Week 4

 Day 22

Why is it hotter at night than it is during the day? Seriously. The sky has not seen the sun for hours, yet the heat shimmies it’s way into my bones until I feel like I’m being melted from the inside out.

My mother in law is having a party tomorrow, which means that my husband will be here. I don’t know why I’m so looking forward to seeing him. I think it must be all the unfamiliar faces, the unfamiliar glares and glances of mistrust and dislike. At least his stare will be familiar, and I don’t get the idea that he doesn’t like me, so he’s probably as friendly a face as I’ll see here.

Adora is even stiffer and quieter here than she is at home. Apparently, she has a cousin coming for the party (as a guest, not a servant) and her usual reticence has been replaced with a spell of complete dumbness. I find myself filling the silence with babble about home, Winter home, I mean. I heard my voice so much today that echoes of it bounce around my head.

I remember this lover I had when I was young, say seventeen or so. He was nerdy, like my father, only without the spine of steel. My father couldn’t stand him. He said that it was all well and good to be studious but that one shouldn’t take so much pride in it. Henry, that was my lover’s name, said all the right things about entrails, but the air that he used was all wrong. He spoke as though he were dropping each word, one more precious than the last, into a well of wisdom that could sustain every listener for several lifetimes. Words like “the” and “and” were dropped with equal importance as something like “eviscerated” or “blood-slippery”. I think this is usually referred to as monotone, although, monotone suggests a complete lack of interest or importance, and that’s the opposite of how Henry spoke.

Henry also had some nice muscle definition on his arms and chest, though with his clothes on, he looked like your regular skinny guy. He would take his shirt off, or wear tight clothing, at every opportunity. He had a waist smaller than a woman’s and he used to open conversations by telling me his latest measurements….Obviously, it didn’t work out. I could never get him to fall as much in love with me, as he was with himself. Besides, I could never marry a man with shoulders broader, yet a waist narrower, than mine.

Day 23

I visited Autumn once, when I was young. The sky was such an intense blue, that it burned my eyes. In Summer,  the sky is so burned up by the sun that it wafts a feeble blue, diluted with insubstantial, hesitant clouds. 

In Winter, you know not to leave the house with wet hair, unless you wish to arrive at your destination popsiclized. In Summer, you daren’t leave the house without a hat. I didn’t bring one that matched my outfit, so I insisted on going out without one, since I was mostly going to be under tents today, at the picnic. 

Those ridiculous, floppy straw things that Summerians slap onto their heads would look ridiculous enough on me, even without my pointed shoulder pads and glacial corset. Adora said I’d regret it, and I did. 

Part of the picnic is watching men throw the shoes that horses wear, at big stakes in the ground. It’s supposed to prove coordination, and therefore masculinity, apparently. But there is no head cover for this, and I stood in the noon sun for about an hour. This was not a good idea.

Adora helped me cover my illness, and I’m certain that to all but my husband and my mother-in-law, I just seemed an ill-bred Winteress.  I have at least a gallon of water by my bedside, and I’m still seeing yellow and red spots, though the sun has been down for hours. 

I find it interesting that Summerians have such a gentle, welcoming manner. Like the warm sun welcomes you into its light, only to burn you with its flame. Summerians charm you into a false sense of camaraderie, only to take your secrets and share them with everyone else. 

I don’t know. I think it may be better to seem fierce and be kind, than to seem kinds and to be cruel. Maybe it’s the Winter in me. Maybe it’s what the sun did to me today. I didn’t mention the redness and blistering that has occurred over any part of my body which was exposed to the sun, namely my face and shoulders. Adora rubbed a cool, gooey substance that smells like dandruff onto the burns, which soothed them instantly, but I am still a mess to look at. 

And I will never forget, reaching up and feeling the top of my head. My hair was as hot as any stove. If anyone had wanted fried sausages, they wouldn’t have had to go far to cook them.

Day 24

Today, my head was aching and I was so homesick, that I was really cranky. I felt so alone and tired and scared that I took it out on Adora. Now, compared to the abuse I’ve seen her take from other people, I’d say I was slightly rude. But I feel a guilt all out of proportion for it.

I’m supposed to be her friend -- or at least, not just another tormentor….

She took it with grace, and of course I can’t apologize because that would ruin my image of the crystalline terrorist.

