May 14, 2012
The big house was lonely in the dark night.
Two figures came up the walk, shrouded against the cold in furs and leather. Pebbles, slick underfoot from the melting snow, knocked together as they rearranged themselves with each falling step. A faint crunch of moving gravel was the only sound, what with the wind so still.
The previous evening had been a long one, too full of talk. So the figures moved in silence, feeling gratitude for the small swells of peace that passed over them in the vast ocean of the quiet night. Dusk was newly fallen, and the edge of the sky above the forest was still a deep, soft heather, barely dusted with stars. It was hard to breathe in the damp air and not feel at peace.
A single pane of gold let its light out onto the black lawn. They moved toward it without a thought.
Behind the glass, a girl with a face like milk watched impassively. Her reflection ghosted the window, so that the shapes beyond were nothing but soft shadows. In her hands, a sprig of cinnamon stained her skin with its spicy scent.
“Petra?” a low voice called from the dark interior of the old house.
She pressed her hand over her face inhaled. So sweet. It was a smell that brought back memories neither glad nor tragic, it simply filled her with memory. Time has passed, she thought to herself, you wouldn’t know it to look at us. The figures on the lawn were drawing closer.
Again, her name came to her through the shadows. “Petra?”
Petra sighed and turned from the wide window.
