. There is a torch on a post every twelve blocks and the posts are getting new ones this month. The miners come up at dusk and write their names on the board and rub them out. I like to watch. A man called Hesk rubbed out his name and said the stone was cold today. That is the frost sign again. Everyone nodded.

Ember caught a mouse in the barn and left it on the doorstep. My uncle said that is a gift. I said it is a mess. We left it there anyway, to be polite.
%%
Wren's spring almanac
Weather, work, sickness and signs for the three months of spring, from Drybank above Lowmarsh. Wren, healer. Written for the shelf by the window, where everyone looks.
Thaw. The ice goes out of the pools in the first ten days. Weather: grey, then cold, then grey again. The frogs wake one at a time, and then all at once. Work: mend the boardwalk, which has been rotting quietly all winter. Eat dandelion leaves and beetroot. Sickness: the winter cough lingers. Honey in warm milk, and an early night. Sign: if the frogs wake early, the spring will be warm.
Sowing. Rain from the sea, and mild. Work: dig the garden and sow it. Plant potatoes, carrots and beetroot. Cut the first reeds for roofs, before the new ones are tall. Sickness: colds. Everyone in the hamlet gets one, in turn, like a row of hens catching the same worm. Sign: if the reed tips come up red, there will be a late frost. Cover the poppies.
Blossom. The apple trees on the dry bank are white and pink, and the bees are loud. Weather: warm days, cool nights, sudden showers. Work: thin the carrots. Pick the first dandelion flowers. Watch the blue orchid pools. Sickness: feet. Everyone walks in the mud for the first time in months and finds out what their boots are made of. Sore feet: warm water, a pinch of salt, and a rest. Sign: if the bees fly low, rain by noon.
The market. Held on the long boardwalk the day after each spring tide. The boats come up the channel at high water with fish, salt and kelp. Bring your own bag. Bring a stool. Bring something to trade, for the Saltreach people like honey and cannot get enough of it.
A quarrel. In Sowing, two neighbors at the dry end of the hamlet quarreled over a fence for ten days, and put up three. They are friends again. The three fences are now one fence and a gate. A quarrel over a fence is never about the fence. It is about whatever is on the other side. Ask what is on the other side.
Signs of a good summer, which you can see in spring:
1. The frogs are loud from the first night.
2. The bees swarm early and come back.
3. The reeds grow tall and green by Blossom.
4. The marsh water is clear enough to see your boots.
5. The children are cross and sunburned in the same week.
None of these is sure. Four out of five is a very good summer.
A word about Moss. It carries water, stirs the pots and fetches from the high shelf. It does not tire, and I do. Somewhere in the second month of every spring, I sit down and look at it and think, I am too old to be teaching anyone. Then it brings me the right jar, without being asked. That is when I get up again.
%%
Almanac: egg week, autumn
Elsa, egg seller, a farm outside Vell. Cool and dry all week. Hens laying well.
First day: fog, then sun. Second: sun. Third: wind from the north. Fourth: clear. Fifth: cold at dawn.
Sell the eggs early. Bring the hens in at dusk.
The sky was very bright last night. Folk on the hill say it was falling stars. I slept through it.
%%
Ambrook almanac, Longnight 203
Written by Ned, with notes from Mara.
First of Longnight. Cold rain. The pond is high, and the wheel turns well. Keep the mill door shut against the wind.
Second. Frost at dawn. We dug carrots from the cold shed. Save the best roots for seed.
Third. Snow on the ridge. The orchard path is white, but the bridge is clear. The loose plank has been nailed down. It will last until somebody steps on the nail.
Fourth. Clear and cold. Mara counted the apple jars. I counted them again and got the same number, which was a pleasant change.
Fifth. Rain. The ditch runs fast. Keep the sluice closed until the pond mark reaches the top notch.
Sixth. Wind from the north. Wrap the honey jars. Check the hives, but do not open them.
Seventh. Snow in the morning. The cat found a warm place in the flour sack. The flour is still usable. The cat says nothing.
Eighth. Thaw. Bring the wood in before dark. The path is mud by the hedge.
Ninth. Frost. We planted no seeds. This is a month for keeping, mending, and eating the food we saved.
Tenth. Clear sky. A fox crossed the orchard. It stopped by the old apple tree and looked up.
Eleventh. Wet snow. Patch the roof over the meal bin.
Twelfth. Wind and cloud. The wheel slowed at noon. There is water enough for grinding tomorrow.
%%
Almanac: the first week of Melon
Kept by Isla, who mines copper in winter and farms the ridge in summer. The ninth year of the archive.

Melon, the first. Warm, with a wind from the south. The beans are up.

Melon, the third. Thunder over the windmill at dusk, and no rain. The hens sulked all evening.

