Snow had been falling since early morning, tumbling down out of the sky.
The clouds had been piled like dirty fleeces across the shoulder of Pen Hill as Holly drew the curtains to shut out the gathering night. The gloom had hardly lifted all day, and now the dusk was swallowing what the hours of daylight had scarcely touched.
Wensleydale was a landscape in white. Even under the low-hanging clouds there was a faint, reflected radiance off the fields, and if the moon came out it would be a world of magic. A hard magic, brutal to man and beast alike, but magic still, with a remote and unearthly beauty. Maybe later she'd check. The forecast hadn't been promising, and the cold wind was gusting over the high moors and flinging the snow in flurries down the dale; the stark, stripped trees behind the house bore a silver tracery on every twig.
In the meantime, she had dinner to prepare – a rich chicken casserole.
The room was warm and cosy as she turned back to it. A standard lamp in one corner provided the only light, apart from that of the fire glowing in the hearth. Dickon the cat was fast asleep on the hearthrug in front of it, twisted over so that one leg wrapped his upturned, blissful face.
Smiling across at him, she tugged her favourite throw from where it'd been neatly folded across the back of the sofa, and threw it towards the armchair beside the fire. The light from the lamp behind it glowed on the rich grey folds of fake fur as they settled, ready to collect warmth to envelop her through the long, solitary evening. On the small table to one side of it was her copy of Dickens' Bleak House; she hadn't read it for years, and was enjoying renewing her acquaintance with the enigmatic Lady Dedlock and the odious Mr Tulkinghorn.
The kitchen was small and spotless. Bunches of herbs hung from the drying rack hanging from the ceiling, dry ghosts of vanished summer; the rack in the garden room was already crowded from end to end. On the sideboard was a vase of many-coloured statice, given drama by the dried heads of the Star of Persia Allium christophii and sprays of Honesty, Lunaria annua. All had been gathered from her garden, a harvest of the days of sunshine. She touched one of the papery silver discs of the Honesty, running a finger lightly over its silken smoothness. Her grandma had taught her almost all of what she knew about plants and their uses, but it was Malcolm who'd taught her the Latin names of the flowers he recognised, these among them. For a man whose chief preoccupation was weaponry and explosions, he had a wealth of unexpected knowledge – but then, he'd once let slip that his mother was a keen and knowledgeable gardener.
Everything was laid out ready. With the ease of long practise, she prepared the meat and vegetables. The Aga was already warm, and soon she slipped the oven-proof dishes inside. There was far more than she could possibly eat in one sitting, but she always prepared several servings at once, freezing the surplus soup for future use.
When the preparation tools and work surfaces were clean again, she checked the timer, switched off the lights and went back into the lounge. In the chimney the wind was moaning, a desolate sound – it had gone around to the east. That was the only time it made that noise, and more often than not it brought snow. She shivered, hearing it. Gwynt traed yr meirw, they called it in Wales: the wind that blows from the feet of the dead.
Still, the house had withstood well over two hundred winters and was stout enough to withstand a good few more. If the snow continued for a week or more she had everything she needed to withstand the siege, and good neighbours who looked after one another in the often harsh conditions of a Yorkshire winter. The cottage was battened down and locked tight against the cold, and she had a warm fire, hot food and a good book. There was a special sort of satisfaction in listening to the peevish spite of winter shut out.
She settled herself in the armchair, which was winged and deeply padded, worn and comfortable with long use. She was already wearing the knitted slipper-boots that could withstand any stray draught that might find its way through the cottage's stout defences, and it was the work of a moment to spread the fur throw across her lap and legs, tucking it in around her body. There was a knitted shawl of the same undyed wool across the back of the chair and she swung it around her shoulders, feeling the warm weight of it settle. JJ had knitted her both the shawl and the boots as a gift, utterly unconcerned by the idea that anyone should regard knitting as a feminine pastime; he said it helped him think.
