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encircled my shoulder, pulling me toward her. “Come in. Come in, dear.” She led me into the parlor. As I shuffled along, legs weak, feet heavy, I felt the palm of her hand against my forehead, and her skin seemed neither warm nor cool; I had lost the ability—had lost the desire—to distinguish between sensations.
    â€œYou’re freezing, child,” she said.
    And so I was. Despite the viscid August heat that hung about me, I moved within an envelope of dense, impenetrable cold. My teeth, I noticed, were clattering.
    â€œHere,” she said when we reached the red plush sofa. “You sit down, child, and I’ll—”
    â€œ No! ” I cried, and hurled myself into her, clutched at her. Beneath my grappling fingers I felt the stiff whalebone stays of her corset, against my face I felt the swell of her breast and smelled the scent of her, of oranges and cinnamon and cloves. She was warmth and substance, softness and strength; she was real. She was alive.
    â€œAmanda,” she said gently, after a moment; gently she stroked my hair. “Amanda. Amanda, child.”
    For a long while—I cannot say for how long—she held me, crooning my name as her hand caressed the nape of my neck. I wanted nothing more, forever; and nothing less.
    At last I felt her body gathering itself, stiffening, as though preparing for some enormous effort. She put her hands along my arms. “Amanda, you must be very brave now, and very strong. I want you to sit down on the sofa while I fetch you a wrap.”
    I made a weak protesting sound and shook my head against her.
    â€œHush,” she said quietly. “Hush now.” Slowly but steadily she eased me away. Her gray eyes stared unblinking into mine, and possibly for the first time I recognized the intensity of purpose she possessed; her will, beneath the kindliness, was almost palpable. “You’re in shock, child,” she said, “and there are things that must be done. Be brave now, Amanda. Can you do that for me?”
    Mutely, helplessly, I nodded.
    She nodded back, once, crisply. “I know you can. Everything will be all right, I’ll see to it, Amanda. I promise you. You sit down now.”
    I sat, boneless and slack, my hands limp atop my lap. And then, with a whisper of petticoats, Miss Lizzie was gone.
    All around me, slowly, inexorably, like falling snow, the chill began to deepen.

    â€¦ from very far away across the Persian carpet, the cat lay upon the red plush armchair and, broad white head poised above fat white paws, regarded me with green eyes as round and blank as stones.

    â€¦ a softness unfolding at my neck and shoulders and Miss Lizzie’s face before me as she tucked the afghan round my body, draped it down my knees. She held a bubble-shaped glass half-filled with brown liquid to my lips. “Brandy,” she said. “Drink it, child.”
    I sipped at it. Bitter, and it burned.
    â€œMore,” she urged.
    I took another small swallow, felt it glide fiery down my core, go glowing out along my being. And, stubbornly, I resented it, hated it, for its invasion of my numbness. When she offered the glass again, I shook my head. To this day, despite having tried to do so, even while surrounded by friendship and love, I cannot abide the taste or smell of brandy.
    Miss Lizzie stood, looked down at the glass, then raised it to her lips and drained it. She said, “I’ll return in a moment.

    â€¦ suddenly, and lit so garishly that it might have been sprawled beneath a photographer’s flash, the scene in the guest room returned to me, and I saw again the gore-splashed walls, the stains and spatters, that awful thing of meat and bone sprawled along the bed, hacked and smashed and battered. The obscene white glimmer of bone, the black thickening sheen of blood.
    My mind wrenched itself away, spun back, and I toppled into the safety of my solitary, empty Winter.

    â€¦ Miss Lizzie