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Mabel

A fierce storm is bearing down on the East Coast of America, bringing with it record-breaking snowfall, hurricane-force winds and freezing temperatures. Forecasters are predicting this could be the worst storm since records began. A state of emergency has been declared, and people are urged to seek shelter. Not the Christmas gift all of you were hoping for, I know, but stay home and stay safe.”

Mabel Anne Miller turned off the radio and looked at the sleek black cat who was watching her from his favourite place by the window. “Did you hear that? That’s going to ruin our plans for a last-minute trip to Manhattan to see the Christmas lights and take in a show. I hope you’re not disappointed. No partying for us this Christmas, Crumpet.”

The cat purred, sprang down from his perch by the window and rubbed himself against her legs. There were days when Mabel was sure he understood every word she said.

She bent down and stroked behind his ears. “I agree. We should stay home in front of the fire with a good book, which is what we would have been doing anyway.” It had been at least a decade since she’d been to Manhattan and even longer since she’d been to a show. It would be as alien as a trip to the moon.

Her world had shrunk to this one small corner of Vermont, her house and her pretty woodland garden with its stream that in summer was home to kingfishers and warblers. The stream was now frozen and the kingfishers long gone in search of less icy climes, but she knew they’d be back. Ice melted and the world kept turning.

And she had her cats, Crumpet, Cupcake, Biscuit and Macaron (she’d always been a fan of afternoon tea). All of them were black, apart from Cupcake, who had a white streak on one paw. They’d been abandoned by their owners a few years earlier and deposited, shivering and frightened, in a local shelter. Mabel, who had been at her lowest ebb, had taken them in. One glance had told her that they were meant to be hers, and now they were a family. She’d saved them, and in turn, they’d saved her. They gave her a reason to get up in the morning.

Cupcake and Biscuit padded into the kitchen and she fussed over them as she would have done a child. For a moment she remembered when she had fussed over a child, and she was swamped by a wave of regret so powerful it rocked her on her feet.

She grabbed the edge of the table for support and sat down hard on the nearest chair.

Crumpet immediately sprang onto her lap, pressing against her, kneading her leg with his paws.

She stroked him gratefully. As usual, he sensed when she was having a low moment and offered comfort. Affection was almost always on his own terms, but she willingly took whatever was offered. Cats were complicated creatures, but in her experience far less complicated than humans. Also, more forgiving.

Crumpet looked up at her with eyes that were a startling shade of green. When she’d first seen those eyes, she’d laughed in disbelief. If she’d been superstitious, she might have thought that their meeting was fate. How many times had she imagined a cat exactly like this one? It was art coming to life.

“I know.” She stroked him. “You’re right, of course. It doesn’t make any difference to us if it’s Christmas, does it? It’s one day. Only one day. It will pass, the same as every other day.”

There was a time when it would have made a difference. A time when she would have been decorating the house, and filling the kitchen with scents of cinnamon and spice, and peering anxiously through the window while she awaited visitors. Walter would have been preparing drinks, wearing the shirt he only wore at Thanksgiving and Christmas. He’d always been more sociable than her. Welcome, welcome, he’d say, opening his heart and the door of their home to whoever happened to visit. It was because of Walter that they’d never been short of cheerful company.

But that was a long time ago and many things had changed since then. For a start, there was no Walter.

She blinked several times, bringing herself back to the present.

“It’s just us,” she told the cats, “but that’s the way we like it, isn’t it? We’re used to spending Christmas on our own. We’ll take it hour by hour. It isn’t as if we haven’t had plenty of practice. And what a relief not to have to do all that baking and decorating, and I’ve never been good at wrapping presents. All that work for one day—” Her voice gave a little hitch and Crumpet yawned and looked up at her. “I’m fine, really. I’m fine.”

Fine, apart from the fact that her house was currently under siege from the weather. The kitchen windows rattled in their frames, and snow swirled beyond the glass. The wind kicked angrily at the building, thumping against the doors and pounding the roof like a toddler in the throes of a tantrum. It screamed and howled, the noise so loud that for a moment she pictured the wind blowing the house clean away.

She reminded herself that the house had survived storms before and would no doubt survive this one. Not that she was one of those people who underestimated the force and power of nature. Far from it. She remembered a winter when tiles had been ripped from the roof by the wind, and another winter when they’d been snowed in for two full weeks. That one had been bad. Bad enough that Walter had questioned their decision to live outside the village, particularly as reaching civilisation would inevitably become more challenging as they aged. But it had also been magical to be snowed in as a family. The laughter and warmth of that time was lodged in her memory. It felt like a different life.

Walter had died before the isolation of the house could become a problem. In theory, it could be a problem for her in the future, but she didn’t see it that way.

She had no need to reach the village and she didn’t mind storms. They made her aware of how small she was in comparison. How fragile life was against the force of nature and how little control humans had, really. The storm would come when it wanted to come, and it would wreck what it wanted to wreck, and humans would be left to pick up the pieces. Fighting it was a waste of energy. All you could do in the end was protect yourself.

She’d lived long enough to know that not all storms were produced by a collision of cold, dry air with warm, moist air. A low-pressure system drawing air from the northeast. Sometimes a storm could be inside you. A collision of hope, fear and bitter regret.

The wind would huff and puff like something out of a children’s story, but it wouldn’t blow her house down. And life could huff and puff and threaten to knock her off her feet, but she would stay standing.

Her cats depended on her, and she wasn’t going to let them down.

“Black cats are supposed to be lucky, and I have four of you so we’ll be fine. We’ll make it through Christmas the way we always do,” she said. “And we won’t be the only ones not travelling anywhere. Everyone with any sense will stay indoors. Only a fool would be on the road on a night like this.”

2

Izzy

Izzy fidgeted, her gaze sliding to the windows. The storm was building with frightening speed, obscuring her view of the world outside.

This wasn’t good. She needed to get out of here right now. It might already be too late. She loved her job, but not enough to die doing it.