It was nice and warm underground. Too warm, even, given the exertion taking place, but Beaver wasn't about to complain. The cold was still snapping away up top, and he was not eager to return to it. All the same, he scraped and scrabbled and scooped at the earth alternately with his paws and with a shovel, whichever suited him best at any given moment. All the while, his tail patted the ground behind him to pack down the floor.

"Nearly there," Badger said as he tilted up on his hind legs and dusted off his forepaws.

Beaver leaned on his shovel. "You're sure we're nearly at the oak? These roots are mostly ash and poplar."

"Of course! You know your trees, Beaver, but I know my neighbourhood. We're currently threading between Nosy Mole's and the Jackrabbits'," he said, pointing first left, then somewhat upwards to the right. "We only need to work our way in an upward slope from here and this'll come out right up in the oak cellar."

"Why are we tunnelling by Nosy's?"

"She's alright." Badger sat himself down, throwing his hind legs up on a bit of tree root, and reached for his waterskin. "Remember the time the secret police searched my burrow just after the last hunt in the Western Wilds? Turns out that old Nosy is the one who bought us time to hide the goods. Though her tales of rambunctious kits might have unwittingly implied that Jackrabbit is often absent, which could come back to bite someday." He grimaced and took a swig of his water. "But nothing's come of that as of yet. Seems as though those Wolves dismissed it as the ramblings of a chronic over-complainer, thank the Lion."

Beaver nodded his understanding. "So she'd cover for us if this tunnel were to bring up any questions?"

"I'm sure of it. She may be a gossip, but there are far worse stories she could tell and doesn't."

Beaver splashed a little water on his forepaws and dug into the satchel he carried. "Apple rings?" he offered. "And – why bless me! She's put in a lump of cheese too."

"That wife of yours is a treasure. Pity she wasn't born a Badger or you'd never have had a chance."

Beaver gave his friend a shove. "Just you go and find yourself a Mrs Badger of your own."

Badger laughed and took the offered provisions. "We'll see, Beaver, we'll see. Christmas Eve will see whether Snowtail will accept my proposal this time." His ears drooped slightly. "I hope she'll be there."

"Why wouldn't she be? She's attended before."

"She told me last time that Snow Dances… don't sit right with her anymore. 'A celebration of oppression', she said."

"A celebration of – it has never been about –!" Beaver spluttered.

"She knows that. But I think I understand."

Beaver thought of Tumnus and the creeping emptiness in his eyes. "I don't. We need the Snow Dances, if only as a memory and a hope for the future. They bring us together."

"I agree. But this winter has dragged on for longer than we've been alive, and Lion knows the Witch likes any bit of glory she can take. And if –"

Beaver snorted. "If that was her intent, then she'd decree Snow Dances in her own name."

"– And if Snowtail fears that she's doing a disservice to Aslan by attending, then perhaps it's better she doesn't, for the sake of her conscience. 'Whatever is not of faith' and whatnot."

Badger's thoughtful tone and the mention of Aslan soothed Beaver's indignation. He bit back the words he had nearly spit out and chewed it all over instead. If he was honest, he had considered Snowtail's position before – not enough to have ever called it his own, but he and Mrs Beaver had discussed it at length many times. So instead, he asked, "What will you do if she's not at the Dance?"

"Make a call at her sett afterward, I suppose. I can't very well propose if I don't meet with her."

Beaver frowned. "Are you sure that's wise? If you go and she doesn't…. Could you both live with that difference?"

"I don't know. But if she's doing it out of respect for Aslan – and I do believe she is –, then we're at least agreed on that point."

"At least there's that," Beaver agreed.

Badger ran a paw up the white stripe on his face. "Whatever comes after that will be determined. But one step at a time. Just like this tunnel, eh?"

Beaver too stood up and joined his friend in plying their shovels at the wall of dirt before them.

"Thank you for agreeing to this."

"Of course. Anything for the cause."

Badger grunted as his shovel struck a stone. "Have you told Mrs Beaver?"

"Not exactly." Beaver dropped his shovel to claw at the stone. "I told her it comes out in a clearing close to Mama's, though it'll hardly surprise her to find that I use it for other purposes. She's preparing a quilt for the Highbark litter, and I daresay she expects me to make the delivery through here."

Badger laughed. "For someone who claims she doesn't want to know, she seems to know a great deal."

"Don't let on that you know her secret, or you may see fewer of her tarts in the future," Beaver teased before musing, "Though if Snowtail accepts, that may not matter for long."

Badger grinned like a lovestruck ninny – a description Beaver would never assign to his good friend. "Can you imagine a more perfect proposal? A Christmas Eve Snow Dance."

Beaver considered spring a "more perfect" setting, but as that wasn't likely to happen in the immediate future, he had only one condition. "A little warmer weather would be even better."

Badger shrugged good-naturedly. "Who's to say we won't get it? Cold snaps don't last forever." The stone tumbled out at last, leaving a sizable hole and a fair bit of loose earth behind. "And one day, they'll be gone altogether. 'When He bares His teeth, winter meets its death.'"

Beaver joined in. "'And when He shakes His mane, we shall have spring again.'" Spring. Badger had seen it in the Western Wilds, but Beaver had only ever heard of it. Snow melting into sweet, green grass. Rivers swollen and swift as they ran their course. Creatures of every kind roaming free in the sun. Leaves on every tree, flowers budding everywhere one looked, and bright insects Beaver could hardly begin to imagine: yellow-striped bees and butterflies with wings of every hue. What a wonder to look forward to!

He thought of Tumnus, retreating from the snow in the warmth of his cave, even as he embraced winter as a way of life. He thought of Snowtail, expressing her belief in that vernal hope by abstaining from an activity certainly not associated with spring. He thought of Badger's gentle understanding even as he stood by his own demonstration of faith. He thought of those who had drifted away, some even all the way to her – and worried again that number may include a friend.

Beaver shook his head, as if to clear his mind of all that. Regardless of what others did or didn't do, he was a Beast, and he'd hold on. Stubbornly, perhaps, but faithfully. If he lived to see spring return, he wanted to remember every Snow Dance held in the meantime.

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