The Winter Queen Read online

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER 6 HOME

  CHAPTER 7.

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER ONE

  ADVENT

  Winter had always been my favourite season until it killed my mother. That was one year ago, on Christmas Eve. Black ice and cheap tires. My father would never forgive himself. They had been economising. It cost us all her life.

  I said I didn’t blame him, and I didn’t – not really. But was hard to fully ignore the fact that if he hadn’t been penny pinching, she still might have been there.

  They said the first year was the worst. All the anniversaries coming around, highlighting their absence. The first Valentines, Mothers’ Day, Birthday, Christmas. Each of those another stab of grief in the belly. No one can ever tell you how much it hurts. There’s no physical comparable on earth.

  The box of baubles at my knees was like a box of keys, each one unlocking a precious memory; a memory I wasn’t able to face. I thought I’d be strong enough, but I wasn’t, and that’s why I was sat there a snivelling mess, staring up at an empty Christmas tree.

  “May?” Tom asked.

  I turned and smiled at his voice, so full of tired concern. He was carrying in two cups of hot chocolate, topped with squirty cream and marshmallows – just how he liked them, but a little on the elf-taste side for me. Tom took his hot-chocolate very seriously, believing they were pretty much a cure for all.

  “Sorry,” I said, sniffing.

  Putting down the hot-chocolates, he held out a hand to help me up and pulled me into a comforting hug. He was warm and he smelt of nutmeg and other spices where he had been making mince-pies. He’d been baking in our kitchen, having pretty much made our home his home. Dad didn’t complain. He had always hated cooking. Mum had loved it. Now she was gone, he spent as little time as possible in the kitchen, saying it reminded him too much of her.

  I knew Tom would make someone an amazing boyfriend one day. Just not mine. We’d known each other since we were born. Best friends, just like our mother’s had been. They had met at antenatal class. I had never known life without Tom in it.

  “Hey, what are you sorry for?” he asked, pulling me in even tighter. There were times I could happily trade my life for one living inside of one of Tom’s hugs. They were magical.

  “For always being sad,” I sniffed. “For being the worst, most depressing, friend in the whole wide world. For being emotionally unstable and generally difficult to be with.”

  He kissed the top of my head. “May, you lost your mum. You get a pass on the whole being sad thing, even more so over the next couple of days. It was always going to be a difficult time of year. Don’t apologise for grieving – not to me.”

  Tom knew exactly how I felt. He’s been there. Not his mum, but his kid brother, who had died four years ago after he fell off the climbing frame at nursery and hit his head. He died instantly. Like a switch being flicked. Tom never even got to say goodbye. At least I had that. Sort of. Although she hadn’t been able to say it back. Mum had fought for days afterwards. She gave up the fight on Christmas Eve. I knew she would have been super pissed not to make it just a few more hours. Christmas had always been a big deal for her.

  It started on advent weekend when the elves arrived, the trees went up and the whole house got dressed in fairylights and scented greenery. She was the biggest kid I had ever known, and if I’m honest, during the last few years, it had kind of irritated me. I hated myself a little bit for that, and of course when she had gone, I realised the true magic she wove – and I missed it.

  “I can’t decorate the tree with these things,” I declared.

  Originally, the thought of decking the house at all had filled me with so much sadness I could hardly breathe. I didn’t want a reminder that it was Christmas. I didn’t want the house to look as if we had all forgotten her and were just getting on with our life. It felt only right that time stood still after she died. Every move forward, felt a move further away from her memory. And I also didn’t want to sit inside of a lie, with bright baubles and merry music, and all the things that said life was beautiful and good and full of love – because it wasn’t anymore.

  But on Christmas Eve’s eve, I’d woken up in a panic thinking it was almost worse not to acknowledge Christmas at all; as if that was also a betrayal of our memories of mum. I thought I might be strong enough with this thought in mind, but now…

  Tom looked at me, his brow knitting together with confusion. “But they’re so full of happy memories,” he said gently, reaching down for a beautiful fairy wearing a little jewelled tiara. “They’re so much part of her. She could remember where every single one came from.”