Melon, the fifth. Rain at last. The new road to the Kettle Inn washed out in one place. The mayor's men came with carts of stone and said it would be done by Reaping. It will be.
%%
Yew's summer almanac
Weather, work, water and signs for the three summer months, from a farm outside Three Wells. Written for the children of the farm, who ask a great deal.
Swarm, the fourth month. Showers, then sun, then showers. Warm nights by the end. Shear the sheep. Plant the pumpkins and the melons on the warm side of the hill. The bees swarm. If a swarm comes, do not shout. Follow it quietly, and when it lands, hold a box under it and give the branch one knock. Bees are looking for a house. Give them one. Wells are full from the spring rain. This is a good month to dig.
Longday, the fifth month. The sun goes down late, and the days are long and steady. Cut the hay twice. Hoe the beetroot. Weed the carrots. The wells begin to drop. Mark the water on a rung on the first day. Water the garden at dusk. This is the month for mending barn roofs, because it is dry and the roofer is not busy.
Melon, the sixth month. The hottest weeks. Thunder in the afternoons. Pick the melons when the stalk by the fruit goes brown and the fruit sounds hollow when tapped. Check the pumpkins. Save seed from the best. The wheat turns gold toward the end of the month. After a storm, watch the stream. Floods come in Melon. Know where your pigs are.
A child who ran off. On the 14th of Longday, Mott's youngest, Pim, who is six, went to find out where the stream goes. Pim followed it down past the willows. Nobody saw. At dusk the farm and half of Three Wells went out with lanterns. Pim was asleep under the willows with a frog in each pocket. The stream goes to the willows. Pim has told everyone.
Signs of a hard winter, which you can see in summer:
1. The bees seal their hives with wax early, and fill the hive to the top.
2. The sheep grow thick wool before the shearing, not after.
3. The hens lose their feathers a month early, and look cross.
4. The foxes come down from the hills while it is still warm.
5. The acorns and the late berries are many.
None of these is sure. Taken together they are worth a thick coat.
Hay. Cut it when the dew is off. Turn it twice. It is ready when a handful, twisted, does not drip and does not snap. Hay put away damp starts to smell, then starts to warm, then starts a fire. A hot haystack is a lesson nobody needs twice.
Sayings. When the cows lie down in the morning, rain by evening. When the frogs go quiet, a storm or a fox is near. A cold well in the heat is the richest cellar on the farm.
A last word on water. Dig your well before you need it. Digging in a drought is hard on the back and harder on the temper. Dig it in spring, when the ground is soft and the neighbors are cheerful.
%%
Almanac page, the hill farm's year

Autumn of 197. Copied from the farm's big book by Bel, who is helping now.

Spring: thaw comes late on the hill. Do not plant before the frost has gone twice. The old rule is: one white morning, wait. Two white mornings, wait. Three, and the ground is ready. Sowing is for wheat and potatoes. Blossom is for the bees and the apple trees and nothing else that matters.

Summer: Longday is the long light. The wheat stands. The beetroot swells. Keep the water ditch clear down the middle of the field. Keep the hedge on the north side cut low so the sun gets in. Keep the torches lit at the field edge, because the nights bring the dead and the dead are only a nuisance. A zombie in the wheat is a nuisance with a face.

Autumn: this page. Reaping begins when the wheat heads bend. Cut early, cut dry. Beetroot before hard frost. Carrots after a light frost. Pumpkins when the stem is cork. Store what you keep. Sell what you can. The fair at Three Wells is in Leaffall and the eggs travel well if you pack them in straw.

Winter: mend. Mend the tools, mend the fence, mend the barn door. Feed the animals before yourself. Keep the fire in. Watch the signs: bees sealing early, thick foxes, quiet frogs, cold stone in the deep. Two signs is a guess. Three signs is a winter to prepare for.

Tides at Saltreach, for the cousin who asks: the sea goes out and comes in twice a day, roughly. The old boatmen say the tide waits for no one and neither does the fish. Go out on the rising water and come back on the falling. Do not argue with the tide. It does not hear you.

Bel's note: I asked my uncle why the book says the same things every year. He said because the year says the same things every year, and the book is just keeping up. Then he said, write it down anyway. So I did. The cat is on the book. I cannot write more.
%%
Almanac: when to plant, and when not
Kept by Aven, trader. Set down for the new settlers at the foot of the ridge, who ask every spring when they should begin, and every spring begin too early.

Thaw: plant beetroot in the warm corner by the wall, carrots in the row below, and potatoes in the bottom field, where the ground drains. The first rain is not a sign. Wait for the third.

Sowing: plant wheat on the top field, a hand apart in the row. Plant it the day after the frost leaves the path, not the day it leaves the field. The field is slow.

Blossom: pumpkins go in when the apple trees are in flower, and not before. A pumpkin planted with the frost still in the ground is a pumpkin that will tell you about it all summer.

Leaffall: harvest the wheat when it bends in the wind and does not break. Cut the beetroot before the first frost, and the carrots after it. Potatoes last. Potatoes forgive nothing.

A long winter is one that stays past Deepsnow and into the thaw. In such a winter, plant nothing until the ground says so. Push a finger into the earth at the bottom field. If the finger is warm at the second knuckle, the ground has decided. If it is not, the ground has not, and you are not to argue with it.
%%
Saltreach tide table, copied north
Odo, trader. The Saltreach tide board is kept at the fish market. Copied out for the north, where there is no sea, and where the tides are only a story the carts bring up.

The sea goes out twice a day and comes in twice a day. The times move on, about an hour later each day. This is the first week of Blossom, as the board has it.

Day 1: low water at dawn, high at the middle of the day, low again at dusk. Boats go out on the first ebb.
Day 2: low water a little after dawn. The long mud shows at the harbor mouth. Children go crabbing. Do not let them go past the second post.
Day 3: high water at dawn. The slip is wet all morning. Corin says this is the day to pull the boats up and paint them, and he is right.
Day 4: low water at noon. Fish come close in on the flood after. The market fills at three.
Day 5: high water at midnight. There will be no wind in the morning, and a wind by evening. Plan the nets for it.
Day 6: low water early. Mind the spring tide, which comes in fast over the flats and does not wait for anyone.
Day 7: high water at sunrise. A good day for salt. The pans fill and dry by dusk.

