"Laurie?" Amy said softly, drawing open the parlor's heavy French doors before creeping into the room. Dusk had fallen early on that evening in Switzerland, thanks to a persistent rain; and a damp chill pervaded the whole chalet. It seeped through Amy's black wool dress, though the heavy garment swathed her from neck to ankles, and she instinctively pulled her full skirts close to her legs, crossing the landing silently. Her warm knit shawl was inside, draped over the sofa; she'd left it there earlier in the day, when she'd been sketching.

The parlor was dark as it was outside, save for the light of a singe candle, glimmering on a heavy wood table. Amy paused, smiling slightly as she saw the pale illumination reflect off a fine, dark head bent over her shawl, as if in sleep. It was indeed Laurie, she knew at a glance. Not many men could boast of that height, especially while sitting down.

'I'll surprise him,' Amy thought—and moved smoothly over the floor without so much as a creak. Days of tip-toeing around first Aunt March, then Beth, then the Carrolls had left her with an uncanny ability for stealth that no one would have supposed, coming form her. She paused at the edge of the sofa, one hand going up to smooth her hair, full mouth curving up slightly. She knew, with a sudden flash of girlish pride, how flattering the light would be on her fair skin and golden hair; and then she drew back, as if ashamed of her own vanity. The light suited Laurie well, she noted with pleasure. Harsh shadows outlined his strong jaw and fine features; and he looked more like a swarthy Italian than even as the dimness robbed his complexion of any of the pale English tints she'd seen so much since she'd come abroad. His eyes looked coal-black, and shone as they never had before.

Laurie was a man. And a striking one, at that.

Amy lowered her eyes in a sudden confusion, and was vexed to find herself blushing; in a moment, just looking at her fiancé had reduced her from being a 'cool, reserved and worldly creature,' to being a child of twelve again, spying on her older sister's unreachable, handsome friend. The feeling was more than a little unsettling; and she drew herself up sternly.

'He wants you; he said so,' she told herself, and felt something inside her turn over, a feeling that made her want to run for the door and embrace him, all at once. But then Laurie moved, and she froze, eyes flickering down to his hands. In them lay her journal, her personal sketchpad.

Amy wasn't taken aback by the fact that he was clearly looking through it; she was far too practical a little woman to record her most private thoughts in so blatant a manner. Still, her sisters had been heavy on her mind of late, and their faces appeared often in her newest pages, penned in stark, simple black-and-white. Strangely, it was Jo she drew the most lately, not Beth; her older sister's sharp, odd, angular face loomed the clearest in Amy's mind. Beth always seemed so ereathal, so angelic that her spirit seemed beyond the reach of Amy's humble pen. Meg was done in watercolors, and carefully constructed sweetness, but Jo—

Jo was always alive, vibrant, leaping off her pages with something more primitive than beauty. She could be imposing, dignified, wild, or grotesque in turns; but there was a richness, a honesty to the awkward figure that Amy remembered, wanted to convey to paper. It was one of these sketches that Laurie was looking at; one she'd penned recently, after Beth's death, during that horrible, solitary time when she'd been waiting for him. It was a good-sized sketch, drawn from a distant memory that still haunted Amy's dreams sometimes; a disheveled, dirty, wild-eyed Jo, cap off, braids askew, skinny, coltish frame bundled against a cold wind. She was stretched out over a patch of cracking ice, bruised, bloody hands clinging to a rail----

Amy's slender shoulders lifted in an involuntary shiver, as if she could still feel the water's icy swallow, the pin-like sensations on her arms, her legs, her skin. But it wasn't a frozen-over lake this time; it was the way that Laurie was gazing at Jo. Or rather, the image of her on the page.

Amy's stomach twisted once, rather violently; and for a moment, she thought she would be ill. She managed to compose herself, moving to the edge of the sofa, still silent. She lowered herself gracefully, spreading her long skirts. "I did that the day I heard about Beth," she said; and her voice sounded unnatural to her. Laurie started beside her, but she didn't react.

After a moment, he spoke, pushing the book away. "It's an excellent likeness; I'll never forget that day," he said; and she could hear him forcing humor into his tone. "Poor Beth," he added, more tenderly; and he instinctively reached for the light head now hovering close to his, pulling it down to his shoulder. "How are you, little maid?" he added.

