Mary had never been busier at Misselthwaite. With the slight shortage of full-time servants and the influx of people, she had lots to do to keep entertained. She loved having the soldiers there, even if some were quiet and shaken. The doctor and matron from London had arrived, and Mary was learning things from them, picking up tidbits of information like how to change a dressing, or check for signs of infection. She'd never thought she'd be particularly interested in caring for people outside the select few that she loved more than life itself, but the work was gratifying, and she loved knowing that she made a difference.

It was a frosty afternoon in November, and Mary was making her rounds. One of the downstairs rooms had become a sitting room for the soldiers, and many of the men were gathered there, talking. The windows were glazed over, icy patterns on the glass. There was a fire roaring in the grate, casting a warm glow over everything. Others preferred to keep more to their own rooms, and so Mary would move from one to the other, re-lighting fires, offering refreshments, checking that nothing was amiss.

A young solider had arrived late last night, and Mary had not yet been told what to expect. She had been to every other room first, to give him time to rest after his long journey, but now she knocked on the door.

"Come in." The voice was quiet, gentle and so she opened the door without hesitation and stepped inside. The man was sitting up in bed, but the curtains were drawn shut and Mary couldn't see his face.

"Would you like me to open the curtains?" she asked as she moved across the room.

"Oh," said the man. "I didn't know that they weren't open."

"You didn't?" asked Mary, opening them and turning back to look at him in the light. She gasped quietly. A scar ran from his left temple to his chin, thick and pale as the sun touched it. His hair was dark and thick, and she saw that he would once have been handsome. His nose was straight, his jawline defiant, and he had cheekbones that any woman would be proud of. A bandage was wrapped around his face like a blindfold, and Mary could see that he was blind from the way that his hands were flat against the bed, fingers splayed as he tried to feel what he could not see.

As the weak sunlight reached him, his face turned toward the window and tilted, as though he were absorbing it. Mary turned back towards him and sat carefully down on the bed. She'd met men who were partially blind, or blind in one eye, but never someone who could not see at all. She supposed that this was the soldier who was due to arrive a month or so ago, but who had been delayed. His fingers reached out to her and caught on her dress, holding tightly. She was reminded of a dark stormy night, when a warm woolen wrapper brought comfort to a little boy who thought he was talking to a ghost.

Moving slowly so as not to startle him, she took his hands in her own, and placed them one on each side of her neck. Dr Spencer had told her how to do this, he had explained that a blind man would often wish to feel the face of the person addressing them, and that they could tell one face from another by touch. He did.

His hands moved slowly up her neck and traced her jawline. He cradled her face with his palms, thumbs sweeping across her closed eyelids and up onto her forehead, before exploring the elegant chignon on the back of her head. When he had finished his hands dropped back to his sides, and he frowned as though trying to commit her face to memory.

"What's your name?" he asked, as though staring at her intently.

"Mary," she replied.

"Mary," he said, trying the name out. "Mary what?"

"Mary Lennox. What's yours?" she asked, berating herself for having not found it out already.

"Adam," he said. "Adam Snow."

"Adam Snow?" She frowned. Why did it sound so familiar? "Adam Snow."

"Do I know you, Mary Lennox?" he asked, frowning himself. "I feel as if I've heard your name before."

"I don't know. Maybe someone mentioned it."

"No," he said, shaking his head. "I mean before."

"Before?"

"Before England."

"In France?"

"No, before that. Have you always lived in England?"

Mary didn't know why, but she shivered. "No."

His head turned sharply towards her and he leant forward. "Where did you live before?" His voice was suddenly intense, waiting for her answer.

"India."

There was a long silence, but Mary didn't want to break it. And then, out of the blue, he began to hum the tune to a nursery rhyme. A nursery rhyme that she hadn't heard in a good 7 years. And then it hit her.

"Number 44. Adam Snow," she whispered, dreading and hoping all at the same time.

He turned his face towards her and smiled sadly. "I never thought I'd come across anyone from that boat again."

Mary shook her head slowly. "Neither did I."

They sat in silence again, until he broke it once more.

"I'm sorry, about the rhyme."

She found herself smiling."I understand why you did it now. I was a contrary child." She paused, and laughed lightly. "I still can be!"

He smiled at her, and for a second his scars disappeared. "You found happiness though?"

Mary thought back over the past 8 years of her life. She swallowed, and her voice almost shook. "Yes, I found happiness. Unbelievable happiness, far more than I ever could have in India."

"Even without your parents?" He was not accusing.

She took a deep breath. "It sounds awful, but yes. I'm happier without them, because at last I have people in my life that love me unconditionally, and I was only ever a nuisance to my parents." She sighed. "Are you happy?"

He grimaced. "I was. Very happy. I lived with my grandparents until five years ago, when I met my wife. I fell in love with her straight away- it was so easy, like breathing. We married, and our first child had just been born when I was called off to war. She begged me not to go, but this was for my King and country. Besides, I couldn't bare to think that people would call me a coward." He stopped, and took a deep breath. "So I went. I saw her a few times, when I was on leave. The last time was months and months ago. She was a 7 months pregnant. They would have telegrammed her when I was wounded, but she had a toddler and a newborn, she couldn't come to me in London. Our home is in Derbyshire, so when I was ready to be discharged from the hospital they sent me here, it being the closest auxiliary to where I live. I thought she'd be here- the journey isn't nearly as far now, but she isn't. I just can't get it out of my head that she might not- might not want me now. Might not want a man who can't even see his children." His face turned away, but Mary reached out and took his hand. His fingers tightened around hers, and once again, she was reminded of that stormy night.

