Voices in the Snow

by Darcy Coates

  She saw a glint of bronze. The handle. Dorran bent close, gasping as he fit the key into the hole and turned it. He slammed a fist into the door. It swung open, and he shoved her in.

  Clare grunted as she hit the floor then rolled out of the way. Dorran tumbled in after her. He kicked the door, slamming it closed, and the drumming was finally muffled.

  They lay on the wood floor for a moment, panting. Then Clare unstrapped her snowshoes with numb hands and kicked them off. She crawled to Dorran. “Are you okay?”

  “Yes.” He was breathing heavily. She couldn’t see much of his face under the scarf, but his eyes were scrunched closed.

  She reached out to touch him but hesitated. “Is there anything I can do?”

  “No.”

  She pulled off her scarf, and her lips smarted in the cold air. She looked about. The wooden cottage wasn’t large, but it felt homey. A small kitchenette ran along one wall. A single bed took up the other, opposite a small brick fireplace in the back wall. A thin layer of dust coated the surfaces. “I’m going to start a fire… take some of the chill out of this place.”

  Dorran gave a brief nod.

  Clare got to her feet. Her legs were shaking, and her lungs ached. She felt numb—not just physically but emotionally. The storm had come on so quickly that it still didn’t feel quite real. She knew Dorran was hurt. How badly, she couldn’t tell, and he didn’t seem to want to say. She couldn’t do much for the pain, but she could make sure he was warm.

  The fireplace was smaller than Winterbourne’s, but the bracket beside it still held a small pile of logs. Kindling had been stacked in a bucket, and she found matches on the mantelpiece. Clare had to pull her gloves off to arrange the kindling and get it lit, and within seconds, her fingers began to cramp from the cold.

  She heard movement behind her and turned to see that Dorran had unfastened his snowshoes and clambered to his feet. He approached the kitchenette, swayed, then bent over to spit a mouthful of blood into the sink.

  “I’m sorry.” Even though the hailstones thundered across the tin roof, she still whispered. “This is my fault. I shouldn’t have asked to go to the car.”

  He crossed to her and dropped to his knees on the stones in front of the fireplace. It took him a moment to speak. “Not your fault. I would have been caught, with or without you. I’ve never seen a storm move so fast.”

  “Is it bad?”

  “The storm?”

  “No.” She reached up to touch his arm. “You’re hurt.”

  “Bruises. Nothing worse.”

  Now that he’d removed his scarf, she could see swelling developing on his cheek. He was complaining a lot less than she would have if she’d taken the same beating.

  Clare swallowed and turned back to the fire. It was starting to catch. She fed it as quickly as it could handle, eager to have something to cut through the chill. Dorran sat still, but his eyes were unfocussed. He was probably in shock. She remembered the flask tied to her belt, pulled it off, and undid the cap.

  “Drink,” she coached, holding it up to his lips. He stirred back to wakefulness and let her tip his head back. She poured too quickly, and he choked on it. “Sorry, sorry!” She grabbed one of her gloves and used it to wipe water off the corner of his mouth.

  He chuckled. “It’s fine.”

  She tried again, more carefully, and helped him drink the rest of the flask. Once he was finished, his head bowed.

  “Hang on a moment.” Clare stood. Her own bruises were starting to form, making her shoulder and leg stiff, but she knew she’d gotten off lightly. She owed Dorran a lot.

  The bed in the corner of the room was made, but it wasn’t close enough to the fire to gather any warmth. Clare yanked the sheets free, lifted the mattress, and dragged it off the bed frame. A moment later, Dorran joined her and helped her push the mattress in front of the fireplace. Then they collapsed onto the bed and pressed close to the fire and each other, sharing the blankets as they draped them around their shoulders.

