Chapter 3

Winter 8th dawned bright and cold. I'd like to admit I was easily adjusting to the temporary life in this little town, but common sense told me otherwise. It was very different to what I was used to; for one thing the townsfolk didn't stare any more as I passed. That in itself doesn't sound so much, but back home whenever I took a break from the palace and walked to the town, people would part in the crowd for me, stare at me all the way and little children would dare each other to touch the folds of my clothing. Here, I was becoming less and less of a novelty; no stares, no awed avoidance. (Though Kevin recently started making a game out of following me and hiding whenever I looked around at him.)

In an attempt to bond more with the people of the town, I had taken it upon myself to get up before dawn, which I often did anyway, and take a walk around the village. Most people weren't awake at this time, but I did enjoy the limited conversation I received from some of them before the silences became too awkward. My walk would always finish an hour or so later, once I'd done a lap of the town and arrived back at the quiet little river spot where I'd spoken to Agi a few days ago.

I had just finished my walk, and I was sat at the same spot by the river, legs crossed, watching the clouds scudding past the weak sun and the cold blue sky. It was a beautiful day really, and while the sun was weak it was definitely stronger than it had been when I'd started my walk. It felt odd to admit it, but I much preferred this sort of climate to what I had back home. If you were too cold, you could easily add layers to your clothing, but if you got too hot there was a limit to how many you could remove in public. Which was why I was huddled in the fur-lined coat I'd purchased on my first day from the city as I watched one particular cloud, which was shaped vaguely like a fish, drift in the direction of Agi's house.

I didn't realise until the fish-cloud was out of sight that Agi was in fact outside; stood on the top level of his porch with an easel facing him, which was holding a canvas. I watched from where I was sat as he painted, admittedly a little messily, and could just see the concentration on his face from around the side of the canvas. Part of me wanted to be friendly, wanted me to get up and go over to his house and strike up a conversation. He had, after all, initiated our conversation a few days ago. But I didn't particularly want to disturb him, especially when he was so very focused and seemed to be caring a lot about what he was doing. I didn't realise I had been staring at him for a few minutes until he glanced straight in my direction, and I almost cricked my neck in my effort to look as though I hadn't been watching him. I braced myself for him to come over and be friendly, as that did seem to be his default manner, but nothing came. I chanced a side-long look after a minute or two, to find that he had gone back to his painting.

The level of intense concentration on his face admittedly surprised me a little; when I'd seen the paint splatters on him when we'd first met I'd assumed it was because he was a careless painter, as opposed to the passion he was displaying. It seemed to bring a whole new atmosphere around the other man, and it seemed to suit him just as much as the friendly smile he so often gave out to everyone. I realised with a jolt that I was staring again, but my willpower didn't allow me to look away this time, not while he was still focused on his canvas. The pallet he held contained a lot of light colours, mostly blues and whites from what I could see from the distance; he was evidently painting the scenery. Briefly, I wondered if I should move, in case I was in the way of his subject, but he'd already seen me, surely if I was in his way, he would tell me so?

This time I did manage to divert my attention from him before he looked up. I looked to the icy river again, as always watching the shadows of fish hovering there, conserving their energies to survive their cold isolation from the heat of the sun. It seemed cruel for them to have a physical barrier between them and the world above, but I reminded myself that mother nature always knew what she was doing when the elements interfered with the lives of the creatures around. I shifted a little; the mat I used for practise had been turned into a mat for sitting in the snow, but now the snow was starting to soak through, which usually was my sign to go back into the Inn. But I could withstand a little chill a bit longer, I decided, as I was enjoying the general feeling of being outside, for once. Something else I had noticed since coming here was the winter air was fresh and almost biting, but it felt good to breathe in. Warm air stifled you and made you uncomfortable, the cold air felt like it was clearing out my sinuses and waking me up. Was that why Agi always came outside so early too?

I chanced a glance at him in time to see him looking back down at his painting; a few milliseconds earlier and we would've made eye contact. I couldn't put my finger on it, but something about him intrigued me. He didn't seem to have any troubles or worries, or at least if he did he hid them well, and I respected that. He was generally nice as well, and he was one of the only inhabitants of the town who had so far actually taken the time to try and talk to me. Oliver outright ignored me most of the time, which I had to say I wasn't hugely upset about. But I had a sneaking suspicion if, for some pretty impossible reason, Agi stopped talking to me, I'd be sadder.

The sudden, much more urgent, presence of cold and wet seeping through the mat told me that I had to move. I stood quickly before the saturation got to the seat of my trousers, brushing stray flecks of snow off of my coat, then picked up the mat and rolled it up, tucking it under my arm. I stretched cramp out of my legs, before taking one last look over towards Agi, but now that I was stood the easel obscured his face; I couldn't tell if he was looking at me. Just in case he was, I gave a little smile, then moved through the snow, back in to the Inn.

Once in my room, I hung the mat over the back of a chair to dry, then changed into a different pair of trousers. My eyes kept wandering over to my desk; I still hadn't written to father yet. The twinge of guilt, as well as the thought's resistance to leave my mind, quickly drove me to sit at the desk provided in the room with a piece of paper and a pen, but then it took me a minute or two before I actually wrote anything. I knew it'd be a long while before my letter reached him, and he send the reply, but I still wanted to put it off. Truth was, Amsterdam really did not appeal to me. I understood the reason behind the trip, and the importance it held to my country. But at the same time...I sighed and uncapped the pen. I had to do it sooner rather than later.

Dear Father,

As I am sure you will be aware by the time you receive this letter, due to the return of the crew, my journey to Amsterdam has been cut short for the time being. Heavy snow has fallen in the area; even if I tried to work my way through it I do not know if I would reach any Inns before nightfall, at which time the temperature would plummet and I would most likely fall ill. I am currently residing in a small town on the road to Amsterdam called Zephyr Town; I think it is too small to distinguish on our map. The mayor has insisted that I remain here for the duration of Winter, as it seems as though the snow will not melt until Spring.

I shall be sending a similar letter to Juliana and her family, so that they know of my delay and do not spend time preparing when I will not be arriving until at least early Spring.

Send my love to Marina.

Yours,

Schmidt.