A stillness hung in the air around the Schnee Manor.
Years had passed since Winter had stayed at her family home for any prolonged stretch of time - but surely things hadn't changed that much? She would have heard had the family suddenly gone bankrupt, no?
In her memories, the grounds teemed with activity, from staff tending to butlers and maids hurrying along from task to task. The last time she had visited, just for a single-night stay, Head Butler Klein had fussed over her welcome to an irritating extent, insisting on an escort into the building.
Never mind that her parents and younger brother had wanted nothing to do with her at the time.
But even as she approached the manor, no such signs of life became evident. No one came out to greet her, and the compound stood lifeless. She had arrived a few hours early, but this was most unusual.
Winter stopped on the path to the building, set down her navy duffel bag, and pulled out her scroll. Her mother picked up after a few moments, her breathing noticeably heavier than it had been the other day.
"Winter," she said. "How are you?"
"I'm well. I'm actually out on the front path right now."
"Is that so?"
"The place looks awfully quiet."
"Oh, I did not want your visit to be hindered by busybodies, so I sent most of the non-essential staff away, seeing as it will just be the two of us. And three, once your sister joins us."
She grunted, and there was a clinking of metal.
"Did I come at a bad time, Mother?"
"Ah, apologies. I was just not expecting you so early. Bear with me - I will be out to greet you in a moment."
True enough, as soon as Winter completed her ascent up the grand stairs, the front doors swung open, creaking and yawning, and there stood Willow Schnee.
The last time Winter had seen her mother, she had been dishevelled, withdrawn. She had looked stern and rigid, but also severe, as if she would not withstand a strong wind.
And even now, "unkempt" was the first word that came to Winter's mind. Her mother was dressed in a long, satin robe of navy that hung loosely off her arms and ended past her knees, and matching slippers on her feet. Her white hair was woven into a loose braid, and she had foregone makeup. There was a tiredness in her eyes, a slump in her shoulders.
It was a look utterly shocking in its informality. This was the same woman who Winter had grown up knowing as the wearer of chin-high collars and delicately-embroidered bodices; whose very presence had set the standard for the sort of high-class ladies she and her sister had been expected to become.
But the new Willow Schnee was a woman who glowed with happiness, and looked comfortable in her new guise. When she smiled, it reached her eyes more than any other that Winter could remember her giving. She stepped close and wrapped her frozen daughter in her arms.
"Winter, dear," she says, "It's wonderful of you to come."
It was then that Winter realised she needed to respond: "N-no, the pleasure is mine."
Intuition was not something widely trained, but Winter's position meant that the honing of such intangibles was a given. Indeed, even her response was a trained one, a standard phrasing she was to offer when presented with something perplexing.
It all really should have provoked suspicion - the dip in the join of her mother's robe, how it plunged enough to just reveal the top of her breasts, how the curves of her mother's body pressed close to Winter's own, and most of all, the slightest of bulges pressing against the top of Winter's slacks.