  Colour was returning to Dorran’s face. He grimaced and rubbed a hand over the bridge of his nose. “I do not understand.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “That hailstorm. The blizzard before it. This area has never seen weather like it, especially not so early in the season.” He took a deep breath. “And then… you keep seeing a woman. The fact that you crashed in the first place. All of this, every single thing, is so strange. I cannot piece it together.”

  She swallowed thickly. “I don’t understand either. Since I woke up in your house, everything has felt surreal. I thought it was just Winterbourne. But… I think it’s more than that. I can’t remember why I was on the road on the day I crashed. I mean, I know I was going to my aunt’s, and I know I was talking to my sister, but I don’t remember why. It was a Sunday. And I always stayed at home on Sundays.”

  He shuffled nearer until they were almost pressed together. The closeness and the warmth felt good, like food for her soul. She closed the distance and leaned her head against his chest, where she didn’t think the hail had hit him. After a moment, he moved his arm and wrapped it around her. He felt so solid, so safe. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply.

  Unrelenting hail continued to beat the roof above them. But the fire was growing to combat the cold. As her body temperature rose and her adrenaline faded, exhaustion began to overrun Clare. She struggled to keep her eyes open. “What will we do if the storm traps us in here?”

  “We will find a way out. You are strong. So am I. We will figure it out.”

  She nodded and finally let her eyelids close.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Clare woke feeling cold. She squinted her eyes open. An orange glow lit the bricks in the fireplace, but it came from the last remaining coals. She turned towards the wood basket. It was empty. Dorran must have gotten up during the night to feed more fuel into the fire.

  They’d fallen asleep on the mattress, under the blankets, still wearing their layers of clothes. The bed had been designed for a single person, so they’d had to lie almost on top of each other to fit. But the cold had made it necessary, and the thick clothes meant it felt less intimate than it could have. At least, it had when Clare had fallen asleep. Waking up, she found Dorran was nestled against her back, his arm draped over her waist.

  “Hey.” She patted his gloved hand gently. “Let me up.”

  He mumbled something, and his arm tightened around her.

  She hadn’t expected that and laughed. “Wake up, Dorran.”

  He finally stirred. She felt him tense as he realised where they were, then the arm lifted away from her. “Please excuse me.”

  “Ha. It’s fine. You don’t have to worry so much.” Clare rolled out of bed. In spite of the fire’s best efforts, the cabin had grown frosty during the night. She shivered as she crossed to the window.

  Outside, the field sparkled. Thousands of hailstones had been preserved where they’d fallen, creating a glass-like blanket in the morning sun. To her surprise, the hail had beaten the snow down. Instead of being waist-deep, barely a foot of it remained.

  The house rose out of the frozen ground like a jagged cliff wall to her right. Opposite it, the forest stretched away, its black line gradually fading into the mist. Clare caught sight of motion around the tree trunks. It looked like some kind of animal scurrying along the frozen ground. She moved closer to the glass, trying to see through the icy fragments clinging to it, but the animal was already gone.

  Dorran sat up, rubbed his face, then rolled to his feet. He was moving stiffly, but his expression was passive as he joined Clare at the window. “There must have been sleet accompanying the hail last night. It was enough to melt some of the snow. That will make our return easier.”

  Clare was still watching the forest, and Dorran noticed. His expression tightened. “I don’t think it would be wise.”

  “Right. Of course not.” He was hurt. They were both tired and hungry, not to mention cold. “We shou
ld go back to the house.”

  “I know how important it is to you.” Dorran rested his hand on her shoulder then turned towards the door. “We can try again another day. With luck, the hailstorm will be the worst of the weather.”

  She could guess what he was thinking, though. The storm had come out of nowhere. If they had spent even a few minutes longer in it, they would be facing injuries worse than bruises. It was hard to justify a two-hour walk to the car and back when a wrong move could mean death. But it smarted to be so close to the car and to leave it.

  “I would like to move quickly, while the sky is clear,” Dorran said. “Do you feel well enough to go now?”