  “That’s the very reason I can’t do this. It hurts too much.”

  “Then don’t. We can go shopping and buy some new decorations,” he said, trying to be helpful.

  “I don’t want new ones.” I sniffed back tears, knowing I was being impossible. “I think I’m just going to leave the lights on it. There’s something beautiful about that, don’t you think?”

  He swept a strand of hair from my face and smiled. “I think it will be perfect whatever you decide to do.”

  I noticed the blush on his cheeks and dismissed it. I couldn’t let my life get any more emotionally difficult than it already was, and besides, Tom and I were friends, practically family. Although that hadn’t stopped my mind wandering off in several blush-inducing day dreams in the last few weeks.

  “Erm, and where exactly did you get this travesty,” I said, changing the subject and beating my fist softly against his ridiculously solid chest.

  “You mean this wonderment?” he said, pulling out the hem of his Christmas jumper proudly. “It’s awesome, isn’t it?”

  I laughed. “That’s not quite the description I would use.”

  “Hey, it’s authentic vintage. I found it up in the attic the other day. It was dad’s. His mum knitted it for him.”

  I nodded and smiled, trying not to laugh again, knowing I had hurt his feelings a little.

  “They’re all hip, now – and besides, it was Christmas jumper day at college on Friday, so I had to wear it.”

  I let out a groan. “Really? Couldn’t you just have chucked a fiver in the bucket and kept your dignity. That’s what I would have done.”

  Tom handed me the hot chocolate and didn’t say a word. We’d stopped talking about me and college. I hadn’t been in weeks. It had all became too much; the parties, the tinsel, the conversations about family plans. Our family doctor had signed me off, and I’d been working on my exam revision remotely, which is why he was here, like he was every couple of days, hand-delivering my college work. Tom was the only one at college who had seemed to notice I was missing.

  Before mum died, I used to have quite a large friendship circle, but over the year, they had all pretty much drifted away. People had stopped talking to me, not because they were mean, but because after the first round of sympathy, they didn’t know what to say anymore. They were frightened of being happy around me, even though I never asked them to be anything but. I think in a way, I reminded them death was only ever a step away and could steal someone they loved at any time. If it could happen to me, and our ‘perfect family’ then it could happen to anyone – and we had been perfect, if not a little poor.

  I had tried for a long time to act happy in the hope I didn’t continue to upset anybody, but that brings its own layer of sadness. I had thrown myself into college work and youth theatre on the advice of the grief-counsellor, and it seemed to work for a while
, or at least it seemed to make everybody else a little happier. Everything had become an act, which was why I loved Tom like I did. He was the only one who didn’t buy it and still asked how I was feeling about mum.

  “I need to go to the woods,” I declared.

  “What for?” he said, crinkling his nose up to communicate it was the very last thing he wanted to do.

  “A couple of reasons. I want to take my camera out and get some photos of this ice, and I want to show you something I found the other day?”

  “What?”

  “It’s a surprise,” I teased.

  I knew Tom was going to love the old Anderson Shelter I’d discovered on my last trip to the woods. He had a secret fascination for history. Secret because Tom liked to keep it cool when it came to college – but I’d seen his collection of World War artefacts displayed in his room and knew he spent several weekends a year with his uncle at historical re-enactment events. I had to admit, Tom looked pretty hot in uniform.

  “Can’t we go tomorrow?” he asked, sipping at his hot-chocolate. Cream tipped his nose, causing me smile. “It’s bloody freezing out there,” he said, heading to the window to look out. “There’s thick ice on the cars.”

  “That’s exactly why I need to go today. There might not be such a beautiful frost tomorrow,” I said, brushing past him to gather my camera kit from the hallway. “And the woods look so beautiful when they’re all white, like some magical wonderland.”

