A green, grey and black sea gently flows up and down with the tide; the movement, a gentle dance of darkened water. In that stillness, an iceberg looms over the calm water. A cathedral of ice, it floats, silent and grave, with the will of the sea. Caverns of ice, glowing green and blue, lie asleep in the water. No chaos. No storm. Only ice.

At length, the water below stirs and churns. Creamy ribbons of blue and green swirl in the cold ocean. Something moves below. With a wild fountain spray, a great head emerges from the water—a huge appendage, sorrowful and solumn. The giant face does not rise much higher out of the water than its nose; the rest is submerged.

The large dark eyes, rimmed with blue, spy the iceberg and draw it close with two milky white, icy white, hands. It gathers—embraces the ice.

Then, with a gentle sigh, the head leans its forehead upon the icy sheen of the iceberg; there to rest; there to dwell. Its eyes remain on the distant horizon, poignant and sad. What secrets do those silver eyes speak? What sorrow? They have seen horrors, and even now fill up with tears of ice that flow to join the current.

--

The door opened. For a moment, no one entered. But then slowly, as if in a trance, the bride reentered her own chamber. It had only been an hour or so since she had left it. They had been to church. But O, how her face had fallen—before, it had been bright and alert. Now, now, it was dim with a sleepy sorrow; frozen she seemed, her face as white as ice.

In a mechanical manner, she removed her veil, the flowers, the gown and hung them back upon the hook where they had been that morning. Moving towards her closet, she caught sight of her image in the long mirror. Thin and white in her undergarments, she stared at her placid reflection. Then, her lips parted and her voice, weak and low, spoke aloud:

"Jane Eyre. Jane Eyre."

She approached the mirror, and placed her hand upon the glass as she had done at Gateshead; as she had done the night before. With a shiver, Jane snatched her hand away and meandered to her closet to dress in her meek grey gown once more.

Barren. Bitter. Cold, ever so cold.

I affirm and can prove that Edward Fairfaz Rochester of Thornfield was married to my sister, Bertha Antoinetta Mason, in Spanish Town Jamaica…The record of the marriage can be found…And your lady is still living.

Walking to her desk, Jane moved as a quiet ghost, silent and transparent. Gazing off into memory, she sat down in her chair and placed her fingers upon the papers that lay on her desk.

This, gentlemen, is my wife.

Jane lowered her eyes to the table. An unfamiliar paper caught her attention. Gingerly, she picked up the sheet. A crude drawing of a human figure lay before her—wild, abstract, and mournful. And in the drawing, the figure was surrounded by giant flames of dark fire that licked her clothes and hair. It had been etched with charcoal and with a blunt pencil. Bits of the paper were torn away, and holes punched through. It was a tattered piece.

She rose up onto her legs and parted her thick locks to look at us. That face! That visage! I knew it. I had seen it before. A shriek, a howl, came from her lips as she saw me, a bride. She must have recognized me as well. Gathering her limbs, she prepared to strike, to jump, to leap at me. Her eyes said so. But Grace called "Ware," and I felt Mr. Rochester thrust me to one side to take the blow himself. I collapsed against a table as the woman leapt at his throat with wild exclamations.

I heard her cry amidst the tumult, "Let me out! Let me out!"

As I struck the table, papers that had been there fluttered and scattered to the floor. I looked. Drawings. All drawings. Wild, frantic, aimless drawings. Were they hers?

Jane touched the small drawing with her fingers, a fascinated air in her touch.

And this is what I wished to have. This young girl, who stands so grave and quiet at the mouth of hell. Look at the difference. Compare those clear eyes with those balls of fire and rage. Look at the difference. And judge me.

A sob crawled up through Jane's throat. How wrong she had been? To be deceived so—to think that he had loved her for herself. No, no, no. He had not. He could not. She was fated ever to be alone. What else could this mean? In her mind, the image of her lover began to grow thin and transparent. He was no longer the same. That thought of him no longer was whole, rich and lovely. Now, it was sickly. Her love, her heart quivered and trembled at the blow.

They had tied her to a chair, bound with cords of grey and red. I stared at her. Who was this? Who was the imposter? It was not her. My own garb seemed a mockery, a farce. Jane Rochester could never be now—never. When she calmed, finding herself unable to move, she raised her eyes to mine. And I stared back. Our gaze never parted until Mr. Rochester came and laid his hand on my shoulder.

There were no tears. As Jane gazed at the drawing, she could not conjure the strength to weep. The lies weighed down on her soul. With a quick but exhausted gesture, she brushed the drawing off the table and onto the floor. As it fluttered softly down, Jane laid her head on her arms—a flood of thought, of memory and heartache.

"I am lost. I am lost." She whispered into her arms.

