Snow was piled on every windowsill at the Independence Inn. It was weighing down branches and glittering in the warm yellow lighting coming from indoors. Almost every major personality in Stars Hollow was crammed into the lobby or making their way outside. It was freezing, and it was loud, and everyone was here for the Bracebridge Dinner. Lane knew from Rory that while the food wouldn't be what anyone was used to, the evening promised to be a memorable one. Plus—there were horse-drawn carriages waiting in the snow. Eat your heart out, Leroy Anderson. Before dinner could start, Lorelai had decreed that everyone would get to ride.

"No."

Everyone except Lane.

"Look, Mama, Rory's getting on," Lane explained, gesturing with a hand to where Rory was heaving on her coat, just inside the doorway of the inn. "What if I rode with her?"

"You catch your death," Mrs. Kim declared. "No horses. No sleighs."

"I think they're carriages, actually. And that's even better, you know, because carriages are actually much slower-moving than other vehicles, cars for example—"

"Ah, perfect," her mother said, face lighting up slightly at the sight of movement behind the front desk. "The concierge. Lane, go and tell him we will be ready to go to our room shortly."

"Yes, Mama."

"And tell him not to light the fire, heat is already on. Too warm for sleeping."

"Yes, Mama."

Michel was fiddling with the computer. Lane knew he was being paid handsomely by Lorelai to participate in this kind of party. She hadn't known him as long as Rory had, but she could tell from the almost-neutral expression he was wearing now that he might actually be enjoying himself. So far, no one had brought any unruly little kids—except Dean's sister, and Clara was kept on a tight brotherly leash—and no one had spilled anything or asked him to repeat himself. She could be about to catch him in a rare good mood.

Lane carried her half-empty glass of water with her to the front desk, clearing her throat. "Horse-drawn carriages. That's kind of cool, right?"

Michel glanced up from the big black book whose pages he was now slowly scribbling in. His tone was almost amiable. "Yes, how I enjoy being bumped to and fro against a wet cushion of leather in thirty-degree weather with only the view of a horse's rear end for companionship. I live for these magic little moments. Winter's pure light, no?"

She was not catching him in a rare good mood.

Lane didn't rally. She went right to the point; it was the quickest way to get results with Michel. She told him Mrs. Kim's preference for the fireplace upstairs, told him the British were coming—no, the Koreans were coming, and coming to undergo a strict nightly routine—and got back to the throng as quickly as possible. She swung her arms a little, ditching her glass on an end table as she made her way back through the little crowd. Her mother might already be in their room, attacking some poor inn maid with a fireplace poker. Or one of those little black brooms people used to sweep soot away. The hearth in their own house had never been used—a home that doubled as an antique store full of wood furniture had no room for a roaring fire.

She shouldn't have gotten her hopes up about the carriages. Mrs. Kim had almost looked happy when Lorelai had announced the big surprise. Lane had caught her watching the horses with something suspiciously far from disgust in her eyes seconds later, as everyone was rushing to get in line. Taylor had even offered to accompany her mother, headed smugly to the first carriage with the most obnoxious scarf Lane had ever seen wrapped around his neck. Everything had seemed to fall into place for them to actually join Stars Hollow's finest in their next adventure. But of course, the moment she'd mentioned hopping into a carriage herself, the swift hammer of motherly justice came whacking down.

"Here. Put these on."

Mrs. Kim found her first. She was holding out Lane's huge coat, her double-pom-pomed beanie, and her thick creamy scarf.

Lane's eyebrows shot to her hairline. Hope went shooting up with them. "Really?"

"Yes, really. Thermostat wrong, twenty-eight degrees Fahrenheit outside. Frostbite temperatures."

"But—I thought you said—"

"We stand. We watch. Watch only." Mrs. Kim was already leading her outside. "Must give time for our room to be prepared."

Lane's hope plummeted. So did her eyebrows. She couldn't help feeling kind of like a sullen kindergartener, watching Miss Patty shoehorn some guy in tights into the next carriage with her. Watching Lorelai shoehorn Luke, too, a few feet away. True, if she herself had been allowed a carriage ride, there would have been no chance of shoehorning anyone of the male variety in beside her. Just two Kims, out on the town. But it still would've been nice. Really nice. A nice way to go, catching your death of cold in a horse-drawn carriage.

"Not too close," Mrs. Kim ordered.

She had one hand gripping Lane's sleeve, way tighter than usual—and that was some crazy Amazonian death-grip type stuff already—and Lane realized her mom was scared. Mrs. Kim liked the horses, for sure. She was staring at the nearest one with the same glint in her eye she got when the sunlight came in through the church's stained-glass window every Sunday. But she was also terrified of the animals. It was in her mouth. Super loose. Mrs. Kim's mouth only went loose when she wasn't one hundred percent sure of something, and that chestnut-coated horse flicking its ears at Bootsy was not under her jurisdiction.

