To Dave and Elaine,
Thank you for your kindness and wisdom. Your support on this writing journey has made all the difference in the world. I love you both.
Historical Fiction by Izzy James
The Shopkeeper’s Widow
The Dollmaker’s Daughter
The Woodcarver’s Snow-kissed Christmas
Prologue
Wright’s Wold
Virginia Colony
1723
Annie’s eight-year-old arm shook with the effort of keeping even pressure as wood curled down the blade of her knife. The curl landed on the toe of her boot as she reached the end of the stick.
“Like that?”
“Yep.” Her grandfather affirmed, his own longer curl falling atop the pile growing at their feet.
“What do ye think is in there?”
“That remains to be seen.”
Normally, grown-up answers like that irritated Annie Wright, but she understood that her grandfather was not trying to skirt her question. He’d already told her that carving took such a long time because the wood was not always ready to reveal what it was hiding.
“Mama says I cannot carry my knife with me all the time because it tears my pockets and makes extra work for Bessie.”
He fixed his blue eyes on her.
“Fix yer own pockets.”
An extra short curl hit her shoe. “I hate sewing.”
“But ye love carving.”
“Yes. But I really hate sewing.”
“Do ye think Bessie loves sewing?”
She hadn’t thought of that. Her young brain filtered back through all she knew of Bessie. Bessie’s scowl as she squinted at the tiny, flawless stitches she plied on Annie’s dresses.
“I don’t know.” Annie said, but she was beginning to think she did know that Bessie did not like sewing any more than Annie did herself. “Maybe I can make a special pocket for my knife so my pocket won’t tear.”
A smile wrinkled Grandpa’s beloved face. “Sounds like a good plan.”
She leaned into him and he wrapped her in a leathery one-armed hug that smelled of sawdust and pine needles.
“Mr. King?”
Her grandfather kept his arm around her and looked up at their guest standing in the open barn door.
“Yes?”
“I brought my knife, like ye said.”
Annie scowled at Reed Archer. She didn’t mind playing sticks and circles with her neighbor, or any of a bunch of other games, but her grandpa was teaching her to carve. Not that boy.
“Come on in, son.”
Reed cast a look her way. Annie cleared the scowl because Grandpa didn’t like her to make faces. Inside she growled.
“Pick a piece from that pile.” Grandpa pointed his knife to the pile of scraps they always used. “Lemme see that knife.”
Reed handed over the blade.
“This’ll do ye just fine. Now find a place to sit.”
Annie watched as Grandpa instructed Reed to remove the bark from his stick.
“Wood carving can tell ye a lot about a man. Ye tell a man by the grain. And ye can’t see the grain until ye remove the bark.”
Annie didn’t know how many times she’d heard him say it.