So now I feel tired and alone and scared and guilty -- and more alone than before because now the only person that I could remotely consider an ally here, probably hates my guts.

Day 24

I spent the day feeling terrified of being found out, and guilty about being mean to Adora, which only made me crankier. I’m sure she’s thinking that my Winterosity has finally shown itself. 

It’s one of those days that makes me want to just pack up and go home. At home, I’d go to the library when I felt like this. The sad thing is, this isn’t new to me. I always knew I was too emotional, too sensitive, and I had to fight harder than anyone else to hide it.

My mother-in-law has a fantastic library, but it’s full of people. I wonder if anyone is there now. I picture it dark and blessedly silent. Cool, with its marble walls and warm from the refurbished trees which hug the wall with an unlearnable amount of knowledge.

I wouldn’t even need a candle, just to be in the same room with lyricists and novelists and essayists of the ages. I saw a section with Winter poetry. Winter poetry, as would be easily believed, is stark and comfortless, but the images that it builds in my head make me feel gigantic and invincible.

It’s hard to breathe. I can’t be thinking of sneaking into the library. What if people are still there? What if I run into someone in the hallway?

I stole one of Adora’s old dresses, after I had some new ones made. I didn’t feel safe enough to take out my piercing tonight, but if I do so now, with my hair softened with lack of stiffener, and covered in a kerchief, I wonder…

No. It’s a stupid idea. I must not. My wrist is raw where I’ve pinched myself throughout the day. It’s a gentle prophecy of what my neck will feel like in a noose.

Nevertheless, warm feet slide across a cool stone floor. This fear is so uncomfortable, that if it were not for the entire kingdom of people that I would be setting up for slaughter, I would shout the truth out into the night, and welcome the idea of cold steel being warmed by hot organs as it slips with a gentle squish through my guts.

I can not resist the pull of the library, the sweet scent of knowledge imprinted upon mortal paper.  Adora’s dress is so stiff with years of dirt and cleaning solvents that it scratches my skin, which is so toughened from years of beatings that I only feel it in my most sensitive areas. 

Adora was rubbed raw by this dress, and dresses like this, that I felt compelled to have her new ones made -- in a style crossed between Winter and Summer, which I thought was appropriate, and also was an excellent excuse for new dresses.

My nerve nearly fails me, when I pass a tired servant in the hall, but he doesn’t even look up, only  wrinkles his nose at the variety of smells still embedded in the dress, and then he’s past. 

And the moon shines against the stained glass windows, illuminating, rather than lighting the room. The scent of clean, stacked wood competes with the more fragrant dress, until I step closer to the walls and the scents of scrolls and books, of knowledge and imagination sweep away every other sense -- including the common variety.

Day 25

I’m not sure what broke my depression. Maybe it was spending the dark morning hours in the library, or maybe it was being too sleepy to care, today. Maybe it was looking around at everyone’s political masks at yet another interminable party, that made me realize that I am not alone in being alone.

People always say that one should enjoy life because life it short. A hundred plus years isn’t a long time in the scheme of things. After all, there has been some sort of civilization on this planet for going on 50,000 years. But a hundred years is a long time to be mortal, when each of those years takes up 365 days, 4380 hours, 282,800 minutes, and over a million seconds. A million seconds is a long time to be miserable. So why isn’t the saying, “Life is too long”? I guess it defeats the purpose, which is to say that we need to embrace the things that make us fulfilled and happy with however much time we have here, long or short.

In any case, whilst I was in the library last night, I stumbled upon a secret room. Judging by the cobwebs and dust, it’s been abandoned for quite some time. I believe I’ve found a place for me to naked. A place where I have to neither smile nor frown. A place where I can sweat or cry, any sort of bodily precipitation I feel the urge to participate in….

It only took bumping into Adora, one day, to realize how uncomfortable her clothes were. After last night, I’m glad that I ordered some new clothes made for her. My skin is raw and itching in places, though I removed the dress hours ago. That girl’s stamina and ability to take pain and discomfort without complaint is astounding. It’s humbling, really. In any case, I’ll need different peasant clothes to hide in. I can’t handle another second under that cloth -- no matter the freedom promised by the disguise.

