Thank you so very much to everybody who has left a comment on this story, I have been very touched by your support. Your feedback has not only been kind, but also really helpful in understanding what you enjoy.

This chapter has been a bit rushed, as you will see, sorry, but I wanted to spend some quality time this weekend with my family.

I have added a couple of very brief paragraphs to the end of chapter 2 for anybody who wishes to go back and read them, and they start from, "the young lady then cast her eyes." However, you do not need to, they are not plot-orientated.

And lastly, you will see a few snippets borrowed from Gaskell's original text and inserted in here, all italicised, with just a couple of words changed to reflect the change in tense.

THE WOOLLEN OLIVE BRANCH

Chapter 3

From Before We Were Us

John Thornton trudged through the snow like a plough, fighting against the storm of snowflakes that attempted to both throng and stab him. He tried his darnedest to ignore the biting sting as the cold of the slush that caked his legs crept up him like an assailant, first assaulting his toes, and then stealing inch by inch up towards the landmark of his knees.

Muttering some regretfully ungentlemanly words under his breath, John continued on, each step he took more dogged than the last, the blood that pumped to his thighs and calves being lined with an added dose of determination.

He would go there! He would get there! He would get to see her!

Yes, even if it was the last thing he did, even if it killed him, John would see her tonight.

He scoffed noisily at his own moronic idiocy. This was insanity! He had been away for three weeks, three drawn-out, weary, fruitless weeks, and this was John's first day back in Milton. Needless to say, there were a mound of tasks that required his urgent attention at the mill; letters, machinery repairs, invoices, and goodness knows what that he had to look over if everything was to return to a status of normality under its commander's efficient routine. He had been a fool to stay away this long, but he had told himself that it was necessary, that it would be beneficial for trade, that it would lead to better things, and not only that, but John had also strived to indoctrinate himself into believing that a little time, a little distance, they would help him get over…

Sigh.

At any rate, it was not just about business, because what of his family? John knew that he ought to be spending tonight with his mother and sister, the two of them having been denied his company for longer than usual, not that Fanny would mind, of course, she would hardly have noticed that he was gone, or if she had, she would have delighted in it, her joy only diminishing when she saw him walk back through the door. As for his mother, she would be anxious for her son to remain at home and get some rest. In fact, she had been pestering him all afternoon about staying in and regaining his strength, the shadows under his eyes and sag of his usually impressive stance enough to tell her that he was weakened, if not in body, then certainly in spirit.

Nonetheless, he had resisted her entreaty, and much to his mother's annoyance, John had insisted that he would be going out tonight, no matter what. He was set on it, and stubborn man that he was, there was one thing that his time away had taught him, and it was that when John Thornton had settled on something, whether it be a commitment of his time, his intellect, his purse, his industry, or indeed, his heart, he would be unfaltering in his loyalty until the bitter end.

So that was that, he would love her, whether she wanted his love or not.

John halted in the middle of the street, and there, he leaned against a lamppost, and found himself sighing despairingly. Unfolding his arms, which had been huddled in front of him to stop his fingers from turning blue, he lifted one of his gloveless hands to his face and dragged it down from top to tip in jaded despondency.

'Oh, John, John, John!' he muttered. 'What are you doing? You fool!'

On stopping, his legs began to feel their fatigue, and they flagged beneath him, causing the mill master to at first sway, and then slump against the post, the hard, ice-smeared metal smacking into his back and proffering him some comradely support, as well as a hefty clout of scornful ridicule for being such a buffoon. John was grateful that there was nobody around, for if there had been, they would have lingered and gawked at him, speculating whether he was drunk, before promptly judging him for his sorry state. But then again, perhaps he was drunk, but not on drink, rather, on love, that sweet and sickly potion intoxicating his every strain, both exhilarating and torturing the individual fibres of his soul, drugging him like a spell that was too powerful, too perfect in its pain, to break.

