Bound In Essence

By Lynne Wham

She's fallen into a world hell bent on killing her. He's sworn to see her back home.

But what if he's the reason to stay?

Not only is this strange world patriarchal AF - it's also at war. Amelia has no idea how to get herself home. Nor does the tall, dark warrior who keeps rescuing her. (Seriously.)

• Language: English
• Publisher: Feminist Fantasy Press
• Release date: Jan 18, 2024
• ISBN: 9781738431403

Lynne Wham

L.F. Wham first took pen to paper in anger, fed up with stories that romanticise abuse. She writes feminist stories that celebrate healthy relationships (and condemn the other ones). In summer, she's soaking up the sun at any possible moment and relishing the hours of daylight. As the nights draw in, she's making mulled wine and consuming all the romance films. L.F. Wham is a quine living in 'Auld Reekie', who still jumps at the one o'clock cannon, and always brings a pineapple to a housewarming.

Book preview

Chapter one

The house loomed above her, blocking out the low sun. The quiet of the street was broken only by the unmistakable call of a blackbird from bare branches. Amelia inhaled a deep breath, dragging minted air through her teeth. She hitched her bag higher up her shoulder and pressed the brass bell. She stepped down and squared up to the glossy front door.

The chime hung in the air above her. The blackbird quit its song.

She rocked on the outside edges of her feet, smoothed the back of her coat collar and knocked her beret out of place. Her hair moved with the hat, strands falling in front of her face.

Typical. She’d spent an hour getting ready, even running a lint roller over her coat, only to make a mess of herself on their doorstep. She dragged her fingers through the tangle, creating more dishevelment.

The door swung open.

Amelia, hello! her mother greeted her, proper as always. She stood poised in the door frame, wearing her special occasion pearl earrings and trousers with a sharp crease that fell down her leg.

Amelia tucked her hands to her side where they could do no more damage, stood taller, and lifted the corners of her mouth.

So glad you could make it. Come in, come in. Standing back, her mother welcomed her inside with an outstretched arm. Amelia drew in one last breath of fresh air before crossing the threshold.

She enfolded her mother in an angular hug, breathing deep the heady scent of Nina Ricci L’Air du Temps. The perfume bottle decorated by two doves had sat on her mother’s dresser for as long as she could remember. The scent had accompanied her parents out to dinner parties whilst they left her at home with a babysitter.

Pulling back, she squeezed her mother’s shoulders. Faint lines by her eyes drew across otherwise perfect skin. You look great.

Thanks, hunny. Her mother patted her hand before gesturing for Amelia’s coat, which she hung on one of the many brass hooks. We’re through here. How was your journey?

Amelia followed the clacks of her mother’s heels along the original Georgian tiles as they moved through the foyer into the hallway and towards the familiar buzz and laughter of a party.

Fine, the bus was on time for once.

Her mum nodded as if she were familiar with the regular frustrations of having to rely on public transport. Mrs Roberts hadn’t been on a bus in years, unless you counted the ones that transported you from the plane to the terminal.

The babble of voices grew louder as they entered the kitchen. George, your daughter’s arrived.

Her father, busy serving glasses of champagne, glanced around. Flecks of grey melded into the polish-black hair of George Roberts, who had eye wrinkles to match his wife’s. Amelia, you made it, her dad smiled at her. Champagne? he offered.

Ah yes, one of the best things about her parents’ house. You couldn’t accuse the Roberts of being measly hosts; something she’d come to appreciate since relying on supermarkets’ own brand groceries and experiencing the competitive elbowing at the almost-out-of-date discount shelf. She clasped the offered glass, and her father gave her a one-armed hug, squeezing her into his side before pushing her back. You remember your sister’s friends, James and Natasha, of course. Her father gestured towards the couple he now poured glasses for.

Of course, Amelia lied, as her father turned away to fill more glasses. How nice to see you again. How are you?

Possibly the couple had met in a Ralph Lauren shop. They’d dressed in ‘his and hers’ outfits, a wee polo player stitched onto the breast of their shirts. Their skin glowed and their hair shone, and she just knew they ironed their jeans.

James nodded and Natasha smiled, revealing gleaming teeth. Lovely to see you. Your sister says you’re a yoga instructor now!