Day 26

Oh…man, oh man oh man! I love my secret room, I really do, but it has NO INDOOR PLUMBING! Not even an old-fashioned chamber pot. I’m about to pee on the floor, I really am, but I don’t want to sully the purity of my hiding space. Then again, I could just think of it as marking my territory. But, no, I don’t want my territory to smell like pee!

There were, like, twenty people in the library earlier, and now there’s only one. Get OUT! OUT! Ooh, he’s going toward the door! No!!! He’s coming back! What is wrong with him? Does he WANT me to get some sort of urinary tract infection? BASTARD!

Ooh, ooh, he’s gone!

Okay, okay. I just have to make it back to my chambers before I burst. Hallway’s clear. Good. Oh, no! That nasty woman from the picnic -- she never shuts up. I might just have to pee on her. Oh, that’s right, I’m dressed as a servant. She’s sweeping right past me, not even a glance. 

“My room needs fresh towels.”

No it doesn’t. Adora makes sure I get fresh towels every morning. Oh! The nasty woman said that. What does she think I am, some sort of serv-- oh.  

Ooh, ooh, there’s my room! My door! Adora! Oh, crap, just walk past the room, and wait till she leaves…Eyes avert, barely nod. Yeah, she’s moving past. That’s right, go get me something to drink! Hah! Oh, I peed a little.

Ooh, finally, bathroom, door closed. Thank you GOD that this servant garb is easier to get out of than my own.

Siiiiggh….Okay. Clean hands, clean mind. I love bubbles. Ooh, my face looks horrible without any make-up. Look at those pores! I could park trucks in there….I’ll fix that. I wonder how long Adora’s going to be on her errand? I just need--Oh, crap.

“I was just bringing your mistress some fresh towels,” I say, keeping my eye to the ground.

“My mistress has fresh towels,” Adora says. Her voice is careful. It’s interesting to see how she speaks to other servants. “I believe that Lady Naestra needs some, though.”

“Okay, will do,” I say briskly, and step past her.

I reach my chamber door, before Adora speaks again. “Do you know where the towels are kept, Your Highness?”

Week 3

 Day 15

The boys of Summer have an odd mating ritual which consists of hollering at pretty girls on the street. The boys maintain a distance of at least twenty feet, and their efforts do not seem to yield results of any kind, so I can not see that it is a particularly effective wooing mechanism.

For a while, I thought that the boys may have been making noise in order to gain respect from other boys, but I have seen several boys on their own, hollering at girls, so this can not be the case.

In Winter, when a boy wants a girl’s attention, he walks up to her, kisses her hand, hands her his card, and punches out the boy closest to his age. It is a much more calculated ritual, because the boy must be certain to a) be presentable, b) have a boy his age with him in order to punch, and c) either be stronger than the second boy or have paid the other boy enough money that the boy will not attempt to woo the girl, herself.

Winter’s way seems to be more intricate, but much more effective, since at the end of the meeting,, the girl knows exactly who the wooer is, and has had a demonstration of his strength and nerve -- even if the demonstration is staged. (And all the best ones are….)

Day 16

I’ve been here for two weeks and I am dying to move around a bit. I wear this big, cumbersome dress, in order to reassure people that I can’t move freely, and in that way, that they are safer from my Winter wrath. It’s a complete sham, but it’s hot, and I can’t move the way I want to, unless I open up the dress, which I can’t do because it’ll blow my cover. Anyway, I am dying to MOVE. I can’t move a muscle, facial or otherwise, and it is driving. Me. Insane. I can’t imagine another day of this, let alone years -- should I live that long. Do I want to?

The only thing I can really do to escape, is read. I just finished reading this weird book by Sesshu Foster. He’s from Spring, which I don’t even have to say, means that he’s already more than a little insane. The way he writes, only confirms this.

He doesn’t use paragraphs.

He doesn’t use dialogue quotations.

He mixes realities and fantasies and uses these insane, run-on sentences that do nothing except put you directly into the mind of this completely crazy character.

The book is covered in torn (faux) human skin and blood, which is disturbing enough to ensure that no Summerian look inside -- this amuses me because usually, the fiercest or most disgusting books hold pages of the most beautiful poetry ever written.