John knew that he should not go to the Hales. On his journey from France, first on the boat, then on the train, then in the carriage, he had been afforded plenty of time to give himself a thorough talking to, impressing upon himself that he would not attend his usual lesson tonight. He would make his excuses, for he had numerous and legitimate ones, and undoubtedly Mr Hale would understand perfectly, unassuming friend that he was. For Heaven's sake, it was Christmas Eve, after all, a time for family, a time for staying at home beside the fire with a glass of brandy, when a man could congratulate himself on all he had achieved this year.

However, in John's case, what had he actually achieved?

Letting his eyes slowly drag up from the blanket of snow that covered the ground, John's gaze fell upon a window directly opposite him, at the other side of the street. Even although the thick curtains were partially drawn, he could still peek through the thin tear in the veil of their privacy that had been carelessly left agape, and through that narrow slit, he spied a family: father, mother, child. The three of them were a merry sight indeed, one which simultaneously filled John with hope and hate.

Why hate, one might ask?

If truth be told, John did not hate anybody, not really. Yes, it would be fair to say that there were many people he mildly disliked, mainly because he considered them either loud, licentious or lazy, three words, three shortcomings that he could not abide, but as for hate, no, that was a strong word, even for a man of such strong convictions. Nevertheless, it was true that what he saw tonight filled the mill master with profound hatred.

It was because John despised them for being so happy. How could it be that others boasted this effortless ability to find serenity, yet for him, it was an allusive dream? As John observed them from a distance, he felt his heart cry to witness the way the wife smiled adoringly at her husband, the look of wholesome faith in her eyes as he bent down to kiss her, their relationship not one of mistrust and animosity, but of unequivocal respect and reverence.

God! What a year it had been! A year of revelations. A year that had unravelled him.

Never before in all his twenty-nine years had John thought about taking a wife and having children of his own. He was too busy for such things, and if he were honest, John was always afraid that something would go wrong, meaning that he would be unable to provide for them, so he was best not dragging them into his life, one tainted with a history of failure and humiliation. No, a mother and sister were enough female company for him, more than enough, or at least, it had been, up until a year ago when his priorities had unexpectedly and abruptly changed, when his ordered world had been shaken asunder by the sight of a pretty face.

John could have watched them for hours, lost in an introspective haze, but his attention was snatched away as the child ran across his vision, galloping about gaily, his little legs jumping and skipping as he savoured the magic of this night. The man then picked up his son, and pulling his wife close, the three of them were caught tight in his protective embrace, a jumble of arms wrapping around each other in unreserved love.

After that, John had to look away. It was too much to bear, too great a grief for his heart to harbour, thinking, knowing, that he would never experience such pure contentment, not as a husband, nor as a father. No, he was doomed to spend the remainder of his days as plain, insufferable John Thornton.

Master, magistrate, nothing, nobody.

'Oh, Margaret,' he whispered into the wind, the unscrupulous breeze whirling his words around and spitting them back in his face like a hawk of mockery. 'That could have been us,' he breathed wretchedly, thinking that if she had said yes seven and a half months ago, they could have been married by now, and possibly even blessed with the knowledge that they were having their first child together. But it was not to be, because she had said no, and so, that was that.

Finally, John gave in and continued on, leaving the unnamed family behind to enjoy their night together in peace, away from the contempt of his loneliness. As he walked further across town, John's mind turned to think on matters that were so unfriendly in their dejection, that the surrounding coldness no longer bothered his bones by comparison. Instead, he tried to occupy his mind more pleasantly.

John hoped that Margaret had liked the tree. He had chosen it carefully, ensuring that it was the very best he could find, not to mention having parted with a pretty penny for his efforts. He was not sure if it was a step too far, an overfamiliar offering that a London gentleman would never have presumed to give. John had deliberated about it for some days, but on the afternoon that he had left for Dover, he had finally given in and ordered the tree for the Crampton house, meticulously taking into account its restricted proportions. It was after determining that he was not a man to be concerned about niggles in regard to social etiquette, so long as his intentions were honourable, which, of course, they were, that John had concluded that it was the right thing to do.