"Passable." Her voice wavered for a moment; but pride held her steady. Laurie's hand was in her hair now, winding her thick curls round his fingers. He enjoyed doing this, though he knew she hated to muss her hair; then when it tumbled down nearly to her waist, called her 'Mademoiselle Godiva,' to enrage her. She usually shrugged such behavior off with a laughter-choked reprimand or a playful rap on his knuckles with her pen, but to-night it felt too much like her hair-ribbon tugging days for comfort. Her own small hand slipped upwards, stopping his.

"I fear you drifted off," she said, and was fairly surprised by how cool and detached she sounded. "Aunt will be by to throw you out directly, if you aren't careful."

His mouth curved up. "How European you're getting," he teased, trying to keep the mood light. "I stayed to romp much later than this most nights back home, Amy."

"We were children then," Amy replied; then she stood. Thanks to his rough handling, two hairpins had slipped out, landing cold and hard inside her collar, and a thick coil of curly hair loosened, drooping over one ear. Suddenly impatient, she gave her head a couple good shakes, like a dog. Pins loosed and went flying, and braids and curls fell thick and heavy over her shoulders, like a blanket. After a moment, she looked down. Laurie was on the floor, at her feet; he was gathering the scattered pins and laughing quietly. "You look like Athena, about to strike down Tiresias," he said.

A slight smile played on Amy's lips, despite herself. In the darkness and her black dress, her face and hands emerged pale and white, and her eyes were very blue, framed by the thick waves of hair. She looked tall, she knew, imposing and terrible. Not womanly, at all; not the soft, fragile creature Laurie had seen when he'd come to comfort her here. "I won't strike you down," she said in something more like her own tone, and sat on the floor as she hadn't done since she was a child, smiling at him as if she hadn't seen him looking at that sketch of Jo with such incredible tenderness….

The tenderness was gone—nowhere to be seen, even in his eyes. It was all mirth on his face now.

Amy was jolted from her thoughts when she felt Laurie's hand cupping her cheek, his eyes flickering over her face. Aside from that initial kiss that day on the lake, he'd been a perfect gentleman, but now…

'Maybe…maybe he wasn't thinking of her,' she thought almost desperately, tilting her small chin up. Her next sensation was that of his lips touching hers. They were soft, warm, gentle as they'd been the first time—and here, in this secluded place, she felt the effect all the more. Perhaps…

Then Laurie drew back and smiled, and she knew. She knew. The look in his eyes was one of fondness, yes. Maybe even love, in a sense. Certainly a gentle amusement at the maidenly blush that now covered her cheeks—she was her mother's daughter, after all. But for all the intensity his look gave her, they could have been twelve and sixteen again, acting in one of those melodramatic plays of Jo's. And the way he had looked at Jo's picture---

There had been a hunger in that look that had been naked on his face, unmistakable, even to her eyes. It was the hunger of a man she'd only seen glimpses of, a man who wanted a woman she hadn't a hope of becoming. Her eyes closed against the image of herself in Laurie's eyes; she did not want to see how she didn't measure up.

"Amy?"

She shook her head, pulled away, inhaled shallowly. Suddenly her dress seemed much too restricting. Inwardly cursing the corsets she'd taken to wearing at her aunt's insistence, she bit her lower lip.

"Amy." He sounded worried, now. He touched her briefly, but she shook her head hard and pulled away completely. If she was going to do this, she couldn't look at him.

"Laurie—"

"Yes, my dear."

Amy winced at the name, as well as the gallant tone he put to it. "You…must go home, Laurie. To her. Jo," she clarified after a moment.

She felt rather than saw him stiffen, but she steadfastly refused to meet his expression. Instead, she stood.

When she looked down, his head was bowed. "Amy—"

"Don't." Her voice was quiet, surprisingly steady. "She needs you, and you don't— " 'Love me,' were her next words, but she stopped. It is difficult for a young heart to admit such a thing, no matter how glaring the truth. Her fingers nervously picked at her skirt as she continued, still looking down. "Aunt is poorly; it prevents me from going. You have no such imcumberancs, and Jo—"

It was here she had to stop; the words would shatter her composure if she didn't. "I miss her," Amy finally finished, so softly that it was hard for either of them to hear her words. "Please tell her."

Laurie shot to his feet like a rocket, eyes grace and disturbed, face darker, angrier than she'd ever seen it. She'd done this deliberately, opened an old wound. "Amy—" he began, and his voice was harsh. Angry. Confused.

And the indecision in those dark eyes removed every last, flitting doubt, told her what she needed to know.

Abruptly, she quit the room.