Notes for the north, written by Odo on the back of the copy:
The sea is a long way from Hollin Cross. The fish here come in tins, and the tins come on the cart, and the cart comes on a road that goes round the marsh. Still, the tide board is worth copying. A man who knows when the sea goes out will not be surprised by it.
%%
Almanac: the tides at Saltreach
For Saltreach, as the carters tell it. Give or take the wind.
Longday, first to fifth: high water at first light, low at noon, high again at dusk.
Melon, tenth: low water at dawn. The slip is dry for an hour, and the boats can be scraped.
Notes: the carters say the tide is slow this year. A cousin in Saltreach writes that the big ships in the yard have grown again. Longer than the pier, he says. Hob says a cousin is a poor measure of a ship.
%%
Tide notes, the long pier
Kept by Lorn, for the tally clerk at the fish market, who asked for the tides and got these too.

Swarm, the second. Low water at first light. The long pier stands clear to the last post. Crabs in the weed. The children counted eleven and then stopped.

Swarm, the fifth. High water at noon. The sea came up the steps of the slip and wet the boots of the man who was painting the keel. He painted on anyway.

Swarm, the ninth. Wind from the north-east, steady. High water early. The gulls go inland when the wind is like this. Fewer on the harbor wall, more on the roofs of the salt store.

Swarm, the twelfth. The north lamp has not answered since the eleventh. The harbor tower keeper, Geld, sends his nightly message up the line at dusk, and at dusk he has had no answer. Geld says the north lamp went dark on a clear night. He says it is never dark on a clear night. He has kept the harbor tower for twenty years. He says it again, as if he is trying to remember a different answer.

Swarm, the fifteenth. The north lamp answered at dawn. Two words, which Geld would not repeat. Then nothing again.

Swarm, the twentieth. Low water in the afternoon, which is strange. The tide is never low in the afternoon at this time of year. The fishermen ask why, and nobody knows. A tide is a tide. We row out on it, and we come back on it.

Longday, the first. Clear, still, warm. High water at dawn and at dusk, exactly as the tables say. The tables are always right about the tide. The tables do not say anything about the north.
%%
Almanac: signs of a hard winter
Folk signs, as my grandmother kept them. Write them down, and then do not believe them all.
The wheat stalks are thick at the root. A thick stalk means a stiff winter.
The beetroot leaves grow heavy by Melon. Heavy leaves, heavy snow.
The windmills squeak more on damp days. That is not a sign of snow. It is a sign of the miller.
The frogs at Lowmarsh go down into the mud early, a carter says. Hob has not seen it. He has only been told.
A carter from the north says the north is always colder this year. Another says the north has been quiet since Longday. Hob says quiet is not a sign of anything. He writes it down anyway.
%%
Ned's winter book, 199
House by the east hedge, Ambrook.
First of Deepsnow. Snow all night. The mill wheel is still. We brought the flour sacks inside and stacked them above the floor.
Second. Wind from the west. It moved the lid on the wood box. Tie it with cord, not with the old belt. The belt belongs to Pell.
Third. Clear morning, hard frost. Prune only the broken apple branches. The trees need their rest.
Fourth. Snow at noon. The hens stayed in the house. One hen sat in the empty grain basket and refused to move. I put the basket outside. The hen went with it.
Fifth. Mild rain. The ditch is running. Do not turn the sluice until the pond rises to the lower mark.
Sixth. Frost. Gather carrots from the cold shed for supper. The small ones are sweet.
Seventh. Cloud. Patch the west shutter. A bee came out of the hive at noon, flew once round my hat, then went home.
Eighth. Snow again. Check the bridge plank. It is loose, as always. I put a stone on it. Someone will move the stone.
Ninth. Clear. Cut kindling from the fallen birch. Keep the dry sticks under the bench.
Tenth. Wind and frost. No work at the pond. Mend the flour cloths and count the jars.
Eleventh. Sun, then cloud. The old apple tree still holds one fruit. I left it there. A fox watched me leave it.
Twelfth. Snow at dusk. Put the seed jars high. Mice can climb the shelf.
%%
Almanac: a gift and a weather glass
Wren, healer of Lowmarsh, kept this on a visit to Copperhold in Apple. The mine hall had given her a gift, and she described it. Autumn.

WEATHER FOR THE MONTH.
Days 1 to 5: bright, dry, a light wind from the west. Good for drying herbs on the roof.
Days 6 to 10: cloud, mist on the hill, fine rain at night.
Days 11 to 15: clear and very cold. A frost each morning. The rope on the well at the mine gate froze on the 12th.
Days 16 to 20: wet. The road to Three Wells is soft. Carts will sink.
Days 21 to 25: dry, with a hard frost. The ponds are covered in ice at dawn.
Days 26 to 30: cold wind from the north. Smoke goes straight up the chimney, which means more cold.

WORK. Reap the last of the beetroot. Bring in the apples. Cut and stack the wood. Seal the north windows. Check the roof before the first frost.

THE GIFT. On the 16th the mine hall made me a gift: a weather glass, a small tube of glass half filled with colored water, hung on a hook. When the weather is fair, the water stands high. When the weather is foul, it sinks. It is made by a glassblower at Kettle Ridge named Elm, and it is a lovely thing. I hung it in my room. The miners came to look at it as if it were a creature.

THE LAMP. On the night of the 18th, the signal lamp at Copperhold blinked a strange message that no one could read. The keeper sent word along the line. Every tower looked at it, and every tower said it was strange. The cause, when it was found, was a loose shutter that the wind moved. The lamp was not blinking at all. The shutter was.

HEALTH. In Apple, the cough. See my note above. In Apple, the sore throat. Gargle with salt water. In Apple, the sore back from carrying wood. Rest. Do not carry wood.

A saying from Copperhold: "A lamp that blinks without reason is a lamp with a loose shutter."

