The frost that had cast a spell on the land two days before lingered over
the countryside, displaying its icy presence now and then with a bitter
wind that swept any peddler foolish enough to be out off his feet. The
rhythmic plop-plop sound made by dripping icicles that had situated
themselves on the edge of every roof brought forth something that could
almost be a symphony, if not dulled by the people's worries. A frost was
never good...and this frost had been particularly treacherous...
They call me Beauty, but my name is Enzi. I was born on the eve of that cold winter's night they speak of so often. Grandmother has told me of it: raging blizzards, hailstones as big as your hand, avalanches that swept away 100 lives with one blow. They say it was a miracle I survived, as my first gulp of air was sub-zero. A miracle indeed, but a terrible one. My mother wasn't so fortunate and died at dawn the following morning. They call it childbed fever. I am not so convinced. There was something other than mere coldness that night...and I think it killed my mother.
Father says nothing of it. I think him a bit mad, but I do not say so. He is heartbroken over mother, I do not wish for him to be heartbroken over me, too, for disloyalty. My sisters more or less do not care. They busy themselves with suitors and parties...maybe it is foolish, but perhaps it is ingenious: their minds will not be occupied with such disturbing matters, as mine is. I would be content to spend my whole life investigating this awful predicament of my mother's alleged murder, as long as I died knowing I avenged it. Such dreams cannot be. As it is, I work on our little farm, and spend my days feeding chickens rather than solving mysteries.
They call me Beauty, but my name is Enzi. I was born on the eve of that cold winter's night they speak of so often. Grandmother has told me of it: raging blizzards, hailstones as big as your hand, avalanches that swept away 100 lives with one blow. They say it was a miracle I survived, as my first gulp of air was sub-zero. A miracle indeed, but a terrible one. My mother wasn't so fortunate and died at dawn the following morning. They call it childbed fever. I am not so convinced. There was something other than mere coldness that night...and I think it killed my mother.
Father says nothing of it. I think him a bit mad, but I do not say so. He is heartbroken over mother, I do not wish for him to be heartbroken over me, too, for disloyalty. My sisters more or less do not care. They busy themselves with suitors and parties...maybe it is foolish, but perhaps it is ingenious: their minds will not be occupied with such disturbing matters, as mine is. I would be content to spend my whole life investigating this awful predicament of my mother's alleged murder, as long as I died knowing I avenged it. Such dreams cannot be. As it is, I work on our little farm, and spend my days feeding chickens rather than solving mysteries.