Eh, no. Receptionist. At a yoga studio. Amelia screwed up her nose as she caught a waft of sweet, floral perfume, the alcoholic tang stinging her sinuses.

Oh, right. Natasha’s smile faltered. The threat of an awkward silence hovered between them.

How’s the firm? One of them had to be a lawyer. Please say they’re not the one non-lawyer couple at this party.

Oh great, James here has just been trusted with a really important client, she said, squeezing her partner’s arm.

Nat, stop bragging, James replied with a broad grin.

A man walking by spotted James and swept into their circle, shaking James’s hand and greeting Natasha with a hug and a kiss. He wore the same uniform of ironed trousers and an Oxford shirt, this one sporting the sewn logo of a lion.

Ten points for spotting a shirt with a unicorn.

A petite woman followed in his wake. Amelia recognised her but couldn’t recall her name. The woman greeted her with a kiss on the cheek. She wore a velvet skirt and a sheer, expensive-looking shirt.

Amelia stuck out in her chunky knit and go-to jeans. She swigged her champagne. This was a child’s birthday party. Why was everyone dressed for a soiree? She glanced around for some sign she hadn’t misunderstood the printed invitation. A pile of presents sat on the kitchen table, wrapped up in pale pink paper. Confirmation.

She excused herself from her sister’s friends and retrieved her present from the bag she’d slung over one of the bar stools and added it to the pile. A few creases veined across the superhero wrapping paper. A result of the journey but compared to the pristine gifts on display, all in pink paper with a complementing ribbon, she might as well have played rugby with it.

Where was the birthday girl, anyway?

Amelia found her outside, hugging her daddy’s leg as he spoke to a couple of friends. Spotting Amelia, Emma gave a big toothy grin and started toddling towards her.

Hello, toots. Amelia greeted her, Happy birthday! Can I have a cuddle?

Emma reached out her arms, and Amelia obliged, scooping her up and giving her a squeeze.

Amelia, you made it! Charlie stood in a khaki quilted jacket, an easy smile on his face.

You better make sure Sally doesn’t spot that. Amelia said, nodding at the beer in his hand. Not while you’re looking after this one.

Charlie smiled, reaching for his daughter, who began playing with her father’s dark curls.

Alcohol-free, he winked.

Of course. There’s no way her strait-laced sister or her partner would be imbibing whilst caring for their daughter.

Sally’s just through the house. He nodded through the French doors of the sitting room across the grass.

Amelia thanked him and followed his direction.

Sally turned at the noise of the door opening. Lee! She excused herself from a couple of friends Amelia recognised as being from university.

Hey, sis.

Sally pulled her into a hug. Her sister was one of those people with a maternal vibe, even before she became a mother. She emanated a warmth that people gravitated towards.

I just saw Emma, happy as always.

Sally laughed. Not always, trust me. But she beamed as she gazed through the window at her husband holding their daughter, pride shining on her face. Sally looked like a mother. She had warmth and flesh where Amelia was only bone. She also looked like a daughter; the one to get the Roberts’ jet-black hair, their parents’ brown eyes, their mother’s luminous pale skin.

Sally turned her attention back to Amelia and scanned her face. How are you? she asked firmly.

Amelia huffed. Her family was ‘concerned’, as her mother had put it at Christmas a couple of weeks ago.

I’m fine, Sal, she said, deliberately drawing herself up to meet her sister’s gaze and smiling.

You’re thin, Sally responded.

She rolled her eyes. I work at a yoga studio, comes with the territory. She took a swig of champagne.

Sally pursed her lips.

Clearly, this wasn’t a good enough explanation. She sighed. It’s a party, Sal. We can go out for coffee, and you can question my life choices then, just not today, okay?

Sally folded her arms and seemed to consider the proposition. Next Sunday, Lovecrumbs, 3 p.m.?

We don’t need to make a plan right–

Sally’s voice was firm, her gaze steady. Next Sunday, 3 p.m.

Amelia sighed. Fine. Yes. Next Sunday. Her sister and her organisation.

Wonderful! Sally said, putting a hand on her shoulder and steering her back through the house towards the kitchen and the hub of the party. I’m looking forward to it.

I bet.

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Her family just didn’t get her. They didn’t understand why she’d dropped out of her law degree to be a receptionist at a yoga studio. Sometimes Amelia didn’t either.