In this case, though, the cover fits the book -- the story is full of ritualistic murder and the dead-ahead, blinders-on way that most people, Summer, Winter, etc. go about their business. We just kill each other and don’t even feel it anymore, because it’s the Thing To Do. We don’t see each other as human -- admittedly, this is something that Winterians encourage. However, no matter how unworldly as we attempt to appear, we are flesh and blood, hopes and dreams, just like anyone else. 

And the way that all of our countries fight amongst each other Summer against Summer, Winter against Winter, Spring against Spring, Autumn against Autumn -- I wonder if it would matter. Do people realize that what they’re really doing is killing their neighbors, and possibly even kinsfolk?

I don’t think they do. War, murder, etc., once decided upon, becomes this mindless task. Don’t think. Just kill.

Day 17

Tomorrow I have to go pay a visit to my mother-in-law. I’m to take Adora and two ladies-in-waiting with us so that we’ll have a lively party. My husband’s mother lives in a small castle in the country, flanked by a moat, guards, and a hundred servants. Courtiers visit often, back and forth with new and more interesting gossip. 

I don’t think she ever really intended to retire, when her son took over the crown. I think she just didn’t want to share a castle as less than a queen.

Needless to say, I am incredibly intimidated by the prospect, and of course, have to appear unflappably unimpressed at the idea, and indeed, at the reality. My husband watched me closely today, when he showed my invitation. He continues to joke and tease and watch me mercilessly through the haze of foolishness that he wears about him like and invisible barrier. 

Most of the courtiers are fooled by his jokeresque persona, but the majority of his advisors do not share in the illusion. I, myself, sense a heavily-controlled temper -- a violence of mind and spirit. Not a particularly evil one, really, otherwise he wouldn’t be so careful to control it. Rather, like me, he has an illusion to maintain. However, whereas I wear the fearsome mask over softness and sweetness, he wears the mask of buffoonery over eyes marked with cunning and shrewdness. He reminds me of my father, actually.

My father is a gentle man, but not one to be trifled with. And my husband is shrewd enough both to see through my disguise, and to keep it to himself -- though he can not seem to help himself in trying to test and  provoke me at every opportunity. I think that he knows it is a lost cause, but he tests me, every day.

Ah, well. At least there is something to do here that will keep my wits sharp, even as parts of my body begin to sag. I must find a way to exert some energy or my organs will simply burst inside my body from sheer boredom.

Day 18

It is two in the morning and finally cooling off enough that I might be able to fall asleep if it weren’t for the troubles of the day that have burned themselves into my brain. The heat melts my problems into my psyche until I fear that I will never be able to separate them.

I will forever taste the burnt toast I had for breakfast. I will never forget the scowl on my husband’s face when I refused to smile at any of his stupid jokes. The image of Adora being teased by the other maids, and the look of stoic vacancy in her eyes is burned into my brain along with the knowledge that the sun is the one entity of Summer that I can not fool with icy façade. 

I never realized how I used to chip all of  my problems away, and toss them aside to lie shattered beneath my bed, ready to attach themselves to my slippers in the morning.

This dress is so hot! It’s stifling. I can’t breathe. I squirm, trying to pull my skin away from the fabric. I usually need no blanket because my clothes are warm enough, and now the fabric sticks to my hot skin, tormenting me with my own promise to remain icy in the face of Summer’s warmth.

I must take the dress off. But I can’t, because it is so late now that once comfortable, I will sleep deeply, and not wake in time to redress. 

I CAN’T BREATHE!!! I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe, I have to -- oh. My skin breathes deep, the cool morning air. Let them kill me where I sleep, my dress is crumpled against the wall by the door and there is no incentive sweet or fearful enough to put it on again.

Day 19

Adora found me this morning, more naked than I’ve ever been in my life. (In Winter, everything is so cold, you even bathe partially clothed.)  Her laugh is like a rusty flute; high, and decomposed in places. After she composed herself, she said that we could come up with some frightening underwear for me to sleep in during the summer.

Perhaps it was the act of saving her from the arrow, or maybe after weeks of seeing me every day, she has become accustomed to my costume -- but she no longer sees me as any icy princess of Winter. I am human to her, now. It is a vulnerable, yet hopeful, position to be in. I need a friend -- I am too lonely without one. I suspect that she is, as well.

She told me today, that she is a disinherited bastard orphan of some fancy Lordship’s family. She grew up intermittently taken on as a servant by cruel relatives, and as a street urchin. A few years ago, my husband, a distant cousin, found her, cleaned her up, and brought her to court as a lady’s maid. She served the Queen before my mother-in-law retired. 