I have written this almanac on the back of a mine ledger, so that if the mine hall ever misplaces its figures, there will be a record somewhere.
%%
Lowmarsh
Summer of 184. Briar, written up at Wren's asking, so that nobody makes it again.
Wren's healing house keeps a recipe for a cough syrup: honey, mint, a little ginger if there is any, warm water, stir until it is smooth. Good for a tickly cough. Moss can make it with eyes shut.
This summer I had a cough and no patience. I thought, if a little honey is good, more is better, and I put in the whole pot. Then I thought the mint was weak, so I put in twice the mint. Then I warmed it too long on the stove while I was called away to a birth, and it went dark and thick like tar.
I came back and tasted it. It was awful. It tasted like a swamp that had learned to be angry.
Moss tried it and made a face and said, very politely, that it was not the recipe. I said I knew. Wren came in, looked in the pot, and asked who had died in it.
We gave it to nobody. We poured it on the reeds. The reeds are fine. I am told the frogs by that stretch have gone hoarse, but that is a joke and I am writing it down as a joke.
The right way is above, in Wren's hand, and I will not improve it again. My cough went away on its own. Moss made the next batch and it was perfect, and I said so.
%%
Almanac: three days of flood
Melon, the 8th to the 10th, in the summer of 181. Weather by the day, and what the water did. Kept at the farm outside Three Wells by Yew, well digger.
The 8th. Hot and still. A yellow-grey sky over the hills all morning. Rain began at the noon bell and did not stop. By dusk the stream below the farm was brown and loud.
I mark the stream on the third post in the dry months. By lantern light the water was over the post. I told the Dunn farm to move their pigs. They moved the pigs. The pigs did not like it, and said so all night.
The 9th. Rain all day. The low field is a lake. The stream came into our barn at the north end, up to the first rung of the loft ladder. We carried the seed sacks up. We carried the hens up. The hens were not grateful.
At the third hour after noon, Toby could not be found. Toby is five and belongs to the Dunn farm. His mother thought he was with his father. His father thought he was with his mother. Half of Three Wells came out with lanterns. We called along the stream, because the stream was loud, and a small boy wants to see a loud thing.
He was in our hayloft. He had been there since noon, asleep with the cat, with a bucket on his head. He said he was keeping dry. He had a point. Nobody was cross. His mother held him so hard that he squeaked.
The 10th. The rain stopped at dawn. The water went down as fast as it came, and left a skin of mud on everything, and a fish in the barn. The fish was carried back to the stream with some ceremony.
What I dug. A trench along the north wall of the barn, two blocks deep, to lead the next flood past the door. You cannot stop water. You can only give it a better road.
For the next flood:
1. Move the pigs first. They need the most time.
2. Mark the stream on a post, and read the post.
3. Count the children. Then count them again, in the hayloft.
A flood is hard work for the grown folk. For a boy of five, it is the best week of the year.
%%
Farm almanac, Copperhold hill, autumn

Autumn of 168. Bel's aunt wrote this, and Bel copied it out fair.

The hill farm above Copperhold sits on old mine spoil. The soil is thin. Stone is close under it. But the sun comes over the hill early and stays late, and that is worth more than deep soil.

Planting by the moon is folly, said my mother. Plant by the frost. I plant by the frost. The first white morning is the sign. After it, the ground is cold but not dead. Turn the beetroot in then. The carrots can wait a week. Potatoes go in early in Sowing, not now. This is the reaping list, not the planting list.

Reaping: wheat first, when the heads bend and the stems go gold. Cut in the morning while the dew holds the chaff. Beetroot next, before the first hard frost. Pull, twist the tops, store in sand in the cellar. Carrots can take a light frost and be sweeter for it. Pumpkins last, when the vine is brown and the stem is cork. Knock on each one. A good pumpkin sounds hollow and feels heavy.

The wind on the hill comes from the west most days. If it turns north and stays, cover the young greens. If the crows fly low and sit in a line on the fence, rain by evening. If the smoke from the forge goes straight up, a still night, and a cold one.

Signs of a hard winter: the bees seal the hive early. The foxes grow thick coats and come down to the town wall. The frogs go quiet in the marsh before their time. The old miners say the deep stone smells of frost before the frost comes. I do not know how stone smells, but I believe them.

Bel's note at the bottom: Aunt, the cat will not stay out. It sits by the hearth and will not move for the door. I have named it Ember. It is not my cat. It is the farm's cat. It has decided the hearth is its farm.
%%
Almanac: the hard winter signs
Almanac for Hollin Brook, kept at the bakery through spring and into Thaw. Written also for the signs, which the old people look for each autumn, and which nobody believes until the first snow falls on them.

The signs of a hard winter, as the old people give them:
The oak bark is thick, and the ridges on it are close together.
The wild birds fly over early, and low, and talk about it.
The acorns are many, and fall before the leaves have gone.
The old men's knees ache in the morning, and they tell everyone.
The brook freezes at the edges first, and the frogs go down into the mud early.

We have had three of the five this spring, in the bakery's own weather. Cade has written them down, and the old woman who sells cheese at the hill gate says it is four. She says the birds were early.

Spring in the hollow. The hollow by the top field, where the old map shows the spring, has changed since Blossom. A little water came up through the leaves after the rain, cold and clear. Cade put his hand in it, and it was cold enough to make him swear, and he did not swear again all morning. He has not told the mayor yet. He says the mayor will want to write it down.

Planting has been finished for a month. The beetroot is up, in its rows, with the leaves like small green hands. The carrots are thin and bright. The wheat on the top strip is a finger high and thick as hair, and the birds have been and gone, and left their share.

Weather, the last day of Blossom, from the top of the hill. Clear and warm. The fields are green to the brook. The smoke from Copperhold is a thin line in the west, and the wind has not yet turned it.