The course had been fine, if a bit dry, and her summer jobs at the firm hadn’t been horrible. Long hours some nights, but what job didn’t have that from time to time? Both had been fine. But Amelia couldn’t shake the feeling there was something else she was meant to be doing.

Aunt Triss would have got it.

The back of Amelia’s throat stung. Triss would have loved this party. Not because she adored dressing up and mingling, but because she celebrated life. She’d no doubt have turned up in her dungarees, a scarf in her hair and be gifting baby Emma something handmade and full of love. The kind of gift Emma would cherish for years. Like a rocking chair. Actually, a rocking horse. Aunt Triss had been a carpenter and a big believer in showing love through homemade gifts. Easily done when you have a talent like that.

Had a talent.

Amelia shook herself, gripping her champagne glass, the stem surprisingly strong, the glass smooth. Trails of delicate, golden bubbles rose to the champagne’s surface. On the other side of the kitchen window, Emma ran across the grass, her baby pink coat marshmallowed around her.

What would Sally’s reaction be if Amelia bought Emma clothes in baby blue? She snorted. Probably a comment about not always needing to push her feminist agenda.

Emma veered towards the flower bed and poked around in the dirt.

What was wrong with giving Emma the option to wear blue? She should be able to wear whatever colour she wanted.

Emma’s face hovered inches from the soil. She’d probably spotted a bug or a worm. When Amelia was little, Aunt Triss used to take her into the garden to search for signs of fairies or to hunt for gnomes.

Her eyes prickled, and she blinked quickly, taking another sip of champagne to dislodge the lump in her throat.

Empty.

She turned from the window to seek out a refill, heading to her father, who hadn’t moved from his post. He always enjoyed reigning at the drinks station.

She reached his elbow without him spotting her. How’s the bartender?

Amelia! Enjoying the party?

Yes, absolutely delighted to be making small talk with people I barely know who think leaving law is a sign of a mental breakdown. More importantly, it looks like Emma is. She nodded towards the garden. When do we get to see her open her presents?

Ask your mother. I’m just the barman. Her father grinned, taking her glass and refreshing it. So, you remember Philipa? he asked as he handed her back the glass, bubbles flying to the surface.

Who?

Philipa Stevens, one of the partners. Her stomach tightened. This couldn’t be good.

Oh yes, of course. How is she? She sipped her drink, the bubbles flying up to tickle her nose. With each glass, the champagne grew sweeter.

She studied the bottles on offer. They had a good selection of non-alcoholic drinks. How many guests, other than Sally and Charlie, had tried them?

One of her legal assistants is pregnant. Due in March, but because we have such good terms, is taking maternity next month, he explained.

Right, Amelia drew out the word, her tight stomach sinking.

Please don’t say it, don’t say it.

She reached out to turn one of the bottles to reveal the label, Elderflower Presse.

We’re recruiting her maternity cover. Her dad’s tone was light, nonchalant, and I thought, well, you already know the ropes …

Her stomach lurched to a stop. This was exactly the sort of conversation she did not want to be having today.

So she wouldn’t.

She drew in a deep breath, gazing at the back label of an alcohol-free wine, or in other words, grape juice. She tried to keep her voice light, upbeat, like she was genuinely touched that she’d been thought of. Oh, thanks Dad, but I’ve got a lot of hours at the yoga studio and I’m not really looking …

Yes. I am aware of your current employment, her father’s clipped words came from tightly drawn lips. But this role would pay more and give more weight to your CV. Not to mention, be rather more relevant to your degree.

Her nonexistent degree. Dad, Amelia interrupted, ceasing her study of the non-alcoholic options. I appreciate you thinking of me, but no thanks.

She regretted it as soon as she said it. Her dad’s thin smile disappeared, his face tightening as his stare swung over to meet hers. I do not appreciate that tone.

She was eight. She was eight and had been caught playing in his study when she knew she shouldn’t. She ducked her head and stared at her shoes. They were muddy.

I am merely informing you of a possible employment opportunity that is well paid with good conditions. I’m just looking out for you.

I know you are. She sighed. I didn’t mean to be … ungrateful. She steeled herself and met his gaze. I merely meant to say that I appreciate the offer, but I’m not looking for anything right now.

He shook his head. Amelia, how long are you going to keep this up?