And what was more, he and Margaret had been through so much together, a private affair of the heart, a bloody battle of admiration and apathy that was unknown to almost everybody around them, that he felt justified in extending this gift to her on the first Christmas that they could have been, should have been, man and wife.

John found himself abruptly stopping again, and with his eyes raised to the heavens, he sighed once more. John was not entirely sure whether he believed in God, not after everything he had been through as a young man cast into the callous world. He had experienced hardship, and he had witnessed heartache, and so, he often wondered whether God really existed out with the mind of man, or whether he had simply given up and gone away, assigning humanity to writhe in the fire of its own gradual and agonising downfall.

However, one thing was for sure, and that was that God had been cruel to Margaret this year. John would not call himself a particularly sympathetic person, but he could at least grasp when someone was careworn. In fact, he was often referred to as a surprisingly understanding magistrate, appreciating that extenuating circumstances, such as the sequences of poverty and abuse, often left people feeling alone or afraid, making lawlessness appear like an attractive answer. Still, even with this insight, John held fast to the principle that struggle was a natural part of life, that in order to survive and thrive, one must walk through the fire of adversity in order to be moulded, to be bent into shape, and to come out stronger than before, ready to brave the future with an armour of mettle.

Nevertheless, despite himself, John could not help but feel deeply sorry for Margaret. She had been through so much, sweet creature, and what was worse, was that he was helpless to help her. As a master and a magistrate, for better or for worse, he had at least some modest influence in the lives of others, but when it came to her, what was he to Margaret? Nothing, that's what. Grudgingly, John knew only too well that he was no relation of hers, nor was he an old and trusted friend, so he had no alternative but to stand back and watch while her world collapsed around her.

Darling Margaret. Fierce Margaret. Remarkable Margaret. She had been forced to leave her Helstone home, her paradise, saying goodbye to her London family and friends, and come here, to Milton, a town marred by voracity and grime, somewhere she most assuredly did not belong. Then, after all that, after all the upheaval she had endured, bearing it with such inspiring dignity, not to mention endearing defiance, she had lost her mother.

John felt a wretched sensation stab at his heart, and he scowled at the snow, just like he scowled at everything else these days. Yes, he knew all too well of the trials of loss. With sober recollection, he reflected on the grief that death could bring, the devastation it could wreak, a trauma that his dear Margaret had at least been spared.

Then again, had she not been dealt a more unfair hand than he ever had? It was true that John had known poverty, it had been his companion for many years, the shadow of which he could swear still stalked him, a phantom that would not leave him alone, and it made him shudder every time he sensed its unwelcome lurking. In spite of this, while his changes in circumstances had been more severe than Margaret's, more shaming by far, at least he had been able to stay in Milton, with his own people, finding security in his familiar surroundings. However, in her case, Margaret had been obliged to wave goodbye not only to a parent, but a house, a financial sense of stability, a landscape, a flock of family members, and her rightful place in society. Yes, for Margaret, it had been worse, infinitely worse, and for that, John could not forgive God for turning his back on her, something he himself would never do, no matter what she had done to him in return.

Reaching the inn that lay just a street or two away from the Hale's, John strolled past it, and as he did so, a stranger, a blonde-haired man staggered out, and when he saw him, the master's fist tightened into a clench so taut, that the nimble bones of his fingers began to groan and crack.

That bast –

No! John would not degrade himself by being so uncouth, the scoundrel did not deserve such consideration.

Oh, but he was! He was that word.

That was one of the reasons why John had agreed in advanced not to come tonight. What if he was there? As John had already noted, Christmas was a time for family, so would it not be natural for Margaret's young man to join in the festivities and rejoice in ushering in the dawn of Christmas Day with the woman he lov –

No! Stop it! John did not know that the man loved her, nor that Margaret returned his affections, no matter how damming the evidence might be. Yes, that had been one reason why John felt it best that he should keep away, in case the man had been there, and then what? He found him to be a crook and was forced to deal with the villain to protect Margaret's honour? Or worse, that he turned out to be a perfectly decent gentleman, despite his reckless and selfish actions which resulted in Margaret being out late at night, rendering her vulnerable to both attack of body and accusation of character? To be sure, it could be that under all that thoughtless foolhardiness, he was a good man, a man who warranted her devotion.

