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Before the First Frost
Callum knelt in the damp moss and pressed his thumbnail into the spongy cap of a mushroom, checking whether the bitter evening air had already crystallized its fibers. The thermometer in his breast pocket read three degrees, and the weather station in the glen predicted a killing frost by midnight. Beside him, Chef Mara knelt with a wicker basket in one hand and an iron knife in the other, racing against a winter sunset that had begun to stain the pine tops amber.
"If the temperature drops below zero, the flesh will turn to jelly," Mara said, scraping soil from a pale stalk. "We need twelve pounds for the winter menu, and so far we haven't gathered half that."
"We will," Callum replied quietly, scanning the slope above them. "You look for golden chanterelles along the birch line; I, for hedgehog mushrooms under the hemlocks."