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the bleak, frozen fields of
Vermont
.
    But for now all was an icy silence, spreading out over the snow-shrouded landscape. The tree limbs were black against the whiteness, and in the distance the mountains hovered over them, an ancient, protective presence.
    Carolyn moved behind the house, her down coat bundled tightly around her as she walked along the neatly shoveled paths. Her booted feet made soft, crunching noises on the cold snow, and somewhere in the distance she could hear an owl cry. There were creatures out there in the darkness, wild ones who lived their lives with stunning simplicity and freedom. Someday that freedom would be hers.
    She'd never been fool enough to think she'd been free during her Boston years. Sally was the only mother she'd ever known, a calm, dispassionate figure who had always been there. If there hadn't been much outward affection or involvement, at least Carolyn had felt Sally's caring and stability.
    And she'd felt that caring over the years and the miles.
    She owed Sally. Not on a physical level—that debt had been paid. She owed her emotionally, for giving her someone to belong to. No one else among the mighty MacDowells had even noticed the quiet girl child growing up in tempestuous Alexander's wake, but Sally had noticed, and watched over her, and loved her in her own way.
    And Carolyn owed her everything in return. For a few months she could put her life on hold. For a few months she could stay.
    Until Sally died.
    All the denial in the world wouldn't change what would happen—Carolyn had learned that lesson long ago. She would mourn her deeply, but finally her life would be her own.
    She would even have money. Nothing like the huge sums that the real MacDowells would inherit. Nothing like the kind of money the imposter would be trying to con out of a dying old lady.
    It didn't matter. It would help reclaim her tentative independence. Despite her affection for the extended MacDowell family, even including stuffy Uncle Warren, Aunt Patsy, and her diverse offspring, once Sally died her ties would be severed. Her debt of loyalty and love would be paid, and she would be completely, gloriously free.
    She supposed she should feel guilty about that, about the longing for freedom, but she couldn't. If she could change things, give years off her life to keep Sally happy and healthy she would gladly do so. But God didn't make those kinds of bargains, and Sally was dying. And Carolyn would be gone.
    She could see her breath in the night air, soft puffs of vapor spilling out, as she made her way down the path to the frozen pond. She used to skate there, years ago, when the MacDowells had come to
Vermont
each Christmas. Before she had brought Sally here to die. She hadn't skated in years, but Ruben saw to it that the surface was always cleared of snow. It was smooth and clean now, this last dumping already pushed to one side if anyone was silly enough to want to skate.
    Carolyn stood on the edge of the ice, staring out across the glassy surface, a sudden absurd urge rushing through her. She didn't even own a pair of skates, though a pair would be produced almost immediately if she expressed an interest.
    She stepped out onto the ice gingerly, the tread on her flat boots keeping her from slipping. The ice was almost a foot thick, and she tried to push along against it, but her boots gave her too much traction.
    She moved to the center of the pond, gathering the stillness about her. It had been years since she'd tried to skate. It was so long ago she couldn't even remember when she'd last worn skates.
    Yes, she could. Christmas, twenty—two years ago, when she'd been nine years old. She'd gotten new skates, and a surprisingly patient Alex had brought her out to try them. She should have known better than to trust him. She'd ended the day with a fractured wrist, courtesy of Alex's attempts to teach her the niceties of ice hockey, and she'd never picked up her skates again.
    Even now she could