"Snug as a bug in a rug," she said aloud, giving the last luxurious couple of wriggles to settle into absolute comfort. She had an hour before the timer's summons to dinner, and the tray was already set out and waiting on the kitchen table; in the summer she'd eat in there, with the door open to let in the smell of green growing things, but on winter nights you couldn't beat eating by the fireside.
The book was already open, the bookmark lying across the page. A strip of sky-coloured silk, Loyalty's blue, a princely hue, embroidered with white and silver York roses. She laid it carefully to one side.
The story swept her away to a long-ago England, and soon she was absorbed in it. The cottage was quiet, save for the almost soundless tock of a short-case mahogany wall clock in a shadowy alcove and the flutter of the flames in the hearth. Now and again there was the silvery rustle of half-burned logs settling among the ashes, but all around her the room was a haven of comfort and peace.
"Eoo-oooooo-oooooooooooooooow!"
The sudden wail startled her so badly she almost threw the book up in the air.
Like all cats, Dickon enjoyed his comfort. He'd been ensconced in front of the fire all evening, blissfully toasting various portions of his fur, and there had seemed little likelihood of his finding any reason to leave it till spring came around – except for the necessary excursions to the litter-box and the food-bowl.
Now, however, he was standing up almost on tip-toes, his back a frightened hedge, his tail inflated to twice its normal size. And he was staring at the door.
There hadn't been a sound from that direction. Certainly nobody had rung the bell, or even knocked – the sound of the chime would have been deafening in the silent house. The whole world was so quiet it hardly seemed possible anyone could be out there – and who would want to be, in that cruel cold world of snow?
But staying where she was while her cat howled in fear at the door was the least possible option of all. With hands that weren't quite as steady as she'd have wished, Holly thrust away the fur throw and, tucking the shawl around her shoulders, walked towards the door – as a precaution, taking the poker with her.
Holding the poker ready, though not in immediate view, she gripped the thumb-turn, took a deep, slightly quivery breath, and jerked the door open.
The clouds had cleared. Hard, clear moonlight flooded the garden and the dale beyond it, and the cold bit at her throat.
There was no-one there.
But the snow from the front gate, that should have been pristine, showed the churned track of a single set of footprints. They walked toward the door and then suddenly swerved aside, going around the side of the cottage.
Gathering her courage, Holly pushed her feet into her Wellingtons, stepped out into the snow and followed them.
They led to the lean-to woodshed. It had been well stacked against the winter, but by now there was space at one side of it, and the brilliant white light from above showed her a figure huddled there, tucked in as far as he could go into what little shelter it offered.
He must have heard the sound of her footfalls crunching the snow, but he did not move or look up. She was knifed by pity. What must it be like to be homeless, in weather like this?
"Please." She crouched down, though prudently out of reach of a sudden grab. "You can't stay here. You'll freeze to death in half an hour. Let me help you."
"I'm past helping."
The low voice shocked her so much she almost tumbled over backwards. "Mal!"
Dropping the poker into the snow, she dived forward and grabbed him. He was wearing a thick parka, its hood fur-lined, but it was soaked through and icy cold. His jeans were even colder. His hands were thrust deep into his pockets, but even through the coat she could feel the great convulsive shudders that shook him.
"Come out of there this minute!" She gave him no chance to refuse, though the utter gracelessness of his movements as he scrambled and stumbled half-upright in her grasp said it was unlikely he had the strength to resist. Towing him by a fold of his sodden parka, she dragged him into the house. He almost fell across the threshold. "Get out of those clothes right now, Malcolm Reed!" she commanded, slamming the door behind them. "All of them!"
"C-c-can't w-wait to get me n-n-naked, eh?" he whispered, with the ghost of an awful grin.
"Not there! Here!" She propelled him to the hearthrug, where Dickon had stopped yowling but was now staring at him in alarm, and skipped rapidly out of range of the snow that slid from his shoulders.
He tried to comply, but he was too frozen to co-ordinate the movements of his hands and arms. With swift, furious movements Holly started doing the job herself, throwing the saturated garments anyhow towards the kitchen. He endured the process, his teeth clamped to stop their chattering.
