We might fall
Andy
Christmas is your favourite time of year. You love the long, lazy summer days: roaming the grounds of Three Elms, playing at Mudblood Hunters and Escaped Convicts and going into the depths of the woods to hunt dragons, then, when all has been exhausted, lounging in the secret spot without a care in the world. But nothing can compare to the winter, to the blizzards and hailstorms, the darkness, the comfort of curling up next to the fire with Bella and Cissy and telling each other stories late into the night, and the adventure of treading through the soft, powdery snow for the first time each year.
You are the first one to peer out of the window this morning. It snowed last night, just as you suspected, and now the garden is transformed beyond all recognition. Everything is white, like someone split a very large bucket of flour over the ground or coated it in cotton wool. It almost seems like there is an entirely new mystical kingdom in the place of your familiar haunts, but you are too sensible to think that, don't be silly, it's only exactly the same as last year. Nonetheless, an irresistible surge of childish excitement courses through you. Now is the time to put on coats and hats (or at least try and get Cissy into something vaguely resembling winter clothing, Bella is usually beyond persuasion in matters of such mundane practicality) and step outside and revel in the sheer foreignness of it all. Now is the time to play.
"Bella! Cissy! It's snowing!"
Sure enough, you get a quick response; you hear the heavy thud of hurried footsteps coming down the stairs, and then a softer clunk-clunk at a considerably less rapid pace. You smile. Bella can make enough noise to raise the dead. But not enough to raise mother and father.
"Why didn't you tell me earlier?" Your sister races into the hall, hair in disarray, still wearing the same nightgown she wore to bed last night. "Come on! Let's go! Cissy's just coming!" Then, she grabs hold of your arm and drags you to the door before you can say a word in protest. Stop! Can't you see we're going to freeze to death? We can't go out like this! Oh, who cares? We'll worry about it later.
"Shall we build a snow house?" you declare, once you have arrived in what used to be the flower garden. The feel of the snow beneath your bare feet is cool, refreshing, barely noticeable even. You might catch a chill, but nothing that a cup of cocoa and a warm log fire couldn't fix.
"A palace for Cissy," Bella agrees. Today, her eyes sparkle with a wild, uncontrollable savagery. She looks like a warrior queen of old, or an avenging goddess flung to earth. This is your sister, not the haughty, proud girl of drawing rooms and parties, barely able to contain her fire. Only now she is free.
"For me?" If Bella is the fire, the star fallen to earth, then Cissy is the snow-maiden. Her white-blonde curls, still tangled from sleep, stick up in an uneven halo around her forehead. She shivers, doubtless cold in her thin, powder-blue nightgown. You feel guilty now. You should have known better than to let her out like this. Best to get her a coat and some boots now before it gets any worse.
"Yes, for you. A palace fit for a princess," answers Bella, spinning Cissy round and round. "Just like Hogwarts, with high towers and a great hall and dungeons deep underground."
"And a throne for me to sit in." Typical Cissy, never wanting to leave out the details.
You begin to build. If it had been your choice, you would have drawn up a whole plan of action before commencing. First, let's dig the foundations, then, we start to lay the walls. You do this one here, Bella, and you do this one, Cissy, and I'll work on this side. Remember, we have to make sure it's not going to fall- the bricks must be laid like this, row on row.
Bella, however, holds no such scruples. There is no method in her madness. She heaps the snow together into a haphazard, shapeless pile, pounding it into shape like an ironmonger with a hammer. Predictably, it gives way and turns to rubble. Cissy, too, merely piles up the building material into her arms and deposits it in a heap next to Bella's. She succeeds in achieving even less: if Bella uses too much force, she uses too little. Exasperated, you take a mound of snow and form it into a brick, then embed it securely in the ground. Time to show them the proper way it's done. There's a lot of work to do.