"She'll come," said Mary, thinking of Dickon. "If she loves you, nothing will matter except you."


Colin sat in the library in his wheelchair. It was his favourite room- the one that always felt warm and comforting. There was something about being surrounded by books- they lined the walls, floor to ceiling- that could make you feel at ease anywhere. Mary always said it was because a room full of books smelt the same no matter where you are are, but Colin wasn't so sure. She was right, he thought, about the smell always seeming to be the same, and perhaps that was comforting, but it was the books themselves that created the atmosphere. The sight of them stacked up, all clasped tantalisingly shut wherever you looked, filled him with a sense of mystery and longing. He often wondered how long it would take him to read everything in the library. Years and years. Perhaps a lifetime.

He was backed as far into a corner as he could be, the back of the wheelchair pressed against a book case. There was a lamp leaning over his shoulder, reminding him of the nosy people that tried to read your scribbles as you were writing them. He detested people that did that. It wasn't as if he were writing or reading anything untoward that he didn't want people to know about, but he always liked to read alone, where no-one could see his emotions as he journeyed with the characters. It was the feeling that it gave him when someone looked over his shoulder, like his privacy had been violated, as though he couldn't read a book or write a phrase without being judged. It was like someone had thrown open the curtains on his private thoughts, shouted his feelings for all to hear. It was wrong.

He gave his wheelchair a sharp jerk and growled low in the back of his throat. Stupid thing. It was caught on a corner of the large rug that flooded the room, and was absolutely refusing to budge. Colin looked longingly at the windowsill where he used to sit for days on end, looking out onto the moor, book in hand, hidden by the curtain. His father had spent hours looking for him sometimes, but had never thought to check there. Mary had always known where he was, but not once had she revealed his hiding place, and not once had she come to disturb him there. He wasn't even sure how she knew- sometimes she seemed to know everything. But that was before. There was no way he could get up onto the windowsill now.

The door to the library swung open and Colin froze. He felt like a naughty child- as though he'd been caught with his hand in the larder. A small, delicate figure entered the room. Elizabeth. Colin kept his breathing slow and quiet, not wanting her to see him. He lowered his eyes back to his book, but the swish of fabric made him raise his head again. He frowned.

She was dancing, spinning, emerald green dress swirling out around her in a tornado of heavy fabric. As she twirled, the lace petticoats beneath her skirt became visible- cream froth mingling with the jewel-bright green- reminding him of waves crashing onto beaches, cold and inviting and wild. The dress was a old one, and very out-of-style, but he thought she looked... beautiful. Oh, shut up Colin. Her hands were trailing the walls lovingly, caressing the spines of the books. Involuntarily, he shivered. She had stopped in the middle of the room, back to him, head tilted upwards. The sunlight from the window caught her head, and he wondered how it was that hair so dark could shine so brightly. She spun around again, faster and faster, arms extended like a ballerina, before coming to a stop facing him. He opened his mouth to speak, but shut it again, feeling like an awkward teenager, realising that her eyes were closed.

She began to walk carefully towards him, arms outstretched, grasping at the air around her. Her eyelashes were dark against her cheeks, and he found himself marvelling at their extreme length. She had got quite close to him before veering off course slightly, and her right hand grazed the bookcase to his left, index finger alighting on the spine of a green, leather-bound book, looking slightly worse for wear. She stopped, hand resting on her treasure. He could see the gold title embossed onto the leather. Jane Eyre. Without opening her eyes, she ran her finger to the top and pulled it from its place. He shivered again, as thought her finger were tracing his spine, and not the book's. As she moved, her extended left hand dropped lightly against his cheek and he heard her intake of breath as she froze too, hand clutching the book tightly, as though for safety.

She still didn't open her eyes. Instead, she stepped back and lowered the book to the floor, gently, as though it were a beloved child. She straightened up, and he couldn't help noticing that they were almost the same height now, the fairy and the cripple. She stretched her hands in front of her, slowly, hesitantly, and stepped forward. This time her knees touched his- he could see them pressing through the layers of her dress- and her waiting hands felt only empty space as they floated on either side of his head. Taking a deep breath she brought them in towards him, fingers cupped, ready. They fitted to him perfectly, his ears safe in the space between her thumbs and forefingers, the rest of her fingers nestling against his neck. Her eyes were still closed as she spoke.

"You shouldn't lurk in corners, Colin Craven."

Just a quick explanation incase anyone is confused about the Adam Snow bit: In the 1993 film, the orphans from India are announced by name and number when they reach England so that they can be collected by their guardians. Mary is number 43, and when Mrs Medlock isn't there to claim her, she is asked to step aside. Adam is number 44, and is collected by a woman who appears to be his grandmother. It's a very small, easily-missable part of the film, but I thought it would be nice to reunite Mary with someone from India. :)

Thank you so much for continuing to read this, and please leave a review if you have time- it really helps me to know if I'm going in the right direction with this story.