At the Year's End

Through Frost and Snow

Author's Note: I have returned! Now, here is the first, hopefully, long awaited update for this week. It's a bit of a short chapter but I hope it will suffice until Thursday.

13

December was upon them, and the London gentlemen had left Stone Cross nigh on three weeks already. By then, the fanfare of their visit had worn off, and so had the pain and gossip of Charlotte and Damien's sudden departure. Everything was plain and back to normal, or at least, as close as it could be for the Woodburns.

They had come to accept the empty seat at breakfast next to Annalise at Mr Woodburn's left hand side; they had accepted the silent piano; they had accepted the extra bedchamber. With those things around them, they still went on as they normally would, just with one less head to account for. At least there was still distant reassurance and support for the family whenever Elizabeth and Annalise received letters from James and Alistair respectively.

Annalise looked up from her book and glanced out of the window one afternoon, suddenly feeling the urge to get up and walk about. The garden was blanketed with snow, and still the powdery flakes continued to float down from above. It looked absolutely inviting out there – despite Annalise's dislike of the cold – and she wanted to leave her footprints behind as a mark of where she had walked.

Deciding she would stay within the garden in case she got a sudden chill, she excused herself from her mother and sister's quiet company to fetch her pelisse and head outdoors.

As expected, the cold air eagerly nipped at what exposed skin there was to her; her nose and her ears erupted in a red flush as she shivered. Her teeth rattled against each other in her skull, but still, she desired to walk through the white nothingness around her.

The maze, once verdant and flourishing, was now a mass of white shapes rising from the ground. Scraggly, black branches held onto clumps of snow, and some were even hung with tiny icicles, reaching for the ground like growing claws. Annalise skirted along the hedgerow, taking everything in. And then she heard something; a voice.

Inching closer, her footsteps muffled by the snow, she made out Hamish's voice as he spoke to another.

"I'm so glad to see you," he breathed, sounding relieved and astonished. "It's been too long. You have not written, nor have you replied to any of my letters."

There was a slight pause before another voice with a distinctly feminine drawl answered. "I know, and I apologise. Things have been very... hectic at home."

"Yes, excuse my insensitivity; your mother had taken ill quite badly. How is she?"

"She is recovering," said the girl.

Interest piqued, Annalise moved toward the end of the row, and peered around the icy edge. She made out the figure of a petite woman – a head shorter than Hamish – her hair as dark as a crow's feathers, neatly tied up behind her head, and a dark blue cloak about her shoulders. It looked like it had seen better years, with its frayed and torn hem.

"I wanted to stay with her longer," continued the mysterious woman, "but she told me to come meet you."

Hamish smiled softly. "You told her about us?"

"How could I not? You have been nothing but good to me. Without you, I don't think my mother would have been able to rise from her bed again."

"I couldn't have stood idly by while I knew of your mother's condition." Hamish refuted her praise. "You have done well on your own. It is because of her wonderful and selfless daughter that she is alive and well."