Bella
The black pond glistens, not a single crack across its porcelain surface. It calls to you; in all its smoothness, it just asks to be skated on. You have always loved dancing on the ice, holding hands and pretending you are on the dance floor again. First come the twirls and pirouettes, the tame ones that belong in the ballroom, awkward and nervous and tentative until, like butterflies spreading out their wings, you take flight and soar. Round and round and round you go, spinning ever faster in dizzying circles, not caring if you are about to fall. You are standing on the edge of a precipice, leaning into a great abyss, and yet in those moments you are invincible, like a god or a king. Nothing can topple you. And if it does, the fall is momentary, transient, painless, nothing but a brief pause while you find your feet again. You do not fear entering into the chasm- indeed, what is there to fear? Someone will always be there to catch you.
You are the first to step on to the pond, and it lets out a small groan, a gentle creak of discomfort, as you put your weight on to it. Nothing much. It's always held up before.
"Come on," you command the others. Cissy, decked out in a heavy black scarf that must have originally functioned as part of a mourning garment, and a pair of knee-high, fur lined boots probably belonging to mother, trails somewhat behind. She can't be pleased that construction work on the snow palace has been temporarily halted. On further reflection, her footwear is probably several sizes too big for her, as evidenced by her odd, shuffling gait.
"We're not going to slip up, are we?" she asks, having finally neared the pond's edge.
"No, of course not," you answer confidently, aware of the ice's clammy grip on the soles of your feet, like cold jelly. "It's every bit as solid as the ground, I promise."
Andy shoots you her 'oh, really' look: lips pressed together, eyes narrowed, eyebrow half-raised in mock infuriation (she'd never be properly cross at you). "You'd best be careful though, Cissy. Take those boots off. They probably weigh a lot."
Cissy complies. You hold out a hand, and she takes it. At first she wobbles, uneasy, unused to it all. Holding out her arms, she steadies herself, her balance rediscovered. She twirls, graceful and swanlike.
"See, Bella? Watch me! I'm not afraid!" she laughs, smiling to reveal the gap in her teeth. Her whole being seems to shine and pulse. For now, at least, she is irrepressibly and passionately alive; though a fragile flower doomed to wither and die, she is bright and immortal as the stars.
"Let's dance."
And dance you do, ever faster and faster. The world spins on its axis, everything white and black and red. You are conscious of nothing, there is nothing real in this world beyond this madness, your feet are not even on the ground; numbed by the cold, you long ago ceased to feel any sensation in them. Who knows where you are? You could be up in the stars or down in the ninth circle of hell with the devil and all of his fallen angels. More, more. Nothing can slow you down now. Not yet. This could go on forever. Faster, faster!
Something cracks- shatters, like crystal. The moment lasts for an eternity: a swirling vortex of colours, razor-sharp shards of ice flying upwards and outwards, a dreadful impulse at the back of your mind telling you to run and get away from it while you can. The realisation hits you. Everything explodes.
For a second, all is still, silent. Then a scream pierces the air, high and desperate. Cissy! She must have fallen in! You are reminded of the time just after she was born, of her body, white and lifeless and fading, as it lay out for dead. A terrible fear paralyses you; one too awful and inconceivable to think about. Focus. You must act now. You have to save her, to protect her, just as you swore all those years ago.
Cissy
You are drowning. The water chills you. It envelopes you like a heavy blanket, works its icy fingers into your lungs. You feel yourself sinking. Everything is lost, hopeless. You are going to die. But you can't be! Not yet! You're too young! Death's only something that happens to old people, to great aunts and distant relatives. You can't give up the fight yet. But you cannot resist, cannot overpower the heavy weight of the water that comes ever closer to crushing you. It is all over.
A hand reaches out. Your fingers flutter and tremble. It eludes you. Still, finally, you grasp it, your one last lifeline. It pulls, then pulls again, tighter, and you surface. The water recedes. A pair of arms wrap around you, warm and alive, a welcome relief.
"I knew you weren't going to die on me," says someone. It sounds like Bella. If you aren't mistaken, her voice is rather shaky, like it is about to break up. "There. You're fine now. Just keep holding on. Andy and I'll get you to the fire in no time."