Rose has nightmares. Two or three times a month, more often in the spring, she wakes up sweating from a dream of aching cold and she feels ghostly hands on hers, icy hands with long fingers and blunt, cracked fingernails, and the horrible crackling noise when she wrenches out of their grip.
She wakes up with tears leaving cold tracks down her cheeks and remembers what it was like to have her hair and clothing frozen to an ornate wooden door, and how peaceful a man looks when he freezes to death, and the sickening idea that maybe, maybe, if she'd moved over just a little, there would have been room.
She wakes up with a scream behind her teeth and feels like an adultress when she buries her head in her husband's warm shoulder.