You're not mad at what? Taking it. Hannah looked around the pantry. Mr. Dalton hired me to manage household stores.
Far as I can tell, the household contains you." Henry's mouth moved slightly, almost a smile. "Almost," Hannah continued. "But climbing shelves in the dark is foolish. You break a jar, somebody wakes. You cut yourself, everybody wakes.
And if you drop the molasses, I'll make you clean it." That got the smile. Small gone quickly. So what do I do? Tomorrow we count what's here. Henry frowned.
All of it? All of it? Why? So you know what we have? I already know where everything is.
That's not the same as knowing how much. She picked up one dried apple slice. How many pounds of flour? Henry stared at her. How much coffee?
Nothing. How much salt pork? He scratched the side of his nose. Hannah handed the apple back. If you're going to worry about whether your sister has enough to eat, you might as well learn to do it properly.
He considered that with a seriousness beyond his years. Then he nodded once. They wrapped the food together. Hannah followed him upstairs. Molly's door was open.
The little girl slept curled on her side beneath a patchwork quilt. The blue ribbon wound loosely around one hand. Henry placed the folded towel on the wash stand beside her bed. He adjusted it until the edges were square. Hannah noticed he had done this many times.
She touched his shoulder. Bed. He did not argue. The next morning began before dawn. Hannah found Henry already dressed when she entered the kitchen.
He was sitting at the table waiting. "You always get up this early?" She asked. "No." "That's reassuring." She set a mug of warm milk in front of him. Then she placed a sheet of paper on the table. At the top, she wrote, "High meadow house store." Henry leaned closer.
"Need better paper. For what? If we're keeping it. Hannah looked at him. We?
Henry shrugged. You said we. So they began. Flour 78 lb between two barrels. Coffee 11, maybe 12.
Sugar 8b. Beans, 26. Salt, lie soap, lamp oil, rice, cornmeal, dried apples, three jars of peaches, six jars of beans, two crocs of pickles. Henry took the counting seriously. Too seriously for a 10-year-old.
He checked Hannah twice. The second time, he was right. By 6, Grant came into the kitchen and stopped in the doorway. Henry was standing on a chair reading labels aloud while Hannah wrote. "Molasses," Henry said.
"How much?" Hannah asked. "Half a crock. Closer to 2/3." Henry peered into it. "Half?" Grant cleared his throat. Henry nearly fell off the chair.