The Open Ones

# Chapter 1: The Staff at the Gate

The frost has opinions this morning.

It has laid itself across the cold-frames in a pattern I would call deliberate if I believed frost had intentions, which I do not, but the evidence is compelling. The glass on the east-facing frames is clear. The glass on the west-facing frames is frosted so thick I cannot see through it. The herbs underneath are fine, I checked, but the frost appears to have chosen sides, and I am not sure what to make of that.

I kneel on the greenhouse floor and press my palm to the nearest frame. Cold bites through my glove. The lettuce inside is a pale, patient green, the green that means *I am alive but I am not happy about it.* Which is fair. It is late winter. Nobody is happy about it.

"You're doing fine," I tell the lettuce.

The lettuce does not respond.