Apparently, my mother-in-law was kind enough, but impatient with Adora’s lack of frivolity. The Queen loves to be entertained, and Adora becomes more and more bland, the more attention is paid to her.

I think she told me these things, in recognition of the importance of finding proof that I am merely made of flesh and blood, not ice and snow.

Day 20

I’ve been processing the visit I had with my mother-in-law yesterday. She likes be called Priscilla and wants me to call her Prissy -- which no one else is allowed to call her. I’m not certain if this is meant to be an insult as a compliment, and incidentally, anyone back home with the name “Prissy” would get the crap beaten out of them every day of their life.

Prissy, is anything but. She is smooth talking, fast moving, and watchful. She never turns her back to anyone, literally or figuratively. She speaks with a voice so lilting, it almost sounds as though she’s singing. Her movement are graceful, but never-ending, like one of the hummingbirds I find floating around the palace gardens.

Prissy’s castle is run with an iron hand, and all credit is given to her main lady’s maid Faulte. Faulte is a stout woman with an unfriendly countenance that would be perfectly acceptable in any Winter household. She gives the impression of severity, and her husky, impatient voice certainly enhances that impression, but it is clearly the Queen, with all of her honeyed charm, who runs things. The Queen is praised for her kindness, and Faulte is cursed for her shrewishness.

Prissy’s eyes, when she looks at me, at once sees through and appreciates my disguise. She is an interesting woman. Formidable for certain, and certainly an enemy I do not wish to make. But she is lonely, I am certain of it.

All of us -- Adora is stoniness, my coldness, Prissy’s sweetness -- be we must be invulnerable at all times, at all costs. The mask is different, but the reason for it is the same. To meet someone who sees through the disguise is frightening, to say the least. But it is liberating beyond words, as well.

Day 21

I know why I’m so hot at night. It’s these damn, soft beds. I can’t believe anyone can really sleep in them without smothering to death. Last night, I lay down a sheet on the floor, and slept on top of it, practically naked. 

There’s an enormous mirror in the chambers my mother-in-law has allotted for me. I’ve been taking out my spikes, and cleaning off my make-up before bed. I used to do this at home, but since I moved to Summer, I’ve kept them in at all times. Here, when I taken these things off, I feel and look naked. I could pass for a native.

In Winter tapestries, Summer folk are depicted as having glowing, golden skin. They don’t even look human. In reality, Summer folk are every color of beige, tan, and brown, just like Winter folk. If I covered up the holes from my piercing, I could wear a dress outside, and nobody would recognize me. It’s a titillating thought; one that bounces around the inside of my womb when I think of it.

It’s funny -- before I moved here, the thought never would have occurred to me. Summer folk weren’t human like Winter folk, really, they were basically another species. There was no way one could be confused for the other. I’ve been practicing my smile. There is a tavern that we passed on the way here, a farmer’s tavern. If I could get hold of a common girl’s dress, I could visit and blend in with the crowd -- see what Summer folk are like, when they’re not being observed.

Week 2

 Day 8

I saw the peasant boy today. His name is Todd. He talks a lot and doesn’t seem to mind that I’m ugly.  He says that his father beats him regularly, drunk or not, and that his mother does not usually stop him. He thinks it was my influence -- that Summer people were behaving so coldly and cruelly that they could have been mistaken as Winter folk.

“Your mother knew I was there,” I asked him.

“No.” He shook his head and kicked a loose pebble out of my way. “Ever since you married the king, she says that we have to be nicer to each other.” He shrugged. “I don’t know why.”

I told him that as a child in Winter, I could have been beaten half to death in the middle of the street and nobody would have stopped to help me. I told him that I found it very odd that his mother came to his rescue.

I did not mention that in Winter, whoever tried to hurt me would be hunted down and put to a quick but mostly painful death. People in Winter are known for their cruelty for a reason -- but their indifference is a show.

Day 9

I sent a letter to my mother today, telling her how pleasant the peasants are, and extolling the virtues of my husband.  I told her that I was bored -- which is not true. I spend every minute of every day in a heightened state of terror. Even when I am alone, I am cautious to keep my face stiff and unfriendly, in case someone happens to enter my room without introduction. Which is impossible, of course, I mean, anyone doing so would immediately be beheaded….