  “Yes. Definitely.” She grabbed her snowshoes and tied them on while Dorran fit his own. His face twitched when he bent over, but he didn’t make a noise. When he straightened, he looked pale but still smiled at her.

  Despite her scarf and hat, the wind bit at Clare’s skin as she stepped outside. Walking on ice was more of a challenge than crossing the snow had been. They moved side by side, holding each other for stability.

  Progress was agonisingly slow, but the forest began to recede, and the mansion grew nearer. It was Clare’s first time seeing the outside of it clearly. It surprised her. She’d imagined the building would be symmetrical and stately, but in reality, it was a Frankensteinesque creation.

  “It has a special kind of look, doesn’t it?” Clare asked.

  “During our prime, my ancestors added to the house every few years, depending on how the family and the profits grew.” Dorran spoke loudly to be heard over the crunch of their shoes and the wind. “Each new wing, new extension, and new addition can be traced to a marriage or a birth. It became a point of pride. The construction only stopped when profits dried up.”

  Clare recognised an effort to keep the style consistent. The trim and the windows all matched. The stone colours and sizes varied with each new addition, however, and some seemed to have been added with wild abandon. The manor had a presence about it. The same kind of presence she’d felt inside its rooms—quietly judgemental.

  “The hail wasn’t kind to the roof,” Clare said. Black holes pocked the dark tiles. Some were small, while others were large enough for her to sit in them.

  Dorran sighed. “That will mean leaks and a harder time heating the place.” He must have seen Clare’s expression because he added, “Don’t worry. We will manage.”

  “What happens if the weather never improves?” Clare cleared her throat. “Sorry. I know that sounds paranoid—”

  “Paranoia is not always foolish. And these are extraordinary circumstances.” He tilted his head back to stare up at the building. “But try not to worry, if that is possible. I will be taking precautions to keep you safe.”

  Clare’s shoe slid on a slippery patch of ground, and she felt colour rising in her face as Dorran caught her and righted her. She managed an awkward laugh. “I feel a bit useless. You’ve done nothing except look after me since I arrived.”

  “You are helpful.”

  “No. I’m pretty sure I’m not.”

  The corners of his eyes crinkled as he smiled under the scarf. “I likely would have gone insane by now if I was alone in this house.”

  “Really? I thought you wanted to spend the winter away from your family. Isn’t that why you left the group?”

  “Hm.” They had neared the steps leading to the front door, and Dorran slowed as they tried to navigate the slope. “I softened the details of that story. I did not leave. I was expelled. I spoke out of turn, and my mother thought a winter in what amounts to solitary confinement would be a suitable punishment. And it would have been, except for the unexpected surprise of your company.”

  Clare tilted her head. “Couldn’t you have gone to town instead and stayed in a hotel?”

  “I have no money of my own.”

  “You could have sold some of the things in the house. Some of the trinkets look like they might be gold. I know it’s borderline stealing, but under the circumstances…”

  “Ah, Clare. You see the world so cleanly.” He was laughing again, but the chuckles held a strained undercurrent. The sadness was back. “Come. Let’s get you somewhere warm.”

  They were at the front door. Dorran opened it and helped Clare through the gap. Once the door was closed again, they removed their snowshoes and stripped off their scarves and hats. Dorran motioned for them to leave the equipment in the room’s corner.

  “We may need it again. We’ll keep it close. Do you remember the way to your room?”

  She nodded.

  “Go there. Make yourself comfortable. I will heat some food and bring it up.”

  “Can I help?”

  “Thank you, but I’ll take care of it.” He shucked off his jacket and hung it on a hook beside the door. “I need some time to collect my thoughts.”

  They split up. Dorran headed towards the kitchen, and Clare climbed the stairs. As she approached the second floor, she couldn’t help but wonder what the house felt like when it was full of people. There would be lights shining out of every room, as well as chatter and laughter coming from every corner of the house. The kitchen would be full of energy and noise. She might have trouble climbing the stairs without bumping into someone coming the other way.