Lane bent toward her, feeling a tender smile push her glasses up a little. "They're pretty, aren't they, Mama?"

Mrs. Kim glanced away from the horse, just for a second, and when she met Lane's eyes Lane was sure she was going to smile too. And agree. And maybe say she was wrong and they wouldn't catch their death and the horses were worthy transportation, and Lane didn't have to avoid cheeseburgers and Lane also didn't have to go to Seventh Day Adventist college, and were those tickets to the prom, ordered almost a year in advance—

Then her mother pinched the end of her scarf, heralding reality. "Too loose. Tie it up."

Lane watched the carriage carry Luke and Lorelai out of sight. Sprays of white were gently kicked up by the horses' hooves and the big, shiny wheels. She could see twinkle lights in the distance, signaling the turn in to the edge of the town's square. It was still nice, standing here watching it happen. Those who could rode, those who couldn't admired. Mr. and Mrs. Gilmore were next. Lane had only ever seen them one other time, at Rory's birthday party, and Mr. Gilmore hadn't had such a big scary smile slapped on his face at the time. Tonight, he looked like he could swing himself up onto the nearest steed and gallop to his next insurance-y meeting with the wind in his hair.

After a few more minutes of silent watch only, Mrs. Kim turned to her daughter, as though someone had set her like an alarm clock, and said stiffly, "That's time enough. We go up and unpack."

Everything in Lane lurched, desperate not to have to go inside, not to be stuck in one of Lorelai's pearly inn suites with her mother for the next hour while everyone else lovely-weathered outside without them. Dinner wouldn't even be free. Her mother would be hawkeyed and upright beside her the entire meal. This was the only fresh air she was liable to get, emotionally or physically, for the entire night. Mrs. Kim hadn't even considered allowing Lane to attend the Bracebridge dinner alone—but Lane hadn't counted on her being attached at the hip for the entire event.

At this rate, she'd be going to bed at 8 while the rest of the town stayed up playing board games and watching the snow fall. Lane Kim, ladies and gentlemen. Stars Hollow's Benjamin Button, five years old in treatment and spirit regardless of bra size.

"Mama, do you mind if I stay out here a while longer? It's kind of stuffy in there." Lane forced it out as casually as she could. The less you sounded like you wanted something, the more likely Mrs. Kim was to give it to you. She'd taught Rory this lesson on the boardwalk of summer 1993, when they wanted push pops and Lorelai hadn't been around to advocate.

"Stay here?"

"Yes."

"In the snow?"

"Sure."

"Why?"

Lane tried not to let her mouth gape the way it usually did when her mom started in rapid-fire. "Well—it's just a nice night, and it's really not that cold out, and—it would be rude not to at least make sure Rory gets going okay, right?" Actually, at the moment she couldn't see Rory anywhere. Irrelevant. "Plus—fresh air is good for you."

"Freezing air not so fresh, bad for the lungs."

"But I won't be moving around, and there's no breeze, so I can't possibly catch my death just by standing here. And—look—" Lane gestured with a mittened hand to where Kirk was facilitating the acquisition of carriages. "If Kirk can take it I can take it, I mean—you know how easily Kirk gets pneumonia. Last year? At the winter carnival? He was down in seconds. And see, he's fine. Not even sniffling."

No change in her mom's expression.

"I promise I'll be right up." Lane quickly began tying her scarf up even further, practically choking herself. No more neck. Like a chained collar in a black and white cartoon. The sight had to have been a little cathartic to her warden.

Mrs. Kim inspected her, pom-pom to boots. "All right. Twelve minutes." She stiffened, suddenly, mid-turn and her eyes went steely. "Where are your gloves?"

"My gloves?"

"Must wear gloves. At all times." Mrs. Kim stretched forward and dug into the pocket of Lane's coat herself, unearthing two brown leather mittens. "Do not take them off."

"Yes, Mama." Lane hastened to yank them on, knowing full well Mrs. Kim wouldn't look away until every finger was snug.

Mrs. Kim swept inside, and the night air did seem to get clearer. Lane watched her mother through the rippling glass windows nearby until she was out of sight. Then she undid her scarf. She wasn't going to suffer from pneumonia, but standing there suffering from lack of oxygen was definitely a possibility the longer she kept that thing wrapped up to her chin. She ripped off the gloves, too, and stuffed them back into her coat pocket. She wouldn't be outside that long.