Hens counted: fourteen. The fox has not returned. The bread is on the high shelf, and the loaf on the shelf is hard as a stone, and nobody will eat it, and nobody will throw it away.
%%
Almanac: a year at the Vell market
Kept by Oren, clerk, for the Archive. A market year, month by month, as the stalls see it: what comes, what goes, what the weather does. Set out because a clerk asked what the market is like in Frost, and nobody could say.

Thaw. The first carts after the snow. Seed sacks, shears, new buckets. The stream runs loud at the lower mill. Fish stall: salt cod only. The Archive opens its front door again, and the clerks air the halls, and sneeze.
Sowing. Seed day, every sixth day. Wheat, beetroot, carrots. Rain two days in three. Mud to the ankle, and cheerful.
Blossom. Flowers at the gate. Ambrook sends branches. The bees come with them. Honey from last year, dark.
Swarm. Bees in the market. Stand still. Kettle Ridge wool, new. Lambs for sale, loudly.
Longday. The hot month. The cheese goes in the shade. The market closes early, at the noon bell. Everyone sits in the Archive steps, which are cool.
Melon. Melons. A great many melons. Pell brings honey, which is sticky. The cheese seller shuts up shop.
Reaping. Wheat in, and flour out. The bakers at their best. Long days, long tables.
Apple. Apples from Ambrook, in baskets, barrels and boys. The fair is at Three Wells, but the apples come to Vell first.
Leaffall. Pumpkins. Leaves in the gutters. Wood for sale. The first frost on the stones.
Frost. Coal from Copperhold. Wool for coats. The market moves in under the covered hall when the snow comes.
Longnight. Candles. A great many candles. Torches. The lamp boy works until midnight.
Deepsnow. Quiet. The stalls shrink to six. Soup sells better than anything.

The best and the worst. The market is at its best in Apple and at its fullest in Frost. Its quietest day is the first of Deepsnow, when nobody has any money and everyone has a story. Oren's favorite day is a market day in Sowing with rain, because then everyone is wet, and no one is cross.

Notes. A good harvest last year, the best in nine. Prices are down, and nobody has complained. This has never happened before.
Lost: one goat, brown, with a bell. Found on the poetry shelf of the Archive by a clerk in Leaffall. She was asleep. The clerk says she had read nothing. The goat has gone home. The poetry shelf has not been the same.
%%
Almanac: the house at the edge of Vell
Kept by the house. Weather by the day, the sowing and the picking, and the tides at Saltreach as the carters report them.
Leaffall, 1st. Cold morning, fog in the low field. Clear by noon. Wind from the west.
Leaffall, 2nd. Apples in. The late ones are in the loft. Last of the pumpkins brought from the far patch.
Leaffall, 3rd. Rain at dusk. Good for the carrots, which we planted in Thaw and which are now sulking.
Leaffall, 4th. The first frost on the pig trough. Bring the pigs in at night from now on.
Leaffall, 5th. Sowing of the winter wheat on the south slope, six sacks. Carl says the soil is too wet. Carl is always right about the soil and always wrong about the weather.
Leaffall, 6th. Fog all day. The Vell bell rang at the second hour, which is the rule for fog. Nobody lost.
Leaffall, 7th. Wind hard from the north. Nets brought down from the orchard poles.
Leaffall, 9th. Good drying day. Beans pulled and hung in the loft.
Leaffall, 10th. Tides at Saltreach, from the carter: high at the first bell, low at the third. Big tide, the carter says, which means the boats are out late.
Leaffall, 11th. Clear and cold. Stars very bright over the hill. The old folk say a clear night before Frost is a sign of a long winter. We will see.
Leaffall, 12th. Cold rain. Good day to mend the roof.
%%
Almanac for the mill house, 206
Ned and Mara, east side of Ambrook.
First of Frost. Rain until midday. The mill pond is full. Turn the wheel while the water holds.
Second. Hard frost. Cover the last beetroot in the shed with straw.
Third. Clear. Cut fallen wood, not green wood. Set the dry pieces by the hearth.
Fourth. Snow. The road to the village is white. Leave the cart at the bridge and carry the flour home.
Fifth. Thaw and rain. Check the ditch. The water is high but not over the bank.
Sixth. Wind from the north. The bees stay inside. Mara says they are wiser than we are.
Seventh. Frost at dawn, sun by noon. Gather the last apples from the shelves. Sort out the bruised ones for pies.
Eighth. Cloud. The hen house is dry. The hens are loud. They have no cause to complain.
Ninth. Snow at dusk. Put a lamp by the back door and keep the path clear.
Tenth. Clear and cold. No planting now. Keep the seed jars dry until Blossom.
Eleventh. Rain. The mill wheel made a new squeak. I tightened the wood pin. It now squeaks in a lower voice.
Twelfth. Frost. Check the well rope and the roof pegs.
Thirteenth. Snow. A traveler bought flour and asked if the old apple tree always leans. It does. It has seen enough to lean.
Fourteenth. Mild. Turn the wheel for one more sack. Store it high, away from mice.
Fifteenth. Cloud, no rain. The pond is still. We will grind again when the stream rises.
%%
Lowmarsh almanac, notes for a wet summer
Summer of 181. Briar, midwife, and anyone who was passing.
The frogs sang late this year. Old Perrin says that means a wet Swarm, and Perrin has been right about rain twice and wrong four times, so we wrote it down and waited.
It rained on the fourth and the fifth. The boardwalk by the boat houses went under a hand's depth. We put planks across and everyone helped.
Reeds are tall. Good for baskets. Wren wants the soft ones for her jars.
Planting at Lowmarsh is mostly not planting. We fish, we cut reeds, we keep bees on the dry hummock. The bees are busy. The honey will be good if the rain stops for the Longday.
A hard winter sign, they say: wasps building low, and the frogs going quiet early. We will watch and write it here in Leaffall.
Mosquitoes bad. Nets by the beds. That is all the weather worth keeping.
%%
Almanac: planting and harvest
Plant the beetroot in the long field before the middle of Longday. Beetroot sown late is small and sweet, and the hens will not touch it.
Carrots go in the bottom field as soon as the ground is warm. They do not mind a cold night.
Potatoes: set the eyes up, and mound the soil high round the stems, or the sun turns them green and bitter.
Melons go in the warm corner by the south wall, where the stones give back the day.
Wheat is sown in Sowing and cut in Reaping. In Melon, weed the wheat and keep the chickens out of it.
Pumpkins: plant the seeds in Swarm, in a hill of dung and straw. Cut them in Apple, before the first frost.
Apples: thin the fruit in Melon, so the rest of the tree has room to grow big.
Honey: take the top shelf honey in Melon, not before, or the bees go short.
Watering: the well by the yard is dry. Water the beetroot from the north well, and water the carrots at dusk, not at dawn, so the water does not scorch them.
Notes: some say the stone under Copperhold is warm to the hand. Hob has not touched it, and will not. The carters say the mine is quiet at night now. Quiet is not bad, the carters say. They do not say what it is.
%%
Almanac: the mended roof, day by day
Melon, the second. Clear and warm. The barn roof leaked over the good hay in the night, and we woke to a stream running down the ladder. We carried the hay out in the dark, which is not a pleasant way to start a morning.