Heat swept over her. Keep this up? Like she’s a stubborn teenager rebelling?

I just don’t want to be a lawyer, Dad. She strangled the automatic I’m sorry and stuffed it back down her windpipe.

Her father ran his hand through his hair. I just don’t understand. It’d be one thing if there was something else you wanted to do, but you haven’t given any indication that that’s the case.

She twisted the ring on her finger in time with the clenching of her stomach. Behind his shoulder, a woman threw her head back and laughed at the punchline of a story.

So much for avoiding this topic of conversation.

You just decided one day to turn your back on everything you’d worked for. Everything your mother and I worked to give you.

She opened her mouth to point out the unfairness of this statement, but her father ploughed on.

You’re working as a receptionist, and your mother and I can’t figure out what you’re doing seriously about your future.

She wanted to argue with this, but now the accusation lay before her, she couldn’t think of a single piece of evidence in her defence. What did she have to show of her hunt for purpose or whatever it was she was doing? A stellar Warrior One and hips that no longer groaned in pigeon pose? She’d originally leapt at the job at the studio, not because she was a yogi, but because it would give her time to pursue other things. She’d thumbed through a few college brochures, done a few free online courses, but what had she really achieved? What had she learned?

If you don’t want to be a lawyer, fine, but you could at least figure out what you do want to be whilst continuing to work in a respected profession. Legal Assistant looks much better on your CV than receptionist does.

She didn’t even want to approach the elitism behind that statement.

They’d been having this same fight for two years now. No matter what she said, he would never understand. She no longer had the strength to try. I know you don’t agree with my decisions, but they’re just that, my decisions.

Her dad opened his mouth to argue, but one of Sally’s shiny work friends approached for a refill of their drink, her pearly whites gleaming, the ends of her blonde hair all neatly aligned where it fell over her shoulder. Amelia stepped away from her father, who had already turned from her, smiling, hand on the chilled bottle of bubbly.

She backed away and disappeared into the background of the party.

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From the back of the gathering, Amelia watched Emma open her gifts, Charlie and Sally helping. They sat on the plush sheepskin rug in front of the immaculate fireplace, Emma between them: the model family, straight off a website selling eco-friendly wellness products for mothers and babies.

The rest of the party circled round them: perched on the rolled arms of the sofas or sinking into the cushions. Others stood in clumps, wineglasses in hand. The group collectively chuckled when Emma showed more interest in the packaging than her present.

Amelia hovered by the bookcase, clutching her glass of wine - white, not red. She wouldn’t dare come into this room with coloured liquids. Who buys cream sofas?

Her mum’s soft voice reached her ears, I’m sorry your father brought up the job opportunity. I asked him not to.

Amelia blinked at her mum, who stood close beside her, gaze also on the scene of family bliss before them. It wasn’t like her mother to speak ill of her dad’s actions.

Her mother drew in a slow breath and sighed. He’s just trying to look out for you.

That was more like it, defending and explaining them.

I know, Amelia said, twisting her ring.

They were quiet as Emma, with the help of Charlie, unwrapped a soft pink bunny, with ears as long as its body. Emma smiled and reached for the thing, her little fist opening and closing, making gurgles of pleasure. She grabbed it, promptly sticking one of its ears in her mouth for further investigation.

Amelia’s mother shifted beside her. I do wish you would consider his offer though.

What happened to not wanting it brought up?

Her mother’s eyes remained on Emma, a fixed smile on her face. It is just a temporary job, her mother reasoned.

Amelia’s thumb ran over the silver band of her ring, the smooth curve sliding across her skin.

No one’s trying to stop you from doing what you want to do.

Funny, that’s kind of what it feels like.

She really didn’t want to get into this. Her parents were making her petulant. She was grateful for all their support through uni and for getting her those summer jobs at the firm. Truly. But she just didn’t want to be a lawyer anymore.

She’d tried explaining this. Over and over.

When she’d told her mother that she couldn’t see herself being a lawyer in ten years’ time, her mother had said, The future just seems so far away for you. Of course, you can’t connect to it, and given her shoulder a squeeze.

When she’d tried to get her sister to understand that university suffocated her, Sally’s face fell into sympathy. She’d nodded, raising a hand to her chest, and said, Oh Amelia, I know you miss Aunt Triss. We all do, but the grief will get easier.