Better find Rory. That way, she wouldn't feel like some of that negotiating had been a lie. Or a fib. Or manipulation, which was the one thing on that list she wasn't quite sure if she'd ever really done. And maybe finding Rory would take away that slight tension in her chest. The one that came whenever she'd had to verbally box her way to neutral ground with her mother. The one that said anything less than what Mrs. Kim had wanted from the start was going to make Mrs. Kim unhappy, disappointed, and generally unpleasant for the rest of the week. The one that said that was Lane's fault.

She picked her way around the edges of the crowd, looking for shiny brown hair and a whiff of coffee and old paper. She couldn't see her best friend anywhere. Rory couldn't have ridden off with Dean already—Dean and Clara had gotten one of the earlier carriages together, and there wasn't room for three people per ride. Babette and Morey were snuggled up at the front of the line, waiting for Kirk to do last checks with the driver. Mrs. Thompson was beside them, complaining to her 30-something son about the smell of the animals. A couple of people weren't even facing the carriages anymore, talking amongst themselves.

Maybe she could locate Rory better with a clearer eyeline. Lane was winding around the outskirts, close to the back of the last carriage still sitting where the light was pooling out, when a voice sounded behind her somewhere.

"Not gettin' on?"

She almost jumped out of her boots. Jess was standing with his hands behind his back, eyeing the townsfolk and the sleighs with a blank face. He was almost standing in one of the bushes, not nearly layered enough for the weather.

"Me? No. No. I hate horses." After a moment of silence, Lane flashed him a guilty glance, eyes scrunched up. "That's not true actually. I mean, I don't know if I hate horses, since I've never actually been this close to one before, but my mom seems kind of on the fence so maybe that's genetic."

More silence. She really wasn't sure if he had even heard her answer. The only indication he'd even been talking to her was that he was periodically looking at her as she spoke.

"She doesn't want me riding, so." Lane pressed her lips together in a polite smile. Thumbs playing with each other. "I guess I'm not." It was less a confession and more a blurted attempt to break the quiet.

The sleigh nearest to them moved further up the line suddenly. Lane backed up, even though there was technically like seven human beings' worth of space between herself and the carriage, and wound up almost in the bush herself. Jess was stoic beside her, just out of the golden glow coming from the open doors of the Independence. There were little dusts of snowflakes on his jacket shoulders. He still smelled acidic.

Something occurred to her then. She didn't know where it had come from, maybe the crunch of the snow or the weirdness of the fact that this guy was just loitering in the shrubbery and was insanely out of place.

"Hey—you're not supposed to be here!"

Jess shot her a very empty glance, all mouth. Maybe it was supposed to signify confusion. Or early-onset male deafness.

"I don't mean the Independence Inn, I mean, I'm sure you were invited. Or Luke was invited." Lane realized with a jolt how that sounded. Try again. "It's just that school let out last week. Remember? Principal Merten made that big end-of-the-semester speech and Parker Wilson threw up right when he started talking about post-SAT anxieties?" She paused. He wasn't showing signs of life. "Sorry. You probably don't know Parker Wilson. He's a big background type. Unless he's throwing up in the middle of assemblies. Which you probably don't go to, since school assemblies are kind of Boy Meets World and you seem more Rebel Without A Cause."

Nothing. Try again. Wow. She was only used to this much quiet from her own mother, and babbling didn't work there either.

"I mean," she huffed, "I thought you'd be home for the holidays by now. That's all."

Jess leaned slightly sideways to finally respond, not taking his eyes off the carriages. If you could call it a response. It was almost like he hadn't been listening to a word she'd said. "You know, they're gonna run out soon."

She felt her glasses bob as her face scrunched. "I told you, I can't go."

"Why not?"

"Because." Lane scoffed in the general direction of the horses. "My mom would go into cardiac arrest."

"So?"

"You don't know Mrs. Kim. Okay? Look at all the foot traffic out here. If any one of these people were to tell my mother I disobeyed a direct order and took a joyride in a horse-drawn sleigh, she'd melt these things down for glue herself and make me watch."

"They're movin' at point-two miles per hour, look at 'em. What's she afraid of? You'll fall asleep and freeze to death?"

"Maybe." Lane blew into her hands. "She thinks the glow of nature and exertion on my cheeks means I've officially joined a brothel. Or that I'm a typhoid carrier." She glared at the tail of the nearest horse. "Basically if I do anything in the outdoors that seems even remotely whimsical or energizing, death is near and I'm headed straight for Hell."

Jess gave a snort that was probably his version of a laugh. "And serves you darn right, too."

Lane twitched him a smile he didn't return, encouraged. Loosened up a little by the levity. "She's just protective. Moms, right?"

Jess started tugging black gloves out of his back pocket, head ducked. He didn't seem to have an answer for that one. Lane noticed the edges of his mouth had fallen even further. He started shuffling his feet, too, like he was getting antsy. The crowd a few feet away was starting to thin out, less and less carriages pulling up to fill in the space on the road.