Still, I can’t shake this feeling of being out of place, lost, unwanted, unsafe. I want to be back home. I want to have my own face back. In Winter, we must all keep control of our emotions, but the immediate penalty is a firm slap by a loved one, not a shiny sword slid through the gullet by the enemy.

I think that we, all at home, thought that we were hard-core, tough, Winter-ites, striking terror into our enemies with our piercing and eye lenses. It is the soldier that I relate to now. Friendless and alone in a hostile land with no way to express his or her fear. No one to lean on. No sisters to practice forbidden smiles on, in the midnight moonlight, when we should have been asleep for hours.

Adora reminds me of my sister Karen -- though I would be hard-pressed to explain why. Karen was so sensitive that we all feared her chances at a good marriage. Adora, in her own way, is tougher than Karen. She has no one, cares for no one. No one has ever cared for her. This is a strength borne of needing no one and of never having been needed. She is independent of everyone and everything. The unkindness that has been shown her was from sheer maliciousness, not cultural grandstanding.

But Adora has that sensitivity that Karen did. She has that ability to sense any fluctuation in the emotional atmosphere. I am more and more convince that she knew she was slated for death and -- the thought is quite alien to me, it is a struggle to comprehend -- that she may have welcomed its warm embrace.

Even I, tired and terrified, in my bedroom at night, too guarded to even light a candle, can lie on my marble bed with no blankets, and feel the warmth of family. So far away, yet as close as a thought, as a memory. Their love, though never auspicious, and fervently denied, is a blanket of hope and comfort that Adora has never had. I think that I, in many ways, have had more affection and love and life than my maid has. 

It is a disturbing thought, mostly because when I thought of becoming the queen of Summer, I always pictured the folks to learn to love me. That is their reputation -- to be loving and open and welcoming. I never really understood, though I’d spout the propaganda at any turn, why Winter was always at war with Summer.

Winter seems cold and frightful, Summer seems warm and welcoming. But blankets of snow protect baby blades of grass that would be scorched before reaching adulthood by the Summer sun.  Summer brings warmth, yes, but it is a fiery thing -- all passion and selfishness. Destructive. All of the things that Winter has always been accused of, it is Summer who is guilty of it.

All of these thoughts make me feel more alone in this place, so aware of how unwanted I am, so barely tolerated. I think that if I had endured a lifetime of this treatment, I would be as calloused as Adora’s hands, as her heart.

Day 10

My mother could never turn a soul in trouble away. Her excuse was that one could never have too many servants, and if anyone ever put that theory to the test, it was her. Any child, widow, or just any one down on their luck -- she’d put them to work. As one of the wealthiest families in town, it was often a struggle for my parents to make ends meet because they were supporting half of the town. 

Then again, when the people my mother helped got on their feet again, they always repaid them. Publicly, my mother is known as a cruel mistress, exacting and demanding and difficult down to the last detail. Privately, she is known as someone who will come up with the minutest chore if it will earn someone coin enough to keep them fed. Publicly, my mother is known as someone who crams her servants quarters so full, that the servants have to sleep in shifts. Privately, everyone knows that if she didn’t do so, there would be hundreds of people out on the street -- and it gets cold in Winter.

Karen and I were never lacking in playmates, that’s for sure. We had so many foster siblings come and go that often, Karen and I wouldn’t see each other for months. Then the economy would rise again, mostly thanks to my mother, and the house would empty, and we would find each other again. 

I remember when I was twelve and she was thirteen, my mother took in two families with children our age. One girl was sixteen and stunning, but with the airs of a princess. In the other family, one girl was eleven and still liked to climb trees and dig tunnels and beat up boys. Karen was drawn to the rich girl and I played with the poor girl every day.

When both families left, I saw Karen again, and didn’t recognize her. She stood taller, walked straighter, had much more cleavage. I tried to get her to giggle with me at midnight, and she refused. She said that I was behaving childishly and that I should grow up.

I went away feeling like I’d lost a sister, and woke up to her tickling my side.  “What,” I said, groggily, eyes bleary from dried tears. I pushed her hands away.
“I have a joke for you,” she said. Her voice was strained with forced carelessness.

