Soft as snow

On returning to his cottage, Stanley took of his muddy boots and changed out of his damp clothes. He switched on the kettle in his kitchen before slumping into his recliner. His leg ached as he stretched out his right thigh, rubbing it to ease the discomfort.

While he waited for the kettle to boil, he took the opportunity to jot some more notes in his notebook. Soon the long shrill whistle of the kettle attracted his attention, so he struggled back up to pour his tea.

In between sips, he considered their plans for the next day. They will have to try and find the avocet again. They don’t usually travel alone, so there could be another bird somewhere. If there is, they will need to keep an eye on their behaviours to see if they are courting or if they are making ready to build a nest.

The hours of walking had taken a toll on Stanley, his eyes glazing over. The vapours of steam coiling from his cup of tea faded as it cooled. Soon his thoughts started to quieten, as his breath slowed and eyelids slid shut.

Tap-Tap-Tap. Stanley jolted back upright. Was that a knock at his door? He’s confused thoughts tried to orientate themselves as he tried to judge whether the noise was real or just part of vague dream. A solid tap-tap-tap rattled out again from the front door; Definitely, undeniably real this time.

The clock face on the wall read past 11pm. Very few people would call for Stanley in the warm light of day, Mr Stapleton or young Robert from a few houses down, but at this late hour, no one. Could it be an emergency? Could something have happened to Mr Stapleton?

Tap-tap-tap for a third time. He won’t find out be sitting there. Stanley pulled himself out of his recliner chair and cautiously made his way to the door, gripping tight his walking stick.

He was taken aback when he finally opened the door. Standing on his doorstep, waiting patiently, was a woman unlike any Stanley had seen before.

Instead of a dress, she wore a long robe with flowing sleeves and a black sash tied at her waist. Her dark hair ran down her neck and flowed across her shoulders. Its raven black colour stood out against her spectral skin, shinning like snow in the moonlight.

‘It is cold, may I come in.’ the young woman asked, voice like liquid, fluting.

Without waiting for a reply, she slid past, took off her shoes and sat down on a chair in his kitchen, her back facing Stanley. He thought there must be some mistake. What business could she possibly have with him.

‘Excuse me miss, I don’t believe I know you name?’ He asked, unmoved from his spot at the door.

‘I shouldn’t think so, I haven’t given it.’ She pulled out a long comb as black as her hair. And began to brush, occasionally stopping to adjust her sleeves or pat down her robe.

‘My name is Stanely. How do you do?’ he said.

She nodded and smiled while continuing to brush. The cheek of it, Stanley thought, to be so aloof in a situation like this. He was tempted to give her a piece of his mind. ‘Erm, would you like some tea?’

She shook her head. Her long white fingers, turning slightly pink in the room’s heat, gathered up her hair. She twisted it around the comb, forming a neat bun. Stanley watched the action, mesmerised. Despite the strangeness of the situation, the whole scene filled him with a sense of serenity as though there was nothing else in the world but her fingers and glossy hair.

Stanley crossed the room towards an empty chair opposite her. As he walked past, he couldn’t help noticing the curve of her neck or the striking contrast of black hair and white skin. After sitting, he asked, ‘What brings you to my home, miss, at this hour?’

‘I saw you earlier.’ She smiled. ‘I liked the look of you, so I followed.’

‘Right.’ There must have been some misunderstanding, he decided. Why would a woman like this have any interest in him. She must be looking for a place to escape the cold, yet her clothes seemed too fine for someone down on their luck.

She glided out of her chair and knelt in front of Stanley, her hands resting in her lap. Her large dark eyes looked up into his. ‘It’s cold tonight. May I stay.’

White hands and pink fingers, softer than the finest down, stroked Stanley’s cheeks. He held his breath as those searching fingers made their way down. They lazily swayed from side to side, down his torso, occasionally parting a button from its buttonhole.

He closed his eyes and breathlessly whispered, ‘I don’t even know your name.’

‘Do you need to?’ He felt soft lips against his own.

‘Please what do I call you? I won’t tell another soul. My lips are sealed.’ He pleaded between the touches of her soft lips, like perfection.

She smiled as her robe dropped to the floor. ‘Keep them unsealed, at least for tonight. If you must call me something, call me Snow.’