  She let her chin drop as tired legs carried her up. The house might have felt alive with enough people in it, but with just her and Dorran, it felt unnaturally, horribly hollow. Noise travelled too far—the creak of a tired floorboard, the snap of a closing door. Sounds bounced around her, making it hard to guess their origin and playing with her mind.

  With no one to tend to it, the fire in her bedroom had gone out. Clare turned on the lights and stood on the threshold for a moment. Daylight came through the windows but didn’t reach far enough to touch the back wall. She’d been gone less than a day, and already the space had started to feel neglected.

  She went to the bathroom first and cleaned up. The water coming out of the tap felt like pure ice. She’d tasted enough cold for a lifetime, but weariness outweighed a need for warmth, and she scrubbed her face and body with the cold water as quickly as she could.

  Her cheeks looked pale in the mirror, but she decided to blame it on the poor lighting. She changed back into one of the dresses Dorran had given her and topped it with one of the thick coats. Her hair was tangled from the hat and the wind. There wasn’t much she could do for it, but she tried to make herself look as respectable as she was able to.

  Dorran hadn’t returned. She knew he didn’t want her worrying about him, but ignoring the impulse was impossible.

  She stepped back into the hallway, where the air felt still and stale. Dust particles floated around her, suspended like sediment in a soup. The house might have felt lively, even comforting, when it was full—but at that moment, it reminded her of an old animal lying in the snow as it gasped its last breaths. Wind and hail had torn its tiles off. The window frames would go next, rotted by water and age. The stones would be the last to crumble. But time was unforgiving. It would never stop eating away at the house, chipping it down, year by year, century by century, until it had erased it from existence.

  An unseen door groaned as it moved in the wind. Clare pulled her jacket’s collar a little higher and hurried towards the stairs. If Dorran could withstand the bleakness that seeped out of the building’s walls, he was a more resilient person than she was.

  She thought she remembered the way to the kitchen, but she became lost somehow and found herself in a parlour. Even swallowed by gloom, the room was dripping in opulence. Chairs, little tables, and brushed rugs had been arranged so perfectly that to disturb them felt borderline sacrilegious. Clare backed out of the room and tried again. A sliver of yellow light under a door gave her a clue, and she followed it through the empty hallway to the kitchen.

  Dorran wasn’t there, but he’d lit the fire and put a pot on the stove. Another bunch of dried herbs had been taken down from the hook above the kitchen ben
ch and left, half-chopped, on a board. A moist red sheet of paper told Clare he’d added frozen meat to the soup.

  He’d used a candle to light the room, and shadows clung to the space. Clare moved slowly as she approached the pot. The stove had been left on a low heat, but the soup had already boiled and was splattering against its lid, so she turned it off. As the bubbling noise faded, she began to hear ragged breathing coming from the back of the room.

  Clare moved towards the noise, slowly and cautiously. The breathing was interrupted by a quiet hiss, like air being sucked through clenched teeth. It came from behind a small wooden door set into the back wall, not far from the fireplace. The door had been left ajar. Clare swallowed then reached for it, her fingertips nudging the wood to slide it open.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The room was small and stacked with shelves, most of them empty. Dorran sat on a chair below the single lightbulb. His jackets and shirt were draped over the nearest shelf. He held a damp cloth, which was tinged with red. He shot Clare a tense glance then looked away.

  Clare pressed a hand to her mouth. His back was a mottle of bruises. Angry reds mixed with dark purples, as though an artist had thrown fistfuls of paint across the canvas. Blood trickled from one of the marks below his shoulder blade, where the impact had broken the skin. She knew he’d taken the brunt of the hailstones, but she hadn’t expected the damage to be so bad.

  Clare lowered her hand. Dorran wouldn’t meet her eyes. Bizarrely, she had the sense that he was ashamed.

  “You should have said something,” she whispered.