In the dark we look more Japanese and that’s when Mother loves us. When winter comes to our house in the woods, she lights white candles and hums Takeda Lullaby. While water simmers on the wood stove, she mixes flour, sugar, and peeled persimmon for the small cakes to steam in bamboo trays. By candlelight, she spoons soft sweets into our mouths and tells us we never need to fear the night, not while we’re with her.

Sometimes there’s scraping at the windows, but Mother keeps the curtains drawn so we don’t see whose nails carve the glass.

Mother’s hands are cracked and weeping at the seams. It’s some sort of rash, she says. The cold weather makes it worse, but it’s not contagious, so at night when she caresses our cheeks, flakes of skin speckle the pillow. In the warm glow of candles, round bellies full of steam cake, white comforters pulled up to our chins, we sleep. The scraping, the hoarse whispers at the crack beneath the door, the rustling on the thatched roof, the rattling of the sliding doors lull us to sleep. We are not afraid of the dark.

When morning comes Mother says our fleece is white as snow. She stares at our eyes. “So blue,” she says, “Not what I expected.” We know she thought we’d look like her. Black polished marble eyes, skin that takes the sun, straight hair heavy as flowing water. “You have my earwax,” she says as she scrapes the thin metal spoon along the canyons of our ears. “But where did you get this hair? Where did they get this hair, Mendel, you liar liar pants on fire?” she singsongs as she spoons rice porridge into a bowl for herself. We find our own breakfast on the pantry shelves. Old bread.

“Go to White Grandmother’s house, I need to make a potion.” She doesn’t look at us as she grabs our visors and hucks them at our chests. “Get me three hairs from the Grandmother’s chin, the crust of a wolf’s left eye, a helper’s good intentions, and a bag of Niko Niko Calrose rice, we’re almost out. None of that Safeway Select garbage. The white paper bag with the cartoon boy.” She turns away and we stand for a moment, looking at each other before we steel ourselves, pull the visors low across our foreheads, and slide the door just enough to peek at the snow outside.

Despite the visors, with their stained, softened cotton and frayed edges, our skin will burn. By the time we get to White Grandmother’s house, our cheeks will be pink and the undersides of our noses and chins will sting from the sun’s reflection in the snow. On the way home, the tender, damaged skin will pull away and fluid will start filling brand new blisters. It’s okay. They only hurt a little while. At night, when Mother loves us, she will press cool cloths to our cheeks and smooth her salve across our skin.

We scan the route and run from shadow to shadow. Light needles into the canopy, impaling the woods with ferocious heat. It burns pockmarks in the snow. The trees are unhealthy. Deep gashes in their trunks have let in diseased mites. Their roots are not strong enough to dig down deep and so they creep across the forest floor, living logs searching for sustenance. Sometimes we think they’re breathing.

When we arrive at White Grandmother’s house, the huntsman sits on the front stoop with his head in his hands. There’s blood. And he’s crying. We don’t know what to do, so we step around him.

White Grandmother’s house smells like cinnamon, cloves, ginger, and Secret deodorant. She never wears makeup, her white hair is cropped close, and she smiles all the time. There are quilts on the walls, the chairs, the sofa, the beds, and stacked up in all the closets. She made them with her fancy new sewing machine. Hand quilting inflames her arthritis. White Grandmother does not come to greet us and we enter yelling, “Grandma! Are you hoooooome?”

We know she’s in the bedroom, but we peek into the kitchen, the bathroom, and even up the chimney before we tiptoe down the hall.