In her mind, a rushing of water sounded. She pictured herself in a woods, a flash flood of water flowing and surrounding her skirts. In resignation, she looked around at the rising water. There was no escape. The water was claiming her. It churned dark around her waist, rising, rising. Would she call out for help? No. There was none. She stood, waiting for the water to come. And at length, she disappeared under the waves into silence.

So too, Jane's chamber fell into a tomblike stillness—Jane Rochester was dead.

--

When the hall had quieted and the intruders had left, Rochester quickly made his way to her chamber. His hands gripped tightly as he moved swiftly through the corridor. No one was about. All was still and empty.

Reaching her door, he paused to catch his breath. How was she? Was she weeping? How had she borne it?

He remembered how her face had changed in an instant from full, bright and happy to pale, wan and frozen. Her hand had been cold when he had led her to the attic; she seemed to turn to ice before him in that inner chamber as he explained all. Not once had she looked at him while in that prison. No. She had been watching her. With what thoughts? With what thoughts? He longed to know and comfort.

For a long while, he waited in silence, listening for a sound, a sob. Anything.

But nothing came.

Soon, he set a chair at her door, waiting in weariness for his bride to return once more to his arms.

Although he thought of it, he did not grieve. To him, their future had not changed. She would be angry—yes, she would burn with a fire—but he knew and thought that her passion would cool eventually. Then, he would love her; he would solace her in his embrace, and together, they would escape.

But nothing came. No sound. No movement.

He grew impatient. What could she be doing? Was she well? She would not try a desperate act in her sorrow? Thoughts surrounded him in a chaotic mass. Where was Jane Eyre?

Time passed.

He remained at his post.

But nothing came.

Finally, just as his worry and fear began to overtake him, he heard a stirring of skirts behind the door. As he waited in silence, footsteps, light and slow, moved about the chamber. What was she doing? With a rhythmic quality, the steps began to come towards the door; he sat alert for her emergence.

The grating lock turned, and the door slowly opened. She was coming at last.

--

Mist hung low in the morning, chill and grey. Sunlight had just begun to streak the eastern sky, when a small figure exited a side door of the old hall. Grasping a package to her breast, Jane made her way to the gates, treading a determined and cold path away from Thornfield.

Half way down the drive, she turned and looked back to the hall and its gothic battlements, tinged with mist. Her eye roved the upper stories, seeking.

Then, she saw it. A lonely figure at one of the windows watched her. It was She.

Frozen to the spot, transfixed, Jane stared at the woman in the window; only her head could be seen in the morning light, but Jane recognized the dark features.

How might the heart feel at such a meeting? Might there be rage, anger, fury, and fire?

No. No fire.

In Jane's heart that morning, there was only ice. At last, frost had stilled her blood, and passion was spent. A formal feeling iced her features; after great pain, indeed, such formality was the only survival.

Remembrance of the hour roused Jane, and she swiftly turned from the figure at the window, treading quickly out the gate into the mist. At each step, the ice cracked and strained her heart. But she would not yield nor turn around. She did not see that solitary face call out to her behind the glass and a hand reach out to her against the pane.

--

He had thrown himself upon the floor, wracked with sobs, trembling in his grief. Gripping her fingers against her skirts, Jane had gained the door, but at the threshold she paused, unable to move.

"O, Jane! Jane!" He cried wildly into his arms.

Slowly, she turned to look at him. In a moment, she returned to his side, her arms held out.

"O God bless you!" She grasped his shoulders and lifted him to face her. Tears stained his grim face.

"my dear, dear master!" She felt her throat constrict and tears rising. She wiped a tear from his cheek with her finger—his cheek was hot.

"Reward you!" His arms stole around her in an aimless air as she spoke into his ear.

"Direct you and solace you!" Her voice broke with tears, as she kissed his cheek tenderly.

"May God reward you for your past kindness to me." She pulled away and smoothed his dark hair from his temples with her hand. Opening his eyes, he stared at her face, quite close, in love and despair.

"Little Jane's love," he shuddered out, grasping her tighter. "would have been my best reward!"

At his words, Jane's loving eye began to flash with a fear, with a danger. She must escape his embrace—that moment. Subtly, she made to detach herself from his arms.

"Without it my heart is broken!" He wept and pressed his face to the hollow of her neck.

Almost in rebellion to his words, she grew still, almost frigid. But he heeded it not. Instead, he kissed her collarbone softly, muttering in a strange voice:

"But Jane will give me her love! Yes. Nobly! Generously!" He caught her face with his hands and pressed his lips to hers. A panic seized her as he grasped her tightly. She must get away! She must! Writhing under his touch, she struggled to be free. At last, she broke from his arms and ran out the door. For a few steps, he pursued her, running after her with frantic breaths.

But soon, an ice fell over Thornfield and its occupants; a chilled silence descended with a potent power. And all were still.