Page 110 of Seasonal Fears

“Jack, ma’am,” says Jack.

“Jens,” says Jenny.

“It’s lovely to meet you both,” she says. “I’m sure Harald has told you what to expect here in our humble family home, but I’m Eliza March, and I’m delighted to host you. My husband is at the office for now; we didn’t know when Harald would be arriving, and had no warning that he’d be bringing guests”—her pause promises punishment in private, in that way only grandparents can—“so I was waiting for him by myself. You’ll all have to follow me.”

“Keys are in the ignition, Grandma,” says Harry, getting his bag out of the trunk.

“Antonio will move your car to the garage,” she says, and heads inside.

Jack and Jenny exchange a look, perhaps beginning to understand the scope of the wealth involved here, but when Melanie follows the woman inside, they do the same, with Harry bringing up the rear.

The foyer is as large as many apartments, walls paneled in polished oak and kept from becoming oppressive by a wide assortment of family photos, some featuring a younger Harry, many featuring a boy who looks a lot like him, but with darker hair, who grows older picture by picture until Harry begins making his earliest appearances. The teens crowd together in the space as Eliza gestures to the stairs, saying, “Harry, dear, your room is ready; I’ll have Penny get three more guest rooms suitable for use while we’re eating dinner. Setting a few more places shouldn’t be a problem.”

The airy way she dismisses the addition of three extra bodies to the table is clearly baffling to Jack, who looks to Mel for help. Mel shrugs in a “just go with it” sort of manner before turning to Eliza.

“I’m sorry, what did you mean before, about ‘after everything that’s happened,’” she asks, politely.

Eliza stops fussing over Harry and turns to Mel, eyes wide and face going pale as all the blood drains away. She puts a hand over her mouth. “Oh, dear girl, I thought … Well, that is, Harry’s father believed … We thought Harry had left Portland to come to us because we all know he runs to Castleview when he’s upset, and it seemed … I am so sorry. I thought you knew.”

Harry moves to stand behind Melanie, putting an arm around her shoulders. “Thought we knew what, Grandma?”

Eliza looks truly miserable as she replies, “That her father’s been killed. There was some kind of home invasion, and the police…” She keeps talking, but Melanie doesn’t hear any of it. All she hears is a sticky buzz, like a television that’s been left on while the cable was down.

Her father is dead.

Her father, Roland Cosgrove, the man who raised her, the man who she always believed loved her, the man who made her in a lab, the alchemist who consigned her to this unavoidable, inescapable version of her own future, that man is dead. That explains why he never came after her like she’d been afraid he would. None of the people she’s met since this madness began has said anything about raising the dead. Worse, she doesn’t know if she’d wanted them to if they knew how. So he’s dead, and he’s going to stay dead.

Eliza is still talking as Mel drifts to the stairs and sits, hands dangling between her knees. Harry grabs his grandmother’s elbow, stopping her from following, and says something tight and angry. The static in Melanie’s head continues.

The static continues for hours, as Harry’s grandfather comes home, as they all sit down to what may be an excellent meal but tastes in her mouth of dust and stale air, as Eliza shows her to the room she always uses when she stays here, pink and perfect and a little feminine for her tastes, but the Marches never had a daughter, and it seems to make Eliza happy to treat Mel like a princess. She smiles and murmurs something she still can’t hear, and puts herself to bed, where she lies awake, staring at the shadowed ceiling.

It’s the farthest she’s been from her traveling companions in almost a month, and she can feel spring nibbling at her edges, leeching her power away. She won’t know what it means to truly embody the Winter until it rolls around again, because the coronation came so late; she’ll dwindle through the Spring, feeling the way she always has, and then sleep through the Summer.

With a three-month nap in her future, it’s perhaps no surprise that sleep doesn’t find her easily. She tosses and turns for the better part of an hour before she rises and drifts to the balcony doors, opening them and stepping out into the cool night air. She’s never loved this place the way Harry does—that would be virtually impossible—but she loves it all the same, and has always known that one day, her heart allowing, she would call it home. They may still be a few years away from that, but she’s still comfortable enough to relax as she leans against the stone rail keeping her from toppling into the rose gardens and listens to the static in her head.

A month ago, she would have been devastated. A month ago, she would have been inconsolable. Now …

Now the world is different, much bigger and much smaller than she ever thought it could be. Somehow, that thought brings comfort. She leans forward, rests her chin on her arms, and smiles. She’s not sick anymore. She’s going to be fine, and Harry’s going to be fine, and maybe life isn’t going to look exactly like they always thought it would, but they’ll spend it together, and that means they can handle anything it wants to throw at them.

And they’ll handle it in a castle, which is more than most people get.

Melanie starts to giggle. She’s still giggling when she hears a rustle in the bushes below her and claps a hand over her mouth, squinting down into the dark. It gets very dark this far from the city. She doesn’t see anything.

A raccoon, probably, or a deer. She turns, going back inside and shutting the door. She doesn’t get cold, but she doesn’t want to get mauled by a bear just to show off her ability to withstand a Wisconsin spring.

She’s sitting on the edge of the bed when the balcony door edges open and Aven slips into the room, moving as quietly as she can. Melanie tilts her head.

“What was the plan?” she asks. “Kill me, dye your hair, take my place?”

Aven freezes.

“Our father’s dead, and you’re dying. Hasn’t there been enough damage done already?”

“I know he’s dead,” snaps Aven. “I killed him.”

Melanie should be angry, hearing that. She should be enraged. All she feels is tired, and softly mournful. “Then I guess I’m all you have left. Can you really kill me?”

“You chose him over me, so now he gets me instead of you.”