“It better be good.” My voice was quiet, hope warring with disillusion.

“What did the older sister say, to get the younger sister to stop being mad at her?” Her whisper was husky.

“What?”

“I don’t know,” she said. She did a drum roll with icy hands on my warm thigh. “You tell me.”

I laughed. “You are the worst joke teller.”

“I know,” she said, still whispering. “That’s why I need you.”

Day 11

Probably the person I miss the most, is my mother. She always had a way, even on her worst day, of being both vulnerable and untouchable.  She would do anything for anyone, but she refused to ask for help. I remember, one time she turned an ankle and was laid up for a week. You never saw a crankier person accepting help from someone else. I think the only reason she let people wait on her was because she didn’t want to injure herself worse, and then be more dependent.

My maternal grandmother had a knack of pointing out my mother’s faults and weaknesses in a shaming way and my mother, though she would give the cloak off her back to help a complete stranger, could not gracefully accept help, even from those who loved her the most.

When my father was courting my mother, it was her stubbornness that attracted him to her. Her generosity was known even then, and her mother made certain the shame my mother for her nature.  See, there are people in Winter, who actually believe the hype. They believe that we are supposed to be heartless, and have forgotten, or perhaps never knew, why we behave the way we do.

I think my grandmother’s upbringing had a lot to do with that, but even knowing that my grandmother was an orphan who was rejected by her own family, rather than taken in by relatives -- it’s difficult for me to forgive her the damage that she did to my beautiful, kind mother.

The cruelty of the Winterfolk is supposed to be stuff of legend, myth -- stories sent out to strike fear into the hearts of our enemies so that they won’t fight us. Winterfolk are pacifists. We fight when there is absolutely no other recourse. And when we do fight, we try to emphasize the carnage, as warning not to mess with us further. And it works. Winter has been at peace with every nation excepting Summer for over four thousand years.

But there are the Winterfolk, who like being Winterfolk, because it means that they get to behave in depraved, vile ways in public. I see the same folk in Summer, only they hide their hatred behind smiling masks and nice manners. I think the thing about living here is that I realize that both Winter and Summer have their accumulated personae that they are supposed to live up to; Winterfolk are ferocious and unyielding, and Summer are warm and welcoming.

But behind each and every mask, is an individual with varying degrees of good and evil battling way within them. The degree of each quality is often affected by economics, familial pressures or support, and a sense of purpose that each individual either has, or does not have.

I spoke to Todd’s father today. It turns out that though he comes from a long line of gardeners, he always yearned to be a cook. I think that most people, either in Winter or Summer, would be slow in forgiving him his anger, when it is unleashed upon a small child and a woman half his size -- but I can’t help but know how he feels.

Being trapped in a friendless land….I am resigned to it, but I don’t embrace it. Sometimes, I feel the anger well up, and I feel impotent with it. I imagine ten or so years of that will turn me into the true personification of Winterfolk, rather than the image of it.

In the meantime, I have hired Todd’s father as my personal chef. I told everyone that I don’t trust the regular kitchen chef, as my food always tastes a bit off. 

I told Adora, in front of big ears, that I’ve ensorcelled Todd’s father, Stan, so that he will be loyal to me, and not poison me. I am counting on Stan’s yearning for being a chef to keep him from poisoning me. That is the true spell I have laid upon him -- the ability to be who he has always wanted to be. 

I wonder if it will make a difference in his relationship with his wife and child. Is he the kind of man who uses life’s little twists to excuse himself from behaving like a decent human being, or has his frustration simply gotten the better of him? Time will tell, and of course, in rescuing Stan from the garden, I have made another mistake. Now Stan knows, or suspects that I am not the monster I pretend to be, and therefore is in a position to expose me. Todd and his mother also suspect, and I can only hold on to the hope that the improvement in all of their lives will make them so grateful that they will keep their traps shut. Or, perhaps, I can invoke the old Winter custom of cutting out the tongues of servants -- though I don’t believe that would go over well, since these are Summer peasants. No doubt I could do this to Adora, and no one would notice, since the girl has not a spare word to share with anyone.

My latest mistake has made me feel more exposed and alone than ever. I think I initially helped Todd in order to create for myself, a friend. However, those who credit one with the blessings in their lives, often turn on the same person when things do not go the way they expect. So if Stan does not become happy and fulfilled, if he chooses to remain the malcontent that he is now, I am the person they will all blame.

