"Don't know what it means. I just said I liked the colors and shapes."

"Well, that'll probably earn you a B at least. Aha!" I added triumphantly, as the snowshoes clattered out from behind the glass door. "Found 'em, Lucas!"

"Great!" he said. He glanced up at the boy, who radiated innocence. "We're going out to The Pines. Want to come?"

"Can't today," the boy said. "Gotta go. Merry Christmas!"

"See you at New Year!" Lucas called after him, as the door banged shut again. "Five bucks says he gets an A on his art test."

"Not a bet I'd take," I replied, as I hooked the snowshoes over my shoulder.

"He got me a Christmas present. But I think you probably know that," Lucas added with a smile.

"I had hints," I agreed. "So, are we going or what?"

Ten minutes later we were at the edge of the village, on the last few feet of asphalt before it gave way to unplowed snow, still thick on the ground beyond us. We set down the bags and began putting the snowshoes on, Lucas with more care and deliberation – he'd used them a few times, I think, but I had two full Low Ferry winters on him and I was up on the snowbank by the time he had his first shoe on. I offered him a hand up when he was ready, and we were on our way again.

"It makes me want to keep a sled," Lucas said, carrying a bag in one hand and swinging his other arm for balance, like I was. "I'm surprised more people don't have a few dogs for sledding, with weather like this."

"And do what with them the rest of the year? Horses can haul carts or carry packs in the summertime. Dog-sleds aren't all that useful on mud," I replied. "Then you've got a handful of big, energetic dogs with no outlet all summer."

"Guess so. I wonder what it's like here in the summer. I suppose you know."

"Hot," I grunted.

"Still, they'd enjoy themselves well enough in the winter, don't you think?"

"Probably," I agreed. We walked on in silence until the cottage became visible, a dirty blot on the white surrounding it. Snow had piled up against the back, between the rear wall and the incline of the hill, spilling down on either side.

"You'll come in, won't you?" he asked. "You can't come all the way out here on the snow and not at least warm up a little before you go back."

"It's going to be freezing in there," I said.

"I left wood ready in the fireplace and I didn't turn the heater all the way down. I wasn't planning on staying in town this long."

He bent and scooped some of the snow away from the kitchen door, undoing his snowshoes. Before he opened the door he turned around, and I followed his gaze.

There was a band of blackish blue forming on the horizon above the town, where the setting sun's rays no longer quite reached. We were already standing in the shadow of the hill, the rest of the meadow and the edges of the town touched with gold. You think you never remember it right, that light doesn't work that way – that the world can't look so gold or blue. But once or twice in your life you catch it, and it is.

"Do you know what the French expression for dusk is?" Lucas asked, behind me. "The phrase is Entre chien et loup."

"That's not literal, surely?"

"No – it means between the dog and the wolf. Uncertain times," he said. "Not one way or the other yet. Come in," he added, opening the door.

The house was as cold as I'd imagined it would be, but Lucas went straight into the living room and lit the paper under the kindling in the fireplace. I switched the lights on and looked around while he watched the kindling begin to scorch and burn.

There were still masks everywhere, completed or in progress. There were still little boxes of feathers and trim, thread, glue, sacks of plaster, lumps of clay. Most of it, however, had been pushed aside or relegated to shelves, and on the main workbench there was a wide clear area with only one occupant, an odd armature of sticks held together with glue and string. A series of sewn-together scraps was thrown across it, leather and cloth with wide gaps here and there. No attempt had been made to hide the seams – they were done in thick black twine in an even-patterned diagonal stitch. Other pieces of leather lay nearby, apparently waiting to be added. Behind the workbench was a chair from the kitchen table, over which Lucas had thrown his thick gray coat. At the moment, the assembled parts looked like beginning of an animal's muzzle, shaped around the wooden mold.

"What's it going to be?" I inquired.

"I don't know yet," he answered. "I'm still working on it. It's taking some time; anyway, other things keep distracting me."

He pointed to one of the other tables, where a series of smallish oval masks were apparently waiting to be finished.

"Japanese?" I asked, recognizing the motifs vaguely.

"Yes – Noh masks. They're a sort of symbol," he said. "They say the mask unlocks the actor's talent. You join with the mask and all the learning you've done, the untapped potential, becomes manifest."

"You seem very interested in them," I said. There had to be at least a dozen – all different styles, some with horns or fangs, others with delicate painted accents, but all sharing a similarity of shape that was hard to define.

"I like them," he said simply. "They're a perfect fusion of use and beauty. One day I'll understand them. Those aren't real Noh, anyway, you have to do a lot more studying than I've done to make a real Noh mask. Cheap imitations, but pretty. By the way," he said, and dug a small package out of the desk. "I got this for you."