This is from Felicity's POV. Unusual for me to swap, but felt that the story needed it.

Have to say thank you so so SO much for all the positive feedback ... don't say it enough. Has given me a lot of confidence. This story might even get finished ... :D

Anyway ... enough of me.

I am sodden and socking, my chemise clinging to my skin through my dress. I know that she went into the forest; peeked through my fingers when I was sure they weren't looking. Never one to abide by the rules, never one to conform.

How I love it.

She stumbled through the first few trees, and was swallowed up into the misty darkness of the thicket beyond. I do not look for Pippa and Ann. I have no time for them. They will have hidden somewhere unimaginative. Probably inside the great hall, sipping hot blackcurrant and cocoa, helping themselves to warm mince pies, laughing at our childishness, watching through the window and through the snowstorm and through their own bleak lives as we live like they have never known.

I am in love with Gemma Doyle, and I am not a sapphist.

I smirk as the words run through my mind; imagine the blush creeping through her cheeks. She would not be able to meet my eyes, would tear her hands from mine, run and leave me like so many others have left me before. It does not make me angry or bitter and lost. It makes me content.

Because this is what I am. I am meant to be misunderstood and hated. People are wary and hostile, and that is the way I like it. They say I am too complicated for them to understand, but the truth is that I am far too simple. My words and my glances and my behaviour shock them, shock them into submission and shock them into keeping a distance.

This is what I am meant for. This is what I am here for.

My boots rub at my soles uncomfortably, and so, after looking around, I find a clearing, sit lightly on a tree stump, and drag them off. I do not want to carry them; they will only hinder me further. Instead, I tie the laces together, so that they are one object, and scale a tree slightly, flinging them across a bough, so that they hang, quivering and swinging, a boot on either side.

I am happy.

I peel off my dress also. The gypsies do not live around here, and even if they did I would simply have to kiss them and laugh with them and make them fall for me, and I would be powerful once again. Pippa and Ann do not understand this addiction.

Gemma is beginning to, I find.

I stand shivering in the winter air in nothing but my chemise. It clings to my every curve, the cotton stained with water so it is almost transparent. I wonder if I am common, and then I realise that as long as my parents have money I will never be so.

I hear footsteps, creaking and cracking of twigs. They are far away, and yet I am able to follow them.

I find I am nearing the lake, hear the soft click of the water as it laps against the pebbly beach. I can see nothing, hear nothing, and I wonder if I have died and no one has told me.

I stumble out, beside the lake, and stare transfixed at its centre.

A little red rowing boat, normally secured by a fraying rope by the jetty, its oars askew, silvery ripples spreading from its core.

A little red rowing boat, as empty as they come.

Very short, I know, but I thought I would include it to see what everyone thought. Don't worry; we'll be seeing more of the apparently suicidal Kartik and his beloved (?) Gemma soon.

Laughs evilly at hints.

Mwahahaha.

Ha.

Coughs.