The kitchen window was cold against Harper's hand. Outside, the garden had gone grey and still, and the warm part of the year was quietly packing itself up to leave.

She buttoned her cream blouse to the chin and went out through the gate. Her breath came out in little clouds, the way it never did all summer.

On top of the wall, one flat stone had sat all yesterday in the sun. Harper lifted it in both hands. It was still warm — the last warm thing in the whole cold garden.

She slipped it into her pinafore pocket, where her hand could find it. Then she set off up the lane to show the old oak, before the warm could go out of it.

Down at the stream the grass had gone white and stiff. Harper touched it with one finger. In her pocket the stone was still warm, so she walked on a little faster.

The old oak had let its acorns down all over the hill. Harper held the stone against the great trunk, the way you'd warm somebody's cold hands, while the last leaves let go above her.

When the light turned gold a voice called from the cottage door — home now, Munchkin, before the stars. Harper was already on the lane, the stone riding warm in her basket.

She set the stone on the windowsill, where the last of the light could still reach it. By morning it would be cold as all the rest. But the house was warm tonight, and Harper went up while it was.

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