Winter

Light splashed across his eyelids and with a groan, he rolled away from it, an arm over his eyes. Distantly, the sound of curtains being drawn reached his sleep addled mind. His nanny decided he had slept long enough, he guessed. Even though it was the weekend.

"Good morning, Damon," she twittered. He hated it when she woke him up. "It's time for you to roll out of bed and start your day. I thought we might go to the park after breakfast."

"I'd rather dip my head in sulfuric acid," he replied, his voice clouded with sleep. He was up late last night drawing schematics for his next big project. Refurbishing a car engine from Vasgar. He planned to spend the day bidding online for parts.

"That's no way to speak to your nanny. Now come on. I've lain out warm clothes for you." She gently shook his shoulder and he shrugged her off. "You need to get some fresh air, Damon. It's not good for you to stay holed up in your room."

He was just fine with it; he didn't understand why she objected. Even Elinor preferred that he stayed in his room, far out of her way, and the only time Jocelin had anything to say to him was when he received a bad mark on his report card. But Damon couldn't remember the last time that happened.

"Fine. Five more minutes and then it's time to get up."

Damon sighed with relief when the door shut. He was already thirteen years old. Why did he even need a nanny? There was no mistaking he was grateful to have her during the first half of his life—he couldn't imagine the horror of being raised by Elinor—but he'd been able to take care of himself since he was ten. He'd already breached the subject with his parents about letting her go. They never listened. They told him to be thankful he even had a nanny. Some kids didn't have that luxury.

He didn't want this luxury. He just wanted to be left alone. Thirteen years with the same woman and he still didn't even know her name.
Twenty minutes later he was showered, dressed, and declined the decadent breakfast the chef had prepared in favor of a bagel. Then he slipped into his coat and boots, wrapped a green scarf around his neck, and followed his nanny to the car. The chauffeur acknowledged him with a nod. The same man had driven Damon's family since he could remember and the driver had never said a word to him. He always thought that was a little odd, but he knew half of the staff didn't like him. And he was okay with that.

He stared out the darkened window as they headed towards the heart of Tollen and the Colonel Braydon Swanson Memorial Park. It was the middle of Frost and sometime during the night the town had been hit with snow; the first of the season. Damon didn't care for the snow or cold. Watching the bustle on the shoveled storefronts' sidewalks, there was only one thing he almost cared about. Frost didn't have major holidays, but there was something about the name, the heavy snow, that made families believe they had to get together for a celebration. The Bairds and Lyttons would inevitably show up on the doorstep soon. And he would be forced, like every year, to attend and pretend to be the perfect son.

The car stopped outside the iron wrought gate of the park. With a sigh, he obediently followed his nanny into the cold. Swanson Park was longer than two thrashball fields and just as wide, separated by a man-made lake. With the trees bare and the lake frozen, there weren't many attractions in the season. But citizens always found things to do. Ice skating, sledding off the park's steepest hill, and there was a small art show happening today. Why anyone wanted to come out into the cold and look at an amateur's work, Damon would never know. But his nanny—always excitable about art—drug him to it, anyway.

Maybe sulfuric acid isn't enough for today. Straight immulsion should do it, he thought almost wistfully. He was ready to go home. His nose and cheeks stung, his fingers were freezing.

The snow was up to his ankles, threatening to seep into his boots. He wanted to be inside working on his new project. He had found some engine parts on an auction website last night; with only twelve hours left to bid, being away from the computer was painful. At almost five-thousand dollars, he couldn't let it slip away now.

Yet he dutifully clomped behind his nanny as they climbed the steps to the large gazebo to peruse the artwork. He stopped at one peculiar piece. It was done in black and white; a rickety chair sat in front of a window. He grimaced. How was that art? The chair didn't even have a shadow yet the asking price was one-thousand dollars. The piece beside it looked like cat vomit and had a price tag of ten-thousand. People stood around it, staring as if it was the next big thing from Matteo Rylan Dixon, Tyrus's famous painter during the Era of Silence. Rolling his eyes, Damon trudged on.

