This is a sequel to "Nightingale", although in my mind, Nightingale has always been more of a prequel to a larger story (which is this).

At this moment, with school being as it is, updates will be slow - likely once or twice a month. I suspect this story to be anywhere from 15-30 chapters. Updates will pick up again over the school break in December. I currently have several chapters completed but I want to have some ready ready so there is never a month without an update.

Thanks for reading.

It had begun to snow. She watched from the window; a fine white dust blew from the roof and painted the air, individual pieces nestling into thin, almost invisible crevices of the trees, blades of grass and cracks in headstones. It was almost as chilly inside the small office as it was outside. The warm mug of coffee between her hands barely cracked the icy chill that grew from her toes to her forehead. Coffee. It was a pleasure she wished everyone could afford. She pressed the edge of the mug to her lips and hesitated, just for a few moments, just long enough that the smell of sweet hazelnut overwhelmed her and cleared her frosty mind. She then took a long sip. It wasn't Brazilian, but damn, it was good.

Brazil.

She missed it, despite being home in Boston for almost two years. It was odd; she could be doing the simplest of tasks, the most meaningless, like drinking a cup of coffee, and Brazil would come rushing back to her and a sudden, desperate longing grew from a seed nestled somewhere deep inside her. Mornings there were spent on the terrace of her rental home, a cup of coffee in one hand and, afterwards, sometimes she would splurge and have something sweet. Before Brazil, she never would have thought to eat chocolate before noon, but, after all, doing things she would never have done before was the point of the trip.

Indulge.

Reinvent yourself.

Exist without someone else being the reason.

Brazil taught her a lot and it gave her so much; a life away from Boston, a life away from expectations. Most importantly, it gave her Eden, and that was the best gift she had ever been given.

She heard the heater begin to hum and soon a fresh wave of warm, stuffy air blew from the vent on the floor. And though it didn't put even a dent in the temperature, Maura was warmed by the possibility of a semi-workable environment after, perhaps, an hour or two.

This place is a dump, she thought, though it wasn't nearly as bad as it appeared. The moldy smell came and went, mostly with the rain, and the long cracks in the wall were so ancient that nobody paid much attention to them at all. Even the spotty, peeling paint had its charm. A few cans of light, baby blue paint sat in the corner; Maura had decided to spruce up the office, but the cold had kept her ambition at bay. All in all, she enjoyed working at the cemetery on the weekends. Sometimes Eden came in, too, which livened the place up considerably. Eden adored Marianna almost as much as Marianna adored Eden.

She sat down her mug and leaned against the desk, which creaked with age. Maura knew it was probably older and stronger than herself. It was thick, heavy wood, and so large that it seemed as though the room simply must have been built around it. It took up most of the small back office, allowing only just enough room to have a path from the door, to the window, and to the desk, which was pushed in a corner. Still cold, she fell into a kind of trance, mesmerized (or perhaps the coffee hadn't begun working yet) by the snow falling outside.

It wasn't until the tiny jingle of the door outside in the lobby shook her from her study of the snow. She had already begun to step towards the door when she heard something most peculiar.

It sounded like someone was asking for her by name.

"Maura Isles," she heard someone say. So she pushed open the door and stepped out, just as the person repeated herself once more. "I'm looking for Maura Dorthea Isles."

She first noticed Mariana, her wispy, salt-and-pepper hair tied into a loose bun. She was turned away from her, still staring at their guest, and Maura only had to look above Mariana's head (she was very short) to see a damp, svelte woman standing in their drab, faux-plant filled lobby, her eyes glued to Maura from the moment the door had swung shut.

It was Jane Rizzoli, and it looked like she had just seen a ghost.