Page 19 of The Betrothal

There was a narrow stream, there was no deep stream, no brook.

Looking up to the sky, I searched for a hint of the sun. The grey clouds darkened so I dug my watch out from under the coat once again, but it too was drenched.

Swiping at the face, I realised the water I was wiping away was inside. The clock said three forty-five, and that was how it would stay, the hands frozen in place.

“Fuck.”

Stumbling on, I shoved the papers I still held back into the drenched pocket on the coat. Searching for the edge of the field I found myself in. An agricultural gate, a kissing gate, a stile – if I could even see one – something.

The water saturating my boots chilled, the numbness in my extremities now becoming a concern as I floundered forwards, the heavy footwear worsening my movements.

The cold drew up from my hands and feet into my lower legs and forearms which ached with the pain, until they finally didn’t, also lost to numbness.

A break in the white wall that was a hedgerow led me into the next field, my steps slowing as I crossed another field, then another, the sun, nowhere to be seen but still illuminating the sky somewhat, began darkening behind the clouds.

Little by little, I could feel any optimism of finding the right path ebbing away, fear taking up residence in the iced hollow of my chest.

I pushed through a gate into another small thicket of woodland. If I were on track, I would have walked beside the stream and through a thicket to a small village with a bay below. But as I emerged into a large clearing, the confirmation that I was absolutely lost was overtaken by the sight of a cottage standing in the middle of the open area, surrounded by more trees and fields, no roads or coastline anywhere in sight, regardless of the endless snowfall.

Time slowed as I hurried towards the glass and stone building, outhouses and wooden barns emerging at the side, a tiny spark of hope flared to life.

A huge, covered entryway arched around a tall wooden door inlaid with steel. Forcing my fingers around the handle I pushed. Obviously it would be locked.

Stumbling back out into the snow, now settling at my knees, dragging against every single step, I worked my way to the side of the property. The lights were off, no sign of cars or life, I prayed there was another door.

Toppling over a set of steps I rounded the rear of the property. Glass edged in timber covered almost the entire side of the house; the inside was gloomy but a dining area and a kitchen beyond were clearly lifeless.

The dulled sound of a smash as my foot collided with a plant pot beside another door had me rooting in the snow. Plant pots might mean spare keys.

My fingers, now almost entirely useless, pressed through the snow, shoving items as I found them and where I found I was unable to, lifting them.

But there was no key.

My clothes were drenched, the duffel suffering the same fate. And although I knew water-resistant was usually sufficient, nothing inside would have weathered the storm, let alone the swim I had taken.

I could break into a barn perhaps, but sodden through, in a blizzard… Fear gripped my chest. I could actually die here.

My hand rested on the door handle, a last-ditch hope to find real shelter.

It pressed down under the weight of my body and the door swung inwards. I fell through clumsily, landing once more on my battered knees, the cry leaving my mouth half pain, half relief.

My rasping calling out into the property had produced no owners, so I had stripped off the heavy, waterlogged outer layers, little use they were, and made my way deeper inside the home, abandoning my bag and boots by the door.

The large open-plan interior moved beyond the farmhouse kitchen, wooden table with benches into a tall lounge. Sofas covered in big cushions and heavy throws bracketed an enormous fireplace and my heart flipped.

The whole place was stocked, firewood, lighters, kindling and I hoped it was a rental cottage, one without planned guests. One where I could shelter, briefly, dry out and be back on my way once the storm broke.

Please, please, let the storm break.

The fire only took so long to build because, despite no longer being clad in an ice-water wrapping, my fingers still refused to work, while a small puddle formed around my kneeling form as I swore at the matches which broke in my fumbling fingers.

Eventually the flame finally took, racing through the newspaper and lighting the kindling, I felt a sliver of tension break.

Setting about finding a clotheshorse or hanger, I settled for laying my belongings across the floor by the hearth, unfolding them from where I’d meticulously rolled each item inside the duffel. The paperwork propped nearby, not so close as to be a fire risk, but I needed the maps as dry and legible as possible, well, now.

Everything was sodden. Every, single, thing, bar the two items rolled tightest in the middle. A pair of soft cotton pyjama bottoms, and a long-sleeved matching top. My favourites, and the only concession I had made when packing.

Sending up thanks to someone, anyone watching over me. I grabbed a blanket, regrouping, planning.