She hadn’t known how to respond to that. She’d just stood there, pressing her nails into her palms, stinging her flesh, trying to keep it together.

Maybe this time her mum would listen. She could try, one more time. Amelia took a deep breath, Mum, I …

Her mother placed an elegant hand on her arm, her touch light. Amelia stared down at the pale aquamarine on her mother’s bony finger. It glinted in the light. Her sixtieth birthday present from her and Sally. Mostly from Sally, who she suspected had covered most of the cost, lying about the total amount.

Just think about it, hunny, for me?

And despite herself, Amelia swallowed down her words and nodded.

This was going to be it, wasn’t it? Her parents would keep pushing until she could give them a why in the form of an alternative career path. Preferably something equally respected as the one she’d left, like a doctor.

She would try, always one more time, to explain. Hoping that finally, this might be the day she could connect, could get them to understand; only to see the same hope in their faces reflected back at her. Or worse, disappointment.

She blinked away the tears gathering in her eyes.

Her mother smiled and gave her arm a light squeeze before removing her hand. Her task complete.

Amelia stared across the room.

Sally gazed down at her daughter, a smile on her lips, Charlie by her side, her friends and colleagues grouped around her.

Amelia stood on the periphery by the door. A wall of strangers between her and her sister.

Her parent’s living room distorted, stretching out in front of her, the walls curving in above her. The guest’s chatter rose to a din that pressed in on her, laughter striking out at her like the stab of a blade. Her blood pulsed.

She needed to get away.

She must have managed to appear calm as she pushed down the energy pacing and stomping in her gut, because her mother just nodded with a small smile when she excused herself.

Amelia shot to the door, fleeing from the quakes and cackles of the party.

The quiet of the upstairs called to her. There was a bathroom up there she could lock herself in for a minute, splash some cold water on her face. She ditched her wineglass on the hall table next to a vase of pink lilies.

She glided her hand along the cool, smooth wood of the polished banister and placed her foot fully on each step before moving to the next, counting, One, two, three …

On sixteen, she reached the wide, carpeted hallway. Safe beyond the touch of the party. She stood at the top of the stairs, closed her eyes, and inhaled a long, deep breath, letting the quiet solitude wash through her.

The energy in her gut swayed to stillness.

She opened her eyes. Pretty watercolour sketches of boats in harbours, framed in pale green, hung on the wall.

Padding towards the bathroom, she passed one of the guest bedrooms, its door open.

Instead of a pristinely made bed with laid out guest towels, there were cardboard boxes. She stepped closer, nudging the door open wider.

A blanket of stillness lay across the room, as though time had paused. The boxes lined the walls, one atop the other, some even resting on the plush king-size bed.

She stepped inside and closed the door softly behind her. Even the disturbance of the air was an intrusion. Block lettering written across the boxes in marker pen told her that they were home to her aunt’s belongings. For the hundredth time that night, she drew in a slow, deep breath. The anticipation of memories, of connection, fizzed in her stomach and along her skin.

She approached the bed and reached out for the nearest box. Holding her breath, she peeled back the rigid flaps.

The scent of sawdust and varnish billowed out, transporting her to Triss’s beloved workshop. Amelia used to perch on the workbenches, tea in hand, talking to her aunt as she worked.

As a kid she would complain about her friends’ fights, or moan about her mum treating her like a child. Later, the topics of conversation covered which universities to apply to, a friend she worried about, or some boy who was being a dick.

Her aunt would nod along and make appropriate noises of exasperation at the latest teenage girl antics as she sanded a chair. Triss said she listened better if she had something for her hands to do. Gave better advice, too. She’d pause sanding and give her full attention, then say something infuriating but annoyingly helpful, like, Why do you think your mum’s doing that? And Amelia would be forced to think about the problem from a different perspective. To try to understand her mother.

She wished she could talk to Aunt Triss now. She’d get Amelia’s hunt for a job she loved, for something she was great at. Triss had forged her own path. She was markedly different from the rest of the Roberts family, and Amelia had adored her for it.

But Triss had known that she wanted to be a carpenter. All Amelia knew was that the thought of working at a law firm for the rest of her life, getting married and having two-point-five children, left her … empty.

