Page 4 of The Midwinter Mirror
Why can’t I stop thinking about him today? It’s been five years. And not a single word. Another empty space inside me.
I brush my hair and plait it out of the way, then head down the stairs. My parka is on the coat stand, and I pull it on and fasten it up. Milo’s coat is missing, so at least he had the common sense to dress warm. I head to the boot room and find my snow boots, a woolly hat, scarf, mittens, and I’m ready to go.
A weird sense of excitement grips me as I open the back door and stare out. Everything is still and silent, nothing moving except the falling snow. On the horizon, I can just see the blue glow of the rising sun.
The door closes behind me with a muffled thud. The snow’s falling harder now—thick enough to erase tracks, thick enough to swallow sound.
Milo is somewhere out there, maybe lost in the blizzard.
The cold finds my bones and won’t let go. And for the first time, I admit it—I’m scared.
Chapter 2
The One Left Behind
Holly
Istand just outside the door, my face raised to the falling snow. Huge flakes land on my skin and melt. A shiver runs through me, and it's not only from the cold.
I shake myself and look around, trying to decide where to go first. He’s not anywhere obvious, so I head to the stables at the back of the house.
The place is quiet. John, the guy who’s looked after the horses for the last forty years, is nowhere in sight. Likely, he’s stuck in the snow somewhere between here and Elderfell. Pushing open the door, I call out, “Milo, if you're here, let me know.” Nothing. “Come on, Milo, it's too cold to play games.”
There's still no reply.Grrr.
Of course, that doesn't really mean anything; he could be hiding, so I head inside. The warm, comforting smell of horses envelops me. I’ve always had an affinity for animals, but horses most of all.
They stamp and whicker when they hear me coming.
I stroke Belbel, my mare, on her soft nose as I pass, heading to where Milo's pony is stabled. Bramble is standing on three legs, fast asleep. There's no sign of Milo.
Damn, I was hoping for a quick resolution to this. My stomach rumbles, but I suspect breakfast will have to wait. For me, at least. I quickly fetch some sweet-smelling hay for the horses and check their water. Everything else will have to wait.
As I head out of the stables, the snow has stopped, and the sun has come out. I take a deep breath. It's beautiful, and I stand for a moment admiring the view, all clothed in sparkling white, clean and untouched. Down toward the village to the south, and then up toward the woods and the cliffs in the other direction.
Dad will be heading down to the village in the tractor. If Milo's gone that way, Dad will no doubt find him. So I head the other way towards Silvergate—a place I hate with a deep loathing. A place with more bad memories than anywhere I can think of. I don’t believe in magic, but for some reason, everything bad that happens around here seems to be centered on Silvergate.
There are no footsteps. The snow erased everything. But still, something draws me forward.
Yeah, I hate the place, but at the same time, there's a strange attraction to Silvergate.
Maybe that’s why so many terrible things happen there. I put them from my mind. I'm just going to find Milo. We're going to go home. We're going to have a lovely breakfast, and that's that.
It's about a mile to Silvergate. I trudge on through the thick, heavy snow. It's soft, and my feet sink in. Melted snow slides inside my boots and cold bites through to my skin, freezing my toes.
I follow where I know the track lies beneath the snow, heading into the woods, where the snow is thinner. I’m close now. I feel a heavy waiting in the air. I call out again, “Milo.”
There's no answer.
And then I come to the clearing. A shudder runs through me as I stare at Silvergate. It doesn't look like much—there’s certainly no gate—just a clearing in the woods, with snow settling deep where the trees refuse to grow.
It's too still. The air feels wrong here, colder somehow, as if the frost has sharp teeth. The clearing presses in on me, too wide and too empty at the same time, as though the world forgot to breathe.
According to the villagers, a gate once stood here, and that's how it got its name. But all I see are bare stones half-buried in the snow, and a dip in the ground that refuses to fill—a scar. That's all. Nothing magical about this place, just a scar.
And a little boy in a red jacket.
My knees go loose. One broken breath—relief, sharp as pain.