"You're not going home for Christmas, are you?"

She didn't know what made her ask. Something about the way he'd gone all Bob Dylan all of a sudden.

"Nope."

"Why not?" Lane turned her head to look at him fully now.

"Sure you're not up for a little typhoid hot-rodding? There's only two left."

"It can't be because Luke made you stay. He's kind of the town pushover. I mean unless you're Taylor."

"Seriously. I'll sneak up behind 'em and pop a paper bag, you jump in, mow some old lady down. I'm sure no one'll notice, just wear some really dark glasses."

"Is it because it's true what people say about New York just being a big concrete front for the mafia, and how there's no such thing as a backyard there?"

"Hey, when did I express interest in a rousing game of 20 Questions?"

Lane was on a roll, almost grinning now, going with the bit. It was warming her up. "Or is it because you actually hate your mom and you're afraid of going back home to find there's nothing left under the tree but copious amounts of coal, which you can't even use for anything because, like I said, New York doesn't know what a tree is?"

"Yes."

Lane's grin froze. "Yes?"

Jess' eyebrows bounced, once. "Yes."

"Yes what?" Lane tried mentally to go over the last several questions she'd asked. He had taken a great big inhale of some kind before that first yes and was still in the process of exhaling. His jaw was tight. Was he angry? Was he serious? "Yes to the whole New-York-tree thing, or—"

"The petraphobia's a little much, and God forbid you townies ever set eyes on Pelham, but everything else? Pretty much nailed it." Jess tilted his head, hands still unfolding the fingers of his gloves. He was still shifting his weight from foot to foot and his tone was way too jovial. Fake congratulating.

Lane's smile disappeared. "That's not funny."

"Good note, I'll revamp the routine. Maybe do a spit take."

"You're not really saying you hate your mom." Lane's whole body was pointed away from the horses, away from the carriage now. Zeroed in on the new kid and his angry, angry eyebrows. "I was just kidding."

"Sounds like it's not my routine that needs work then."

"Oh."

She had no idea what to say. Words went right out of her. Everything was terrible. Everything. It was too awkward, standing there in the icy air with a bush poking at her legs and over half the sleighs already gone. With the town hoodlum right next to her, clearly feeling his own brand of discomfort. He wouldn't stop moving. And she didn't know how to end this interaction. She had no inkling, before, that a few minutes of chatting would turn into this.

"Look, if this is gonna turn into a Dr. Phil moment—"

"No," she replied, a little too quickly. "You do not have to worry about that. Trust me. Besides, I'm…not allowed to watch Dr. Phil."

"Fourth Horseman?"

"False virtue."

"My next guess."

They kept standing there, Lane rubbing at her elbows and wishing her scarf didn't still feel so tight. Jess was eyeing the last carriage, pointedly not looking at her. She was awful at small talk. This whole thing was turning out to be a little too R.E.M. for comfort. After a little bit longer of painful, painful silence, Lane bit her lip and glanced at him.

"So…I guess you're not the sleigh ride type either, huh?"

"Too Boy Meets World for me."

"Right. Right." Lane shuffled her own feet, glancing down at them to ensure they were still there. As it turned out, enough fresh freezing air did have some effect on her. She couldn't feel most of the very ends of her extremities by now, having not moved much in the last six minutes.

"So your mom have something against gloves?"

"What?" Lane looked down, following his gaze and realizing she had been rubbing her bare hands together like Wile-E-Coyote for the past several seconds. "Oh—no, um—" She tugged out the pair of mittens still rolled up in her coat pocket. "She swears by them, actually. I'm the idiot who didn't need them."

Jess nodded, jaw still working. His eyes looked a little less angry now. In fact, he was watching her don the gloves with something a little bit too…much in his expression. It was as if his whole upper body was trained on the gloves and how spotless they were and how easily Lane found them in that pocket. His focus trailed from the gloves to the scarf hanging around her neck, right up to the pom-pom at the top of her head. Lane had the feeling a frog must get on the dissection table during biology.

Or maybe the feeling a rich kid might have when a street urchin was watching them eat. Jess was definitely looking hungry.

"Well, I'd…better get back inside." Lane forced another pinched smile at him. "Twelve minutes are almost up and I've kind of had enough of winter's pure light."

"What?"

"Nothing, forget it." Lane cleared her throat. "See you around."

"Nowhere else to go."

He said it woodenly. Fact. She narrowed her eyes at him as she turned to leave, and he shot her a side glance, mouth twitching again. And that was it. When she got to the double doors, lamp lights and cinnamon smells beckoning her back into the inn, Lane glanced back.

Jess was still standing there, eyes still glued to the final carriage. All by himself.