Melon, the third. Rain all morning. Went up on the roof with the ladder, a bundle of new reeds, and a great deal of language. Found the hole. It was the size of a hen. Mice had been living under the old reeds, and they did not want to leave. We gave them a small room at the back and put the new reeds over the top.

Melon, the fourth. Ketch the mason came out from Three Wells with a cart of stone, two sons and an opinion. He said the old roof was rotten under the reeds, and the beams would have to come out. Ten emeralds for the stone, he said, and four for his sons' dinner. He is not a cheap man, but he is an honest one. I told him so, and he said that was the same as cheap.

Melon, the fifth. The beams came out. They were grey and soft, and one came apart in my hands like wet bread. We put in new oak, sawn at the Ambrook mill and carried down the Long Road on two carts. The oak smells sweet. The old beam smelled of mice.

Melon, the sixth. Sun all day. The new roof went on in the afternoon, with stone at the bottom, reeds on top, and a ridge of clay along the middle. Ketch's sons sang while they worked. Their song was about a cow who won a race, and it had nineteen verses. They knew all nineteen.

Melon, the eighth. A dry night. The first night in weeks I did not wake to the drip. I lay in the loft with my hand flat on the boards and listened to nothing at all. The mice have moved to the mill, where they belong.

Melon, the tenth. Ketch came back for his money. I paid him the last of what we had owed him since Thaw: twenty emeralds in all, counted out on the barn bench. He counted them back to me, twice, to be sure. Then he shook my hand and went home, pleased. So was I. It is a good roof.

Melon, the twentieth. The swallows built a nest in the new eaves, right over the door. The first thing they did was leave a mess on the step. I have decided it is a sign of luck. My grandmother's almanac says a swallow's mess on the step means a good harvest. She also said the mice were a sign of money. I am still waiting for the money.
%%
Almanac: a week at the egg stall
Elsa, egg seller, the farm outside Vell. Autumn. I have kept this almanac for eleven years, and I think it has never been so full of talk as this season.

First day. Fog on the hill. The stall opened late. A cat sat on the egg basket. It did not break any.
Second day. Clear, with a high wind. The torches blew out along the road. I relit them. A cart came through from the north with two families on it and a great deal of bedding. They were moving south for the winter, they said. Early.
Third day. A lost dog came to the stall. It had a red collar and a name tag: Biscuit. I asked at Vell. Nobody had lost a dog by that name. I kept it for the night.
Fourth day. The school play at Vell was a great success. My niece played the goose again. She has now played the goose eleven times and has opinions about it. Biscuit's owner came, a small boy from the east road. He cried when he saw the dog. The dog cried too.
Fifth day. Rain all day. The hens would not come out. The eggs were few.
Sixth day. A rumor from the north: the relay at Northpoint did not blink last night. Some say a storm took the lamp. Some say the keeper is ill. Some say nothing at all. I do not know any of these people.
Seventh day. A calm last day. The sun came out. I sold forty eggs. I gave a dozen to the family from the north. They did not ask for them.

It is a strange time. I will keep writing.
%%
Almanac for the north: hard winter signs
Odo, trader, Hollin Cross. Written in the last week of Leaffall, spring of 207, for anyone who wants to know what the winter will be. Some of these signs were written down by people in this village before me. Others I have seen myself.

Signs of a hard winter, as the old people say:
1. The geese leave early, in a long straight line, and do not look back.
2. The apples keep their skins thick. A soft apple means a soft winter.
3. The foxes come into the open in the day, looking for bread.
4. The woodpile goes down faster than it should, by the second week of Leaffall.
5. The cows grow a thick coat, and the cat grows two.
6. The first frost comes before the last of the apples are in.

My own signs, which are only mine:
7. A cart is late to the north, and the carter says it was the road. It was not the road.
8. The Northpoint tower lamp is lit at dusk, and so is the one at Vell, and you can see both from the hill, which you cannot always.

The almanac is not a promise. In spring of 205, every sign was there, and the winter was mild and short, and the old people said they had been wrong, and then they said they had been right all along, about the sign that did not come.

What to do: Lay in two months of flour and one of salt. Buy the candles before the carts stop. Keep the snow off the roof, because the roof is what the snow wants. Keep one cart fit and one horse fed. Keep a list.