  He put down his drink, followed me out, and watched me as I sat on the bottom of the steps threading the laces of my boots.

  “Okaaaay, looks like this is happening, then. Never mind what Tom wants. Never mind that Tom is slightly freaked out that his manhood is about to be frozen off.”

  “Aw, you don’t need to worry about that. I’ve heard it’s so small it’s in no danger of being an outer extremity.”

  “HaHa!” he said, playfully, pretending to be offended. “You’re so not funny, you know that, right?”

  “I’m hilarious.”

  He rolled his eyes at me. “Just please tell me you have a hat and scarf I can borrow?” he moaned.

  I reached past him and gathered a thick-knit cream hat from the basket under the coat stand, which my grandmother knitted. I threw it at his chest and he caught it with sharp skill. Tom was an excellent sportsman. He yanked it on and I smiled. Only Tom could pull off such a fashion fail, as his jumper proved.

  With his red checked shirt under his jumper and his skinny black jeans, he almost looked like one of those hot young lumberjacks from the romance channel, spoilt slightly by someone splicing in scenes from Elf. I could see why Tom’s phone was always lighting up with texts from the girls at school. I was surprised he wasn’t going steady with someone. He could have had the pick of any of them.

  “You look hot!” I teased, adjusting my beret.

  “Well, you’ve either got it or you haven’t,” he said, putting on his jacket. “I wish you’d told me you had planned on us gallivanting around the woods in sub-zero temperatures. I would have put a vest on.”

  I buttoned up my velvet jacket and swung my camera bag over my shoulder and said over my shoulder, “Oh, for goodness sake, Tom, stop moaning – you’re going to love it.”

  I ignored his muttering and strode across the gravel drive towards the lane, which led to the village in one direction and the woods in the other. Although I had to admit that Tom was right about the weather not being exactly pleasant, the look made up for the slight pain inducing cold.

  “I’ve not been into the woods for years,” Tom said.

  I spun and looked at him wide-eyed. “But they’re right here, it’s not like you can miss them.”

  “After my brother died…” he shrugged. “We used to play here a lot. It didn’t feel right being on my own.”

  I stopped mid-stride, my stomach sliding. “Oh, Tom, I’m sorry, I didn’t realise.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “Are you sure?”

  He tucked his hands into his pockets. “Sure. It’s time. Life goes on, and this time, I’m not alone, am I?”

  From anybody else, this kind of cliché would have raised the beast in me – all that, ‘Time heals’ shit, but from Tom it was okay. Tom knew the truth of it.

  “You know the parish council are concerned about Satanists using the woods,” I said. “They keep finding strange things hanging in the trees, and The Sisters keep being vandalised with red paint.”

  The Sisters was the name given to the three standing stones that were located almost in the middle of the woods. Nobody knew why they were there, or where they came from, but local legend, according to the faded and peeling noticeboard at the entrance to the woods, told that the stones were once three beautiful young women whose husbands had been killed in a vicious battle between ancient tribes. They’re grief was such that they turned to stone, becoming eternal monuments to their lost love. There were other legends, too – that they were the remains of some ancient pagan temple, and that they were a nineteenth century hoax. Whatever the truth, they had drawn the crazies and the weirdos for years, and there was something captivating about them, unless you were Tom, who didn’t believe in anything other than what his own eyes could see and what science could prove.

  “Well, some people are nutters,” he said, sagely.

  “Hey,” I laughed, nudging him. “Careful. Maybe I’m one of those nutters?”

  “A Satanist?” he scoffed. “I hardly think so.”

  “No, stupid. But I believe there’s something magical about the woods and those stones. There’s this weird energy that comes from them. It’s hard to explain. I don’t really like going in them alone – which is why you’re here.”

  Tom flicked his eyebrow and twisted the smile on his lips. “Oh, May, please tell me you don’t believe in all that spooky, magical crap.”

  I sighed. “It’s probably geo-magnetics or something. I’