Shivering wasn't an option.
Cold bit into her bones, well, at least something did.
The darkness was overwhelming, not that Edith cared, not that being overwhelmed wasn't a welcome prospect.
But no, she could never forget, never lie back and let the dark ripples cover her, never slip into peaceful slumber and never wake again.
She let the cold wash over her, the only feeling she had left.
If love was meant to bring happiness, why did she only feel pain?
Love was not a good thing, not for Edith Crawley. How many times had it happened? The one she loved never lived, every time, every person who looked at her differently didn't survive.
Maybe it was her, maybe she caused their deaths.
Maybe being loved by her was too hard, too difficult, too agonising.
She was too broken and scarred to love like Sybil, too bitter and twisted to be loved like Mary. Each new love brought more misery, more discontent, more agony.
And Matthew.
Poor, foolish Matthew, who had said he loved Edith and Edith had spurned him. Edith had laughed, told him not to be silly, that Mary was the one for him.
For perhaps the first time, Edith Crawley was loved.
And now that one, that bright flame, lay dead in a cold room.
And she couldn't mourn, no, never.
If love brought happiness, did death bring acceptance?
Edith had read somewhere that there were five stages of grief.
Denial.
Anger.
Bargaining.
Depression.
Acceptance.
Why could she only feel cold?
If this was grief (and God knows Edith knew enough about grief) then why did the moonlight in the window bring such hate to her heart?
Why was there light? Why were people still living? Everything should be darkness, the only flame in her life had gone out.
Yes, in the darkness there is peace.
In the darkness, no one can see you cry.