One would wonder if I were in full leave of my senses, or if I simply have a wish for a slow, painful death….

Day 12

On the heels of yesterday, I woke up spoiling for a fight. Lady Virginia is a chubby gal, who married slightly beneath her to a very wealthy man. So she has the airs of a Duchess and the gold of a queen, and behaves as though she were the Goddess Above All. I try not to like her.

Lady Virginia is one of my daily companions, a governess almost, who teaches me Summer history. When I entered the visiting chambers, I found her picking on my maid. “Did she do that to you?” The Lady was asking Adora. She flicked a hand in the direction of Adora’s face.

Adora and I often add red welts to visible skin areas using make-up. After yesterdays debacle with me hiring Stan, I decided that my viciousness needed to be shown so we fixed Adora up good with some very realistic scratches on her face. Deep, but not enough to leave a scar -- what a pain that would be every day.

Adora didn’t answer, as trying to get her to speak is akin to trying to pry my fingers out of the gaping eye sockets of an enemy.

“So you see that the position you turned down with me, was a big mistake, do you?” The Lady asked, with an unconcerned air.

So now I knew what Adora was being punished for, in her service to me. I guess she had a choice of pain/death or daily rape and chose me. Not that the Count, Virginia’s husband, is into abusing his servants. It’s just that he is so vain in his reputation as a lover that he can not take any protestations seriously. Indeed, any female servant considering placement in Count Vincenzo’s house is warned and given the choice of working there. Apparently, Adora chose not to, and in doing so somehow offended the notoriously sensitive Lady Virginia.

“Yes, M’lady,” Adora said, with a humble curtsy.

“You can still change your mind,” Lady Virginia said, with a forgiving air.

I could see the slightest tense to Adora’s shoulders.

“That is entirely out of the question,” I said. The Lady turned toward me, surprised by my sudden appearance. She curtseyed as I said. “The only way this wench leaves my service is in a casket.” 

The Lady shot me an openly angry glare, in opposition to Adora’s nearly imperceptible grateful glance.

Day 13

You know that kind of day that makes you cry so hard that your head hurts and your eyes bleed? This was one of those days, only I didn’t get to cry. In Winter, we have ways of expressing these feelings -- a lot of the ways include violence against inanimate objects.

But I feel so tired and weak. I have no desire or energy to lift a weapon. If Adora or my husband walked into my room right now, I would confess everything.

I am human.

I am sad.

I miss home.

I miss Mom.

I miss Dad.

I miss Karen.

I’m tired.

I’m tired of feeling so much more than I’m allowed to.

I’m weary of being stuck in a life that doesn’t suit me, with no way , no chance of being accepted as myself.

I wish I had the courage to be weak in front of others.

I wish I could forgive myself my own weaknesses, but all I do is run them through my mind, flagellating myself with lists of my character defects.

All I want is to stop being me for a while.

All I want is to not exist.

There are few things I wouldn’t give, to be able to escape this body, this mind, even for a few hours.

Day 14

I think I’ve figured out why I’ve been so scared lately. I’m all alone here -- which is not a surprise, or anything. It’s that if I step out of line, it’s akin to sticking my head in a guillotine. The consequences are immediate and irreversible. In Winter, if I show an uncommon kindness or smile or something stupid like that, all I get is a gentle remember like a slap or a verbal spanking.

Here, I have to discipline myself and there is no margin for error. This is difficult for someone who has always been more of an emotional Winterian. 

I see someone like Adora, with her rigid discipline so tight that she could rule Winter with the power of a glacier. But her discipline is based on never having had anyone to do soft things for her, like sing her to sleep, or smack her lightly on the head when she fell down and skinned a knee and started crying. Mom would tap me on the forehead, then smile and kiss the bandage. Adora never had that. The response that she receives for her presence ranges from neutrality to utter disrespect.

There is a young knight who seems sweet on her, but Adora dismisses him as an insincere Lothario, and I believe that he does have that reputation -- but I can’t help but believe that he is truly enamored. And she’ll never believe that. I find that very sad. Even as ugly as I am considered here, I recognize male appreciation of my form when I see it.

Now that they’re accustomed to the way I look, the braver courtiers even try to make love to me.