Fern Vastle's Arc

Chapter 1 of 4

Fern Vastle wanted one thing in Pinehollow: to be the woman folks called when something broke. So when the storm snapped shingles off the seamstress's roof, she grabbed her tool belt and ran. Rain had stopped, but the sky was already going gray. She had until dark to patch the hole, or every bolt of cloth inside would soak through. Vera Lund met her at the door. The old seamstress wrung her scarred hands, glasses fogged. "The water's coming right over my work table," she said softly. "Sixty years of patterns under there." Fern had mended Vera's loose shutters once and botched the latch. Vera had never complained. That kindness made Fern want to get this right. She climbed the ladder and found the damage. Three shingles gone, bare wood showing, a drip running straight into the attic. She had tar paper, nails, and a hammer. Enough. She tacked the paper down and laid new shingles over it, fast and clean. The drip stopped. Below, Vera clapped once and hurried to mop the table. Then Fern felt the roof shift under her knee. The storm had rotted the beam beneath the patch. Her weight cracked it. A whole section of shingles buckled inward, and a new hole opened, wider than the first, right above Vera's cedar wardrobe. Rain threatened again. The gray had gone to purple. Fern stared at the broken beam and knew tar paper wouldn't hold that gap. She needed a brace, and she needed it now. "I know where to find one." The voice came from the yard. Silas Oakhurn stood below, white beard, flour still on his apron, as if he'd walked straight from the inn's kitchen. He ran the Warm Roadside Travelers' Inn, and Fern kept it patched for him. He always seemed to know a thing before she said it. "Vera," he called up warmly, "your roof's fighting back, eh?" "It's winning," Fern admitted. "Then we don't let it." Silas hauled a length of oak from his wagon bed, cut for a workshop shelf. "Take it. A beam's a beam." Fern measured it against the gap. Close enough. She notched both ends, wedged the oak under the broken section, and drove nails until the roof held firm. Then she laid fresh shingles across the brace. Her hands moved steady now. The last nail went in as the first new raindrops hit her neck. Inside, Vera's table stayed dry. The wardrobe stayed dry. The patterns were safe. Fern climbed down, soaked and grinning. Vera pressed both scarred hands around hers. "You saved my whole life's work." Silas laughed, loud enough for the road. "Word travels in Pinehollow. By morning they'll all know who climbed Vera's roof in the dark." He was right. But he'd given her his workshop beam to do it, and now his own shelf had nothing to rest on.