Odo's last word on it: The best sign is a full woodpile and a neighbor who owes you a favor. Both are easy to find in this village, and both are easy to lose.
%%
Almanac: Hollin Brook, Thaw
Almanac for Hollin Brook, kept by Cade, baker.

Thaw, first day. Bright and cold. The brook is loud and full. Plant nothing. The ground is still asleep.
Thaw, third day. Rain from the east. The ground is soft. Plant the first beetroot in the sheltered bed, if you have the seed. We have it, so we are waiting for the warm.
Thaw, fourteenth day. Wind from the west, and warm. The frogs are back in the brook. Do not step on them. They are very small and very cross.
%%
Almanac: signs of a hard winter
Counted by Oren, clerk, from the weather logs of twenty hard winters and twenty soft, kept at Vell. Posted at the market in Leaffall each year, when people begin to ask.

An almanac that only says what people want is no help. So here is what the logs say, sign by sign, with the numbers. A sign that was right in more than three winters out of four is marked strong. A sign that was right in half is marked weak. A sign that was right less than half is marked a story.

Thick wool on the sheep in Leaffall. Right in 14 of 20 hard winters. Fair.
Bees closing their hives early with wax. Right in 15 of 20. Strong. Ama says the bees knew.
Hens going to roost before the sun. Right in 12 of 20. Weak.
White foxes at the north houses before the first frost. Right in 16 of 20. Strong. They do not come for the company.
A thick skin on the beetroot. Right in 11 of 20. Weak. The farmers like this one. It may be that the farmers like to be right.
A thick skin on the apple. Right in 9 of 20. A story.
Early frost on the mill pond at Ambrook. Right in 17 of 20. Strong.
A good harvest the summer before. Right in 8 of 20. A story. Nobody believes this one, and it is true.
The cat sleeping with her back to the fire. Right in 13 of 20. Fair. Also right in 13 of 20 soft winters. The cat sleeps with her back to the fire in all weathers.

What the logs say about the weakest sign. The signs people most like are the ones that are right least often. The signs that are right most often are the ones that nobody enjoys: bees, foxes, the pond. These are quiet signs. They do not make a good story, and they are true.

If you want a rule, here it is. Believe the bees and the foxes. Forgive the beetroot. Never trust a winter because the harvest was good.

Postscript. A man asked if I could count the signs for next year. I said I could count last year's, and any year before it. He asked what use that was. I said that is what counting is for.
%%
Almanac: water in the dry weeks
What I know about water in summer, from thirty wells dug. Yew, outside Three Wells.
Look at the grass. In a dry spell, the grass that stays green has water under it. Dig there.
Look at the well. Every well has rungs in its wall. Mark the water on a rung on the first day of the month. If it drops three rungs in ten days, tell your neighbors. If it drops five, stop watering anything you can live without.
Look at the frogs. Frogs go where the water goes. When they leave the pond for the ditch, the pond is going.
Look at the cat. A cat that drinks from the trough is hot. A cat that drinks from the well bucket is bold.
Before you go down a well, lower a torch on a rope. If it goes out, do not go down. Wait a day and try again. A torch is honest about the air.
Never dig alone. Never dig the day after rain. Never dig with a child watching the edge.
Water is not in a hurry. It comes in its own time. If it has not come by the fourth day, dig somewhere else, and say sorry to the first hole.
%%
Almanac: tides
From the writing of Wren, healer, who copied what the sea folk of Saltreach told her about the tides, and added what she knew of the weather at Copperhold. Autumn. A pocket almanac for those who travel the Long Road between the coast and the mine.

TIDES AT SALTREACH. High at the first hour and the thirteenth on the first day of Apple. Each day after, the high tide comes a little later, by about the time it takes to boil an egg. Spring tides at the new moon and the full: the highest and the lowest. The harbor wall shows a mark for each. The ships do not go out on a spring tide if the wind is from the east.

WEATHER AT COPPERHOLD. Fog on the hills in the morning, burning off by noon. Rain in the second week. A bright cold spell in the third, with frost at the shaft head. A first light snow in the fourth.

WORK FOR THE MONTH. Dig the last potatoes. Bring in the pumpkins and the melons. Store the apples in the loft, not touching. Cut the wood for winter. Mend the roof. Clean the chimney. Visit your neighbor.

HEALTH. Cold feet bring coughs. Wet wool brings colds. Smoke brings a sore chest. Eat soup. Sleep. Do not argue with a sick person.

A GIFT. A small cask of honey is sent by Wren to the almanac's readers, in the form of this advice: eat a spoonful each morning, and you will be well until Longnight.

THE LAMP. In the middle of the month, the signal lamp at Copperhold blinked a strange message, and the keeper was in a fright until he found the cause. It was a moth. If your lamp does the same, look for a moth.
%%
Almanac: when to plant the wheat
Plant the wheat in Sowing, when the ground is warm to the back of your hand. Not before. A cold field keeps the seed and rots it.

Plant the beetroot after the first rain of Sowing, in rows a hand apart. The top field takes the wheat, the long field takes the beetroot, and the bottom field takes the potatoes and carrots. Each field has its own work. A field knows what it wants, and it is our job to listen.

When the swallows fly low over the ditch, rain is coming. Plant the day after the rain, not the day before. A seed in dry ground waits. A seed in wet ground sprouts at once, and then starves if the rain stops.

Harvest the wheat in Reaping, when the stalks turn gold from the top down. Harvest the beetroot in Apple. Pull one first, to see. If it is the size of an egg, wait a week. If it is the size of a fist, it is ready, and so are you.

Plant an oak or a birch hedge on the north side of each field. It keeps the wind off the young wheat, and in winter it keeps the snow where it belongs. The hedge takes five years to grow. Plant it anyway. Your grandchildren will need somewhere to sit.