She didn’t fit at the yoga studio any better if she was honest. She’d chat politely to the women as they came in, and she enjoyed the few classes she took, but she didn’t experience inner peace standing in tree pose. She didn’t fancy going on yoga retreats to eat soy, and when she’d gone out for drinks with the instructors that one time, they hadn’t had much in common.

The box Amelia opened brimmed with books. She breathed in, but they weren’t old enough to have that old book smell. Picking one up, she thumbed through the pages wondering if Triss had read them, or if she’d stuck them on a shelf thinking ‘one day’ she’d get to them.

Her eyes prickled.

By going through her aunt’s things, she’d disturbed more than dust. But still she pulled another box towards her and lifted the flaps.

Inside weaved a vibrant river of purple and pink. She picked up the silken scarf, bringing it to her face and inhaling. The scent of summer filled her nose. Of cut grass, summer blooms, and of course, wood varnish. Under the scarf lay a collection of silver and gold bangles. Some chunky others slight, resting on a bed of bright, patterned fabrics.

She’d always found Aunt Triss mysterious; dressed in her layers of flowing material in rich colours, bangles jangling on her wrist and copper dangling from her ears. They’d visit her house in the countryside, and she’d take Sally and Amelia on walks to explore old, ruined churches, pointing out wildflowers and telling them what they could be used for. They went on adventures.

When Aunt Triss had left Amelia her ring, she’d discovered one of Triss’s biggest mysteries. Etched into the inside of the ring in beautiful, slanted text were the words, ‘Bound in Essence’.

She didn’t know what it meant. Some of the letters had begun to smudge away with wear, so she knew it wasn’t a new message for her. It sounded romantic, like a promise, but who was it to? She couldn’t remember her aunt being in any significant relationships. Her heart had burned as she realised they hadn’t ever talked about Triss’s love life.

She’d tried asking her mum once, but it had been such an awkward conversation, her mother stiffening at the mention of Triss. And she hadn’t known about the inscription, nor could she offer any ideas as to what it might mean.

So the inscription remained a mystery.

Amelia gazed at all the boxes of objects around her. Once possessions, now just things. Why hadn’t her mother, who was always so organised, sorted through them yet?

Pushing the box of clothes away, she reached for a third to see what treasure it held.

Stacks of paper: cards and notes and letters. A history of thoughts and experiences.

One of the letters stuck out at an angle. She hovered her hand in the air. Was it wise to read a letter not intended for you? Was it breaching her aunt’s privacy?

Curiosity got the better of her, and she plucked it out. As she drew the letter from its envelope, a photograph fluttered from it, landing in the box. She picked it up. A date scrawled across the back in loopy script. She flipped it over.

Two smiling children, sisters, one with her arms wrapped around the other in an uncomfortable-looking hug. Five-year-old Amelia’s mouth hung open in a goofy grin. She gazed up at her sister, who posed sweetly for the camera, her arms pinned at her sides.

Amelia stared at the face of her younger self. So carefree and joyful. Her hair glinting gold in the sun, blonder as a child. Sally looked unchanged. Even her dark hair was cut into a similar style.

She turned her attention to the letter and read. It was from her mum to Triss, a short note, the photograph was the focal point. In it, her mother wrote that the girls were doing well. That Sally loved the book Triss had given her, and how she couldn’t stop Amelia from hunting woodlice and decapitating flowers to make into perfume. That the other night she’d tried making their mother’s Queen of Puddings, and it hadn’t turned out quite right, but George had eaten it all anyway - so it couldn’t have been that bad!

The writing blurred.

Blinking away tears, Amelia read the last couple of lines about Triss coming over to take the girls to a museum whilst her mum and dad attended a conference.

It was such an innocuous letter, yet the back of her throat stung. She sat on the edge of the bed, gazing at the photo, at the happy little girl embracing her sister.

The whole world was wide and open to that girl. She could do anything, and it looked like she knew. It looked like, after this photo, she planned to hunt for bugs or gather rose petals to make perfume. Or maybe, carry on hugging her sister.

Had her parents really looked at this little girl and thought, ‘lawyer’?

Amelia sat on the bed, lost amongst her aunt’s belongings, weighed down by the grief for her aunt, and something else. Something like grief for her five-year-old self.

Chapter two

Amelia stepped out into the night and sucked in a breath of cool air. Jumping down the stone steps, she waved a last goodbye to her parents at the door before turning onto the pavement.