John shivered, his neck tilting unconsciously as he rubbed his naked skin against the fur lining of his coat, begging it to be compassionate and impart some warmth. He needed to keep his head if he wanted to stay sane, so it went without saying that the stock on which it sat should be kept alert, lest the nerves within freeze and obstruct, the blood in his veins hardening into clotted rivers of ice, unable to flow, causing him to lose his wits altogether.

Yes, that had been one factor that had kept him away, all the way in France, but there had been others.

The truth was that John was both ashamed and afraid. He could not help but suspect that Margaret was avoiding him, in fact, he was sure of it. He had attended four weeks of lessons in the shade of her half-presence, her absence conspicuous, cruel and crushing. But he had deserved it, deep down, he knew he had.

During the tense weeks that had followed his proposal and then her duplicity, Margaret had never once recoiled into the shadows and removed herself from his sight. No, she had faced him, boldly, insolently, showing him that she did not reproach herself, that while she took absolute responsibility for her decisions and her behaviour, Margaret felt no blame, perhaps even no remorse.

Then it had happened, the very thing John had dreaded happening, and at the same time, dared to happen.

"Is Miss Hale so remarkable for truth?"

God! How those careless words rung in his ears like a clanging bell.

He remembered it all too well. The moment he had spoken that malicious line of petulanthostility, he could have bitten his tongue out. What was he? And why should he stab her with her shame in that way? How evil he had been that night; possessed by ill-humour at being detained so long from her; irritated by the mention of some name, because he thought it belonged to a more successful lover; ill-tempered because he had been unable to cope, with a light heart, against one who was trying, by gay and careless speeches, to make the evening pass pleasantly away, — the kind old friend to all parties, whose manner by this time might be well known to Mr Thornton, who had been acquainted with him for many years. And then to speak to Margaret as he had done!

John had crossed a line that night, and from that moment on, everything had changed between them. Up until then, Margaret had at least tolerated his presence, doing her best to ignore and even pacify the palpable tension between them, to overlook his simmering resentment and be as polite as she could. But not now, no more, because for four weeks since, she had not been there. That is, she had been there, but she had not been there. She was in the house, that much was certain, his keen senses being sharpened, attuned to tracking her. John could hear her moving on the floor above, detecting short, sharp bursts of activity, then all would go still, like a millpond, and he realised that she was trying to be quiet and not draw attention to herself. In other words, Margaret was hiding.

On his last visit, three weeks ago, John was about to leave, but then he had heard a creak from above, and a silhouette had been cast about the place, almost as if somebody were leaning over him. Looking up hastily, he could have sworn that he saw a face, a pair of eyes surveying him intently from between the railings. There had been an abrupt vibration of light, suggesting something had moved swiftly, and so he had impatiently watched and waited, praying that she would make herself known. But then there was nothing, no clue as to what it was that had disturbed him, and so, he gave up his futile search, accepting that another day, another week, would pass without seeing her, the master being once again denied her most charming and coveted company.

But why was she hiding?

Could it be that her father spoke the truth, and that Margaret was ill? John winced. God, he hoped not. It was not that he believed Mr Hale capable of dishonesty, (then again), but it could be that Margaret had told him that she was unwell, what with it being one of the few acceptable reasons that would account for her non-attendance, and so, her father had trusted her. John could not bring himself to think of Margaret being in poor health, and the notion had caused him to get up and go to fetch the doctor time and time again, but on every occasion, Mr Hale had promised him that things were not as bad as all that, and so he had been required to settle down and take his tutor's word that the woman they both loved more than life itself, was not in any danger.

At first, John could believe this excuse. Margaret had been busy, too busy, looking after her father, the house, and every other wretch she came across, so it was no wonder that she was conceivably a little worn out. But then the second week had come, and then the third, and finally, the fourth, and it was then that John knew for sure that she was evading him.

But again, why?

John needed to think about this rationally.