As soon as the last sopping sock was off, she fetched two warm bath-sheets from the bathroom and wrapped one of them around his lower half while with the other she started ferociously towelling the top half. Once again he endured in silence, until the ghost-white pallor of his skin slowly began to glow pink with the friction and the heat of the fire, and his hair stood in wild dark tangles. Still the shudders of deep cold racked him, and the hands that clutched the towel around himself were numb white claws.
She threw the first towel aside, picked up her discarded fur throw and wrapped it around his shoulders and torso. Then, she snatched away the lower towel and began scrubbing the rest of him, completely disregarding any absurd notions of modesty he might have or the occasional grunt of discomfort as she pummelled feeling back into his half-frozen muscles.
Not until she was certain there wasn't a single centimetre of his skin left that was cold or damp did she drag her armchair around to face the fire more squarely and force him down into the midst of the cushions. "You! Stay! There!" she ordered, fixing him with a look that should have frozen him to the marrow.
He glared at her. He wasn't tame, he was just choosing to obey. The wildness in his eyes frightened her, but she glared right back at him until he wrenched his gaze away and fixed it on the fire.
Pausing only to pet Dickon (who was hiding under the table), she picked up the wet clothes and marched into the mud/plant room off the kitchen, where she dumped them unceremoniously in the sink to let the worst of the wet drain from them. Then she returned to the kitchen, where she put a saucepan onto the range and upended a bottle over it – one of a store whose contents contained the garnering of the long summer. As it slowly warmed, it released a wonderful spicy fragrance, strong and rich.
From a cupboard under the sink she pulled out a fur-covered hot water bottle. She filled it from the tap and put it to one side, and then filled a plastic bowl. She was half way across the lounge with the latter when she saw the flash of fear in his face, and she paused, raising an ironic eyebrow that said he surely didn't think she was going to push his face into it and hold him down?
Of course, he didn't. He managed a slightly shamefaced grin. Still, as he leaned back in the chair the hand that wasn't clutching the fur throw tightly around his chest rested on the arm of the chair, and was lightly clenched.
Understanding that residual tension, which was beyond his conscious control, she smiled at him to let him know everything was OK between them, as it always was. Quietly and matter-of-factly, she slipped to one knee on the hearthrug in front of him and set the bowl down. Then she slipped a hand gently around each of his ankles. "Trust me," she said. "This will feel like it's boiling, but it isn't."
He allowed her to lift his feet and dip them very slowly into the warm water, disregarding his hiss of discomfort as the heat penetrated. When they were settled side by side she walked into her bedroom and pulled the duvet off the bed and draped it over him, the hot water bottle in its folds; he was still shivering intermittently, though, and it would probably take a while for the warmth to reach the deeper regions of his chilled body.
In the kitchen, the drink was now steaming hot and she emptied it into an earthenware cup and took it to him. "Drink it, Mal," she told him quietly as he hesitated fractionally, his eyes on the cup. "It's just some of my spiced wine. It'll help warm you up from the inside."
He'd drunk it before, many times, a welcome winter drink on a cold evening. Nodding, he reached out and took it with a word of thanks and a look of apology. It was probably uncomfortably hot for his mouth by now, but he sipped at it obediently, wrapping both hands around it to warm his fingers.
The kitchen timer had gone off while she was getting his feet into the water bowl, so as soon as she saw him finally relaxing she slipped out again and filled two bowls with the casserole, putting each on a tray with a generous chunk of homemade bread spread with new butter.
"I think you need to eat and then sleep, love," she said, bringing a tray in and placing it carefully on the coffee table at his elbow where her book had lain. "Are you feeling better now?"
He nodded again. Maybe the familiar taste of her special mulled wine, with the very specific additions she never revealed, had brought back happy memories. "'Lot warmer, thanks," he mumbled, a look of shame coming into his face.
"Then this will help you sleep." She took the cup from him and set it on the mantelpiece before pushing the bowl down into the duvet on his lap to create a nest to hold it steady. "You don't have to eat it all if you don't want to."
He was still a little clumsy about gripping the spoon, but he managed it. Although at first he ate slowly and with apparent reluctance, he soon got the taste and began wolfing it down. Soon the last drop of soup in the bottom of the bowl was being wiped up with the hunk of bread and butter, and he sat back with a sigh.
"Wait there and I'll get you something to wear." Not without a fleeting smile, she hurried into her bedroom, where she pulled out a Fair Isle patterned 'onesie' from a cupboard – something she wore when she'd had a shower and couldn't be bothered to dress again before bed.
For a moment she knew he was bordering on rebellion when he realised what she was expecting him to wear. But in the event he was too exhausted to argue. He allowed her to help him into it and run up the zip, and then stumbled blindly after her into the hall. He usually used one of the beds in the spare room when he visited, but something told her that tonight he desperately needed the comfort of company, and she steered him gently towards her own. It wouldn't be the first time they'd shared it, after all.
"In you get, love," she told him, turning back the duvet. "I'll just lock up and I'll be with you in a minute. And I'll promise not to ravish you in the night."
The tired flutter of a smile touched his mouth as he got in. There had been times when they'd thought that might happen between them, but despite their efforts their bodies had known better. Sex would have been an unnecessary complication to the deep intimacy between them, and they'd both been more comfortable with each other when they finally accepted that.
He looked so cute and so absurd in her fluffy blue onesie, snuggled up in her pink and white floral duvet, it was all she could do not to laugh aloud. But even this irresistible humour couldn't quell the deep trouble in her heart. What the hell had he been doing, struggling alone in the snow all the way from the train station? Why hadn't he called? What deep and desperate pain was he feeling, to drive him to run for sanctuary here where he was always certain of finding it?
She left him there and locked the cottage down for the night, for once leaving the washing-up for the next morning. It was earlier than she usually went to bed, but an early night wouldn't kill her, even if she fell asleep straight away – which she suspected would not be the case tonight.
Dickon had ventured back to the hearthrug, and stared up at her worriedly.
"No, it's not good, is it?" She stroked his head. "Thank God you heard him out there, sweetheart, because otherwise I think he'd be dead by now."
The thought made her shudder. The gwynt traed yr meirw moaned in the chimney as though the dead were lamenting one snatched from among their number.
Holly gathered herself together with an effort. "But you did hear him, and we're going to find out what's wrong, and we're going to put it right if we can."
Half way back to the bedroom door, a thought occurred to her. She looked back at Dickon as though he might have the answer, but of course he wouldn't. Though as cats often do, he looked as though he knew more about what was what than she did.
The bedroom was dim and quiet, its only illumination the tiffany bedside lamp. She undressed quickly, donned her warm nightdress and slid in beside him. She'd thought he might have fallen asleep while he waited – the exhaustion was printed on his face – but it seemed not.
It was a fifty-fifty call whether he'd want the light left on or not. After a momentary hesitation, she switched it off.
Ordinarily, this would have plunged the room into deep darkness, but the moonlight on the snow outside cast a faint, reflected upward radiance through the window. It was enough to show her the shine of his eyes watching her as she snuggled down beside him.
Normally, on the rare occasion when they shared a bed these days, they cuddled up as unselfconsciously as children. Tonight, however, she had to wait for him to make the first move; and, uncharacteristically, he was slow to do so. But after a couple of minutes he put out an arm and laid it almost hesitantly across her side, so that his hand rested lightly on her back.
"You can do better than that, Mal."
He moved slowly, almost as though still half-frozen with cold, though as he almost crept to within holding distance the body she slipped her arms around was warm enough now. Even his feet had thawed out.
He didn't attempt to kiss her. His face nestled slowly into the side of her neck, and after a moment she began to stroke his hair, gently and rhythmically. "I'm here for you, love," she said quietly. "Whatever's wrong, I'm here for you."