Last year the Brown Hen bought forty loaves a week from the ridge. The Long Road has new inns now, and every inn wants bread. Plant more wheat than you need. Hope is cheap in Sowing, and bread is dear in Longnight.
%%
Almanac: the archive garden, Blossom
Blossom, the second. Planted the rows of carrots in the garden below the big window. Carrots like the shade of the hill, and they like the morning sun on their leaves. Nobody has ever told them the hill is a roof.
Blossom, the fourteenth. Rain for three days. The garden drinks, and the paths run with water into the lower hall, where the drain hole is. Sent a boy with a shovel. He came back with the shovel and no drain hole, but with a new idea about drains.
%%
Almanac: the weather by the day, Frost
Kept by Aven, trader, at the house by the mill. Frost, in the third year of the archive.

The first of Frost: wind from the north, sharp. Frost on the cart rails by the second bell. Good for mending the axle.
The second: still, grey, and the smoke goes straight up. Good for baking, bad for walking.
The third: snow in the afternoon, two fingers deep, and it does not last.
The fourth: thaw at noon, freeze at dusk. The road is glass by the evening bell. Do not carry anything you are fond of.
The fifth: clear and cold. The stars are very sharp over the ridge. Good for counting the wood.
The sixth: wind from the west, warm for a morning and then not. The mill turns all day.
The seventh: heavy snow from the north. The road to Vell is closed until the eighth.
The tenth: the big frost. Put the pails inside, and the wood by the stove.
%%
Almanac: a wedding and a salt barrel
By Dace, for the Brown Hen, as the month went on. The wedding was on the inn's green, under the big apple tree, and it went very well, apart from the salt.

The wedding was between Coll, who drives the inn's second cart, and Mirren, who makes the best pies on the Long Road. The whole road came. Carters came, and drovers, and a man from Ambrook who had walked three days and was not sure he had been invited. The bride's mother cried into the soup. The soup was excellent, and nobody else cried, because the cook had put in the salt.

The inn has an apprentice now, a helper from Vell that carries the feed and mucks out the stable. It was lent to us for the autumn, and it is still learning the stable and the cellar. It knows eight kinds of order, and no more. It is patient, and very fast, and it does not argue.

At the wedding the cook wanted a little more salt for the bread. She said it to the stable boy, who said it to the apprentice, in his own words, which were quick and cheerful and not quite right:

> put the cart by the door for the bride
= fetch cart

The apprentice understood only the word cart. It fetched the cart. It did not understand by the door. It brought the cart out of the stable, across the yard, and parked it in the very middle of the green, between the tables and the bride's chair. The bride had to walk round it to sit down, and the groom had to walk round it to find her. Several guests tried to climb it, thinking it a kind of seat.

Then the cook, who had only wanted salt, sent the apprentice for the salt. The apprentice did not understand which salt. It fetched the salt barrel from the cellar, and then it fetched the salt barrel again, because nobody had said stop.

What the inn learned: say what you mean, and say the goods by their own names. Keep the order short. A mind holds only about sixty letters at a time, and a long order spills out of it. Do not say by the door unless you want a cart in the middle of the wedding. Do not say a little salt unless you want to be given the whole barrel.

The bride and groom laughed the hardest, and they have asked for the cart to stay by the door for every wedding after this. The apprentice has put it there every time.

Dace
%%
Saltreach almanac, the long spring
Kept by Lorn. Written up each night from the notes on the slip, which are kept in the net shed, where they stay dry.

Swarm, the first. Wind from the land. Pell's wagon came in from the Long Road with flour, salt and a crate of new lamp glass from Vell. The glass is for the harbor tower. Geld says it is about time.

Swarm, the third. Rain at noon. The nets came up heavy, and the fishwife, who had been shouting since dawn that the catch would be poor, stopped talking entirely, which was worse.

Swarm, the sixth. The keel of the big ship is laid at the far slip. It is three times as long as any boat on this shore. Corin is building it. Corin says it is for the fishing grounds past the rocks, where the water is deep and the fish are fat. He does not say it with a smile. He says it with the face of a man who has been told what it is for and would rather not repeat it.

Swarm, the eighth. The Halvards left this morning. Four people, two carts, one dog. They took the north road to the Long Road, and then, Pell says, the east road to the coast. They did not say where they were going. They said they would send word. They did not say how. The house on the hill stands with its door open.

Swarm, the ninth. High water at noon. The tide came up the steps of the slip and wet the boots of the man who was painting the keel. He painted on anyway.

Longday, the first. Hot. Hay carts on the sand road. Fish dried on racks behind the salt store, and the whole harbor smells of summer. Two children fish from the end of the long pier with a bucket and a single hook. They catch one fish each and let it go. The fishwife says that is a waste. The children say the fish are fine.

Longday, the fourth. The school play was put off until the Longday fair. Ferris has a sore foot, and the gull costume is too heavy for anyone else. Lorn has offered to be the gull. He has been told no three times.

Longday, the seventh. The big ship's ribs are up. You can see them from the harbor wall. Wood ribs first, then iron bands. Corin says the iron comes down from Copperhold by cart, and the carts arrive with their wheels grey. The men unload fast and do not talk to the drivers.

Longday, the eleventh. Melons on the south terraces. Potatoes lifted, carrots thinned. The north lamp has not answered since the middle of Swarm. Geld still sends his message at dusk and waits.

Longday, the fourteenth. The last cart of the spring goes up the long road to Ambrook. Salt and dried fish in the cart, and the driver says the orchards up there have never been so heavy with fruit. He says it cheerfully. He is not from Ambrook.

Longday, the twentieth. The boats came in early, all of them. The nets were heavy. Nobody says anything about the big ship at the table. The table is talked around it.
