It begins to snow, flake by feathery flake, until the blood is covered with a dusting of white and no one would know that the hunted and the hunters had been there. A new page is ready to be written on. Silence, thinks Edith, is like the snow: it covers secrets, makes the unacceptable acceptable. She picks up the gun and the feather from the huntsman’s hat then sits on the step of the cabin listening to the snow. She hears in it a gentle sound that calms her. The snow is singing softly, the forest settling back into itself. She stays there until the heat in her is gone, grateful for her new boots and the sheepskin-lined coat, for the cabin. The primaeval forest with its murmuring pines is gathering the darkness to it and she hears the howl of a wolf. She fears there is little time left. The huntsmen will be back bringing the butcher with them. She doesn’t doubt it.

Demetrius must be somewhere not far from here, she thinks. Even though his face was unseen, he was with me, I heard his voice. What a thin veil of moon and stars divides us from a different heaven that holds a thread of possibilities. Be near me again, be near me.

The hope in her is gone but still she has no desire to leave. She heard what the mayor’s son called her – a ghost – but he would use another word in the village. A word that would strike at the heart of all the villagers’ superstition. He would say she was one of the bloodless.

In the gloaming hour the forest looks on solemnly. Numb with cold, Edith hears again the chiming, the soft ringing of bells, just as she had on her wedding day. Holding out her hand she catches the snowflakes. Then, laughing, she opens her arms and spins round and round to the song of the snow. Tilting back her head she sees the moon rise pregnant with the night.

Giddy from spinning, she stops and in the long shadows sees him. She looks again in case her eyes have tricked her. He stands by the trees, his little dog at his heels. Edith dares not move in case a breath might mean the loss of him. Her eyes never leave his as he comes to her. She is certain she will find him made of ice and illusions. But his arms are strong about her, his eyes as blue as a winter sky, his lips warm, his kisses filled with love.

‘Am I dreaming?’ she asks and hears her lost voice brush his cheek.

‘No, my love.’

And her voice bursts free from her and sings with the wolf into the frozen night.