Away from the shelter of the gazebo, families played. Snowball fights, forts, ice skating, drinking hot chocolate, and making snow angels. Something fiery and painful rose in his chest. It was impossible to tell whether it was jealousy or fury. The shrieking laughter of small children set his teeth on edge.

What had those kids done to deserve a fun day with their parents? Didn't he do the same? Sit quietly while guests were over, smile, be invisible—normal childhood guidelines. So why did they get to play while he spent an irritable day with his nanny?

Damon couldn't remember the last happy family outing. He couldn't remember if there was ever such a thing as "happy." The latest outing was a short trip to Ephyra to tour a boy's academy. Apparently Tollen's had too much "riff raff" for Jocelin's taste. As far as Damon knew, nothing ever became of the trip. He guessed Elinor turned up her nose because the walls were bone white, not eggshell the way she liked it.

He found a bench clear of snow and took a seat to watch the families. When he was younger, he dreamed of making snowmen with his parents. He didn't yet understand that they weren't real parents. If they weren't there for his first steps, why would they care what happened in the rest of his life? Thinking about it now, there was only one constant in his life. And she was currently rushing across the white field to reach him.

"Damon, you shouldn't run off like that!" she huffed. "At least tell me where you're going."

Looking at her now, she wasn't as old as he'd thought. As a kid, her exhausting maternal smothering made him feel like she was ancient, but really she couldn't be more than thirty. Her hair was startling platinum blond in the winter sun and her green eyes sparkled. With only vague laugh lines near her rosy cheeks, he could admit to himself she was kind of pretty.

Then again, he was a hormonal teenager and the sound of a smooth engine turned him on.

"Sorry," he mumbled.

"You shouldn't speak to—did you apologize?" she balked. But she was the nanny of the Lytton-Bairds, and the surprise was gone as quickly as he blinked.

"The exhibit was boring. I should have told you where I went."

"That's very mature of you, Damon. Thank you."

She sat beside him with a smile. His eyes stayed focused on the family building a snowman. They had two kids—a boy and a girl—and both parents helped them create two large snowballs. When they put it together, the snowman was lopsided; the girl created an oblong torso. She cried while her parents patted her head, assuring her it was okay.

Damon rolled his eyes. Why was she crying about a snowman? At least she made one.

"Children are funny, aren't they?" his nanny asked. "They cry over the smallest things."

"Kids are idiots. I never cried."

"Oh yes you did. You used to cry about every little thing. You cried whenever I stopped holding you."

His face burned despite the chilly air. "All babies do that."

"Up until you were seven, you always wanted to be held." She smiled and gently stroked his hair. "You should have worn a hat."

He pushed her hand away. She was trying to spare his feelings by changing the subject. So what if he was a crybaby? He was starved for attention. A kid could only entertain himself so much until he eventually wanted some recognition, and he wasn't going to find that from his parents. Who else did he have but his nanny?

"What happened to that Damon?" she asked. "It's as if I blinked and suddenly you're screaming for privacy. I'm not sure I like this Damon."

"When your parents are Jocelin and Elinor Baird, you learn some things about life. Like, it sucks. The sooner I learned that, the better."

"I don't think so. Your parents still have a lot to offer you. I know it doesn't seem like they care, but they're trying. Trust me."

He didn't trust anyone who took orders from his mother. He considered she planned this conversation, maybe the entire day. But what did Elinor gain from having him out of the house?

"Sure," he grunted. "Can we go now? It's inhumane to keep me in the cold this long."

She chuckled. "Of course. Why don't we go to the bistro down the road? Don't worry, we'll drive there. I certainly wouldn't want anyone finding out I'm an inhumane nanny."

It was an hour later that Damon returned home only to be greeted by Elinor. She took his coat and asked about his day; he responded carefully. He only repeated facts to her, always keeping his voice monotone yet respectfully engaged. He learned that from studying her in conversation.

When he was finally free, he raced to his room and turned on his computer. He had to check the price of the parts. But as the computer screen flickered on, he realized something was different in his room. His blueprints were missing. A chill settled in his stomach. He shouldn't have been careless enough to leave them laying on his desk, but Elinor had never had a reason to come into his room before. Why now?

Why couldn't Elinor go one day without making his life miserable?