On the whole, it hadn’t gone that badly. Other than mentioning the job, her parents hadn’t questioned her about her life’s direction. She pulled her hat down over her ears and slipped her hands into her pockets. She wished she’d remembered gloves. The lamplight glittered on the pavement and the naked trees shook in the wind. It was a ten-minute walk to the bus stop, the bus due in fifteen minutes. She tried to keep an even pace to stop herself from rushing so she wouldn’t end up waiting too long in the cold.

Her footsteps echoed through the silent street of symmetrical stone houses. Some had columns cut into the stone, others had fancy carved entranceways framed by box hedges. A few of the residents hadn’t drawn their curtains, revealing high ceilings and intricate cornicing. Amelia glimpsed oil paintings through the windows, sparkling chandeliers, and even a grand piano. What would it take to keep these houses clean? Though she supposed the occupants could afford help with such tasks.

The houses gave way to greenery and foliage as she passed a park contained by an iron fence. Lamplight illuminated trees and cast long shadows across the grass.

She paused and squinted at the base of a grand tree about a metre off the path. Growing above the grass, was that …?

Amelia loved all the seasons. The light and warming of spring. All the possibilities of summer: bringing festivals, travel, and days that stretched out in front of her. The colours of autumn and the cosy hug of knitwear for the first time in weeks. Winter’s excuse to stay in and watch films, or duck into the warmth of crowded pubs on your walk home to escape the cold.

But when she was younger, she’d felt differently. Winter’s bad weather and long nights stopped her from playing outside. There were days she’d go to school and come home in the dark, never seeing the day. The winter seemed to last forever, and all she could do was wait.

One dank day in January, her Aunt Triss coaxed her onto a walk to hunt for snowdrops. They’d wrapped up warm and ventured out. When Amelia spotted the delicate white flower and bent down to look closer, Triss told her that snowdrops were nature’s message that winter was drawing to an end, that spring was on its way. From then on, they’d made a game of it each year: the first to spot a snowdrop was the victor.

Grass crunched underfoot as she stepped closer to the familiar scene. Above the grass grew a small flower. Its stalk arched and dangled a white bud, like an iron rod dangling the glow of an oil lamp. A couple of seedlings grew next to her, not quite ready to shine.

The first snowdrop. She swallowed.

Her first instinct called her to text Triss a photo, tell her she’d seen the first signs of spring. She wanted to drive over to her home, sit at the beaten-up pine table as Triss heated milk on the awful electric stove, the strangled hum of the ancient fridge in the background. Drink hot chocolate with three big marshmallows and a cap of skooshy cream and celebrate the turning of the seasons.

She brushed away a tear. It sucked playing the game alone.

If she was honest, the last few months had sucked, or even years. Triss getting sick, Amelia throwing herself into studying and exams, Triss passing away, Amelia spending summers working late at a boring job that only cemented how different she was from her family. At least she’d managed to take charge of her life and leave school to pursue other things, but since then she’d stalled.

What was she doing with herself? Where was she going? The last few years, she’d been on autopilot, and now that she was trying to take the helm herself, she had no idea how to steer.

She let out a breath in a whoosh, shaking her head at herself, as this snowdrop proved, ‘this too shall pass’.

As she straightened, the wind whipped up around her. Plunging her hands in her pockets, she tugged her coat in tighter. The lamplight in the park flickered, then died.

She stumbled over a tree root, fighting her hands free and throwing them out to break her fall, cursing as she hit the cold, solid ground. The frost soaked the knees of her jeans and her coat cuffs. She patted her hands dry on her coat and her palms stung. She’d scraped them. How embarrassing, a primary school injury.

The wind whooshed in her ears.

Moonlight illuminated the great tree, casting a kaleidoscope of silvery shadows that danced across the bark.

Unease pricked at the back of her mind. She pulled her gaze away to survey the dark park. What was casting those shapes? A shiver ran down her spine.

The wind grew stronger, whistling through branches. It wasn’t wise to be around trees in such high winds. She should get back to the path, be on her way to catch her bus. But her gaze snagged on the silver shadows and she couldn’t pull herself away.

The silver shapes were splitting and gliding across the bark. Her heart hummed. A force pulled her forwards, a connection from the core of the tree to her chest. A dull warning in the