Margaret was not one to hide herself away. She was too audacious for that, too courageous, so there had to be a bloody good reason. At this point, John felt all the colour drain from his cheeks when he considered the one possibility that had been haunting him for some time, ever since he had awoken on the ship to Le Havre in cold sweats as a nightmare overtook him and persecuted his mind.

Was it conceivable that Margaret was with child?

John had woken up one night and near enough cried out, an image plaguing his subconscious in which Margaret cradled her growing belly, a dream he had once welcomed with longing, but not this, not this distorted and corrupted vision of her slender figure swelling with the life of another man's seed. John shook his head violently. No! She may have had a dalliance with that young man, but she would never have given herself to him, not like that, not before she was married. But then John suddenly felt horribly sick. What if she had not given herself at all? What if he had taken what was not rightfully his? What if she had not even tendered her love, but had been forced?

Without knowing what he was doing, John lifted his clenched fist and slammed it against a wall, ignoring the flinching pain as the bricks cut into his knuckles and bruised them, thin trickles of blood running furiously along his hand and seeping into each overlapping stream with a sting. John barely noticed, merely taking out his handkerchief and cleaning up the mess.

It was time he faced facts.

It was possible that Margaret was with child, however it had come about. That would explain why she was concealing herself, keeping stealthily out of sight. It was most likely that her father did not even know, that would explain his unperturbed conscious and conduct. He was presumably in the dark, for Margaret may have covered it well, or not yet been far along enough for it to be obvious, not if one were not deliberately looking for the signs of pregnancy. John refused to believe that her father did know and was playing his pupil like a fiddle, the very thought of such betrayal from a man he cared for as a father enough to break his heart all over again.

Well, if it were true, John would not disown Margaret. No, he would stay loyal to her, even going so far as to offer for her once more, vowing to look after Margaret and her baby. He would even allow the illegitimate mite to take on his own name, instinctively choosing to care for it as if it were his babe, even if it were obvious to everybody that he could not be the father, not only because of timing, but because the child would visibly look nothing like him. Yes, John would do the right thing by her, and he could do nothing more than that, so if need be, he would propose again, despite accepting that any agreement would not come from a place of love, but of necessity on her part, the thought of disgrace and destitution being just marginally worse than the thought of marriage to him.

However, John would not let himself dwell on such dark thoughts of an uncertain future. He had no evidence to support his unspeakable theory, and so, for now, he would try his best to banish it from his mind. What was more, knowing Margaret, or what he thought he knew of Margaret, it was unlikely to be true, and besides, there was another reason which made far more sense. And if John were wholly honest with himself, he knew it to be the real cause of her refusal to see him.

"Is Miss Hale so remarkable for truth?"

She had not risen to leave the room, as she had done in former days, when his abruptness or his temper had annoyed her. She sat quite still, after the first momentary glance of grieved surprise, that made her eyes look like some child's who has met with an unexpected rebuff; they slowly dilated into mournful, reproachful sadness; and then they fell, and she bent over her work, and did not speak again. But he could not help looking at her, and he saw a sigh tremble over her body, as if she quivered in some unwonted chill.

He gave short sharp answers; he was uneasy and cross, unable to discern between jest and earnest; anxious only for a look, a word of hers, before which to prostrate himself in penitent humility. But she neither looked nor spoke. Her round taper fingers flew in and out of her sewing, as steadily and swiftly as if that were the business of her life. She could not care for him, he thought, or else the passionate fervour of his wish would have forced her to raise those eyes, if but for an instant, to read the late repentance in his.

He could have struck her before he left, in order that by some strange overt act of rudeness, he might earn the privilege of telling her the remorse that gnawed at his heart. It was well that the long walk in the open air wound up that evening for him. It sobered him back into grave resolution, that henceforth he would see as little of her as possible, — since the very sight of that face arid form, the very sounds of that voice (like the soft winds of pure melody) had such power to move him from his balance.

John cussed himself. What an unholy night that had been! How dare he have spoken to Margaret in such an offhand way?! Curse that blasted temper of his! She had been shocked and saddened by his targeted outburst, he could see that as plain as day on his darling's sweet face, and it had wounded her in a way that he did not even know he was capable of. Lord knows that this revelation had upset John punitively, to think himself skilled in injuring her so, savage beast that he was.

How could she ever love him when he could hurt her like that?

John told himself that Margaret had done it first, she had started this war between them, she had fired the inaugural shot, not he. It had begun when the southern beauty had initially arrived in the town, just over a year ago. Her self-assured ways were undeniably amiable, her unabashed independence admirable, rare qualities that had attracted John to her from the beginning. Nonetheless, her arrogance and prejudice, these faults that were born of youth and inexperience, they had unfortunately served her ill, clouding her opinion of him and compelling Margaret to set herself up in defiance against him and all John stood for.

Then John had proposed, albeit without thinking things through, he realised that now, but she had been the one to be harsh, condemning his feelings and humiliating his hopes, diminishing them into something laughable and pathetic, denouncing every facet of his proud character. After that, she had been cold with him, although, perhaps that was nothing more than a lack of poise on Margaret's part, the woman unable to understand how to be around him, how to act, how to manage the onslaught of his affection, especially when it was offered with such a cloak and dagger like secrecy and suppression.

There had even been days when John had left her presence in dismay, wondering what on earth he was playing at, raking over his gruff and uneasy manners, so it was no wonder she was probably similarly confused by his unpredictable bearing. While he should have been patient, proving to Margaret that he could be relied upon, that he was a steady bet as a contender for her hand, he instead gave in to his volatile passions. By means of his feet, John had allowed his temper to carry him away from his beloved more than once, never once smiling at her as he stormed off, never once admitting how he truly felt, his discourtesy, his querulousness, they each eclipsed the acute agony that tore his soul to shreds. Love was surely supposed to be consistent, but from John's experience, it was downright chaotic, even if his devotion to Margaret was forever constant, as constant as the stars.

After that, in the fracas of their furious clash of wills and wants, there had been Outwood, the event that had altered everything, devastating all that remained of his frail hope. He had seen Margaret with her man, and then she had lied, not just to John, but to the law, and in doing so, she had wounded him twice. Her falsehood had demonstrated to him that not only was she capable of deceit, a wrongdoing he would never before have imagined accusing Margaret of, but that at the same time, she had committed the even more heinous crime of loving another, and by this offence, she had hurt John more than she would ever know, more than he would ever show.

At any rate, he had hidden his hurt poorly, his attempt to repress it rendering it more potent than ever, almost like a fermenting venom that festered within him, and so John had lashed out when last he saw her, on that evening when he had taken tea with Mr Hale and Mr Bell. John had been desperate to speak with Margaret after his insensitive mistake, to tell her how sorry he was, but she had not seen him to the door as she usually did, he had been denied that sacred privilege as means of peculiar punishment, no doubt, so he had not been afforded the opportunity to beg her pardon.

He had half decided to come and call upon her the next day, and then the next, and so it went on, but he made petty excuses for himself, blaming the mill for keeping him tied to his desk. The long and short of it was that John had been a coward and held back until the following week, resolved that he would get a chance to be alone with Margaret on the occasion of his next lesson and plead her forgiveness, telling her the blunt truth about how he felt, and why he had been such a fiend.

But she had not been there…

Not that night, or any night since.

It was like she was gone, spirited away, displaced and dismissed from his life, but never, - never, from his heart.

Well! He had known what love was – a sharp pang, a fierce experience, in the midst of whose flames he was struggling! but, through that furnace he would fight his way out into the serenity of middle age, - all the richer and more human for having known this great passion.

When he eventually reached the street on which the Hale's home was tucked away inconspicuously in a corner, John did not slow down, but continued at his punishing pace, all too aware that his courage derived from his grit, and if he stalled, he may never make it at all, just like a machine running out of energy.

At long last, when he arrived at the foot of their home, John finally allowed himself the right to stop. Good grief! How his limbs ached. He had not even appreciated how ruthlessly he was driving himself forward.

He was about to walk up the steps, but before he did, John gave way to his longings, and he granted himself one small indulgence, one moment of brief relief in which his self-denial was overthrown from its throne.

Letting his eyes train up from the dull pavement, John looked towards her bedroom window. He knew it was her window, he had seen her there before, many months ago, when he was first becoming acquainted with the Hales. He had peered up casually, without reason, or so he told himself, and John's captivated eyes had stopped still as he spied Margaret by chance. There was nothing indecent about what he saw; she was simply standing there, re-arranging her hair, twirling from side to side as she flattened the creases in her dress, all acts which suggested that it was Margaret's own boudoir. No, there was nothing improper about what he beheld, but all the same, his glance should not have lingered and become a stare, but he could not help it, he was fascinated, and from that point on, John had known that he no longer wanted to be a spectator in Margaret's life, watching and admiring her from afar. He wanted more. He wanted to be close to her, with her, to be intimately part of her world.

John had intentionally looked up at the same spot three weeks ago when he had begrudgingly left that humble home, hoping beyond hope that she would be there, searching for him, just as desperately as he searched for her, but it was not to be. Nevertheless, John had been certain that he had glimpsed a movement out of the corner of his eye, the curtain, it had quivered, he was sure of it, but then all was still once again, and so, he had departed, his heart heavy with an aching need to see her.

As John peered up at her private realm tonight, the curtain was once again drawn back fully, and there was a light on the windowsill, bathing the room in a dim glow. Nonetheless, there was nobody there, and John made ready to resume his march up to the door, but then out of nowhere, something changed, and a figure approached the scene. John's breath caught in his throat as his head bucked up, and he gawked at that hallowed window, his mouth agape, all his pent-up passion sparking his senses.

It was her!

Good God! It really was her!

Just like that, Margaret came into view, and John hardly knew where to look. She glided towards the glass, towards a table that must have sat before it, and there she began to fold something and place it into a sheet of brown parcel paper. Her cheeks were radiant, her lips were parted, almost like she was singing. She was adorned in a dress of the most striking red, a green band around her waist, colours which spoke of Christmas cheer.

At first, John was busy taking in the loveliness of her appearance, marvelling at her carefree expression, but he was soon distracted by the sight of her laughing, something he had never seen before, and it was the most beautiful thing to behold. The cause of her amusement was adorably entertaining. Margaret was wrestling with a line of ribbon, the mischievous thread having got itself wrapped around her wrists and arms, and so now she was struggling to untangle herself. John found himself laughing too at her childlike innocence and silliness, a sound that had become foreign to him. It was strangely comforting to see her befuddled. Margaret, this clever, confident woman who was always so sure of herself, never being discomposed, yet here she was, all in a tizzy, and John liked it, for it was reassuring to know that she was human, after all.

Then, all of a sudden, she looked up.

The seconds that passed next, for seconds they would have been, felt like hours. Margaret momentarily glanced in his direction, and then she stilled as her wandering eyes met his. She simply froze, she did not blush, or frown, or even attempt to scurry off, but with wide eyes and a slanted head, just like a little bird, she stayed there, matching his gaze with unswerving focus.

John's heart was beating faster than it was surely safe for it to do so. He knew he could look away, even retreat with some semblance of respectability, but he did not, because something inside of him refused to tear itself away from her. He had hungered for her for so long, you see, and now that he had her in his sights, John would be damned if he would ever look away again. Instead, the two of them stared at each other, and finally, Margaret lifted a hand to the glass, and there, she pressed her fingers against it, her digits twitching slightly, as if to shyly wave. If he were not so mistrusting of his own worth, John could have vowed that there was a flicker of yearning in her eyes as her hand reached out to him.

At last, she took her fingers away, and this time, Margaret bent them towards her, beckoning her visitor to come in, and what was more, she smiled at him in broad, wholehearted welcome, all before she disappeared from view, like an apparition invented by his most sacrosanct desires.

John gulped.

Well, there was one thing for certain.

She had never looked at him that way before.