Faces of the Wind

Chapter 19

December arrived and Steventon was clad in a peaceful, white cloak. The nights were mostly windy, dry and chilling, but the days were vibrant and calm, with children often starting snow battles and ruining the attires of passersby.

Arden felt as if she has returned home defeated and empty-handed. Her room smelt of memories she wished to wipe out for good. No one ever survived the repercussions of a heartbreak, especially the first one. She finally succumbed to her pain and allowed herself to quietly weep every night until she fell asleep. Chapman turned her novel down and she failed to write one page of a crime story. She could not even bring herself to imagine it in her head, and the voices that often nagged her to put them down on paper have been silent for weeks as they, too, have deserted her.

She absent-mindedly pulled back a curtain and peered through the window, but her warm breath against the cold glass blurred her view. With a finger, she doodled a random shape. It pained her more than anything that the girl she chose as a rebound friend, Irene, had been agonizing but she was busy judging her for seeking refuge in the company of the demonic vicar. She was now gone and nothing could be fixed.

Intentionally, she breathed out on the glass to keep it foggy and again doodle another random shape. She deserved everything that happened to her. She was a monster. She loved her friends only because they kept her company and not because she truly cared, she was often mean to many people and condemned them for everything they did instead of trying to understand them, and she believed her opinions to be superior to everyone else's.

She deserved getting her ego stomped on. She deserved getting rejected. She deserved getting her heart broken.

Tears welled up in her eyes, setting them on fire.

"Arden," Dorothy squealed as she barged into her sister's room and dived onto the bed, "you won't believe the gossip you've missed!"

Arden quickly wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and sniffed. She went back to breathing out against the glass. "Besides Irene's controversial passing?" She asked in a voice so dry and nonchalant.

"More controversy surrounding that," replied Dorothy, her voice high-pitched and her eyes twinkling. She jumped off the bed and began chanting and dancing, "Irene's father shot Adrian the night she died... but he's still alive."

Arden turned to frown at her younger sister. "And why on earth is this diverting?"

Dorothy stopped dancing and stared at her sister with dull eyes. "It isn't?" Her expression was far from empathetic. The nineteen-year-old's best features were her big olive eyes and small rosy lips. Otherwise, no one would think her more beautiful than her older sister, but she definitely was more admired in society for her reserved and conventional attitude when people were watching.

"No!" Arden grimaced. "Have you visited him?"

"I hate him; he always mocked me," Dorothy replied, "and I recall you, too, hated him because—let me remember," she cupped her chin and pretended to think, "oh, yes, he's a rascal," she raised her thumb, "drove Bessie away," she raised her index finger, "and then broke Irene's heart," she raised her middle finger, "remember? These were your words."

"Yes," she replied as if to herself, "he did that." She looked through the window and saw one of their tenant's boys hide behind a fence, patting a snowball and preparing to attack a gentleman about to pass by.

Dorothy hummed a melody and went back to dancing around. "I thought you would be dying to hear the gossip you've missed," she said, "you love gossip."

"What other gossip have I missed?" Arden asked, not a tad interested in hearing the rest of it. The boy tossed the snowball at the man and took off. The man stood cleaning his shoulder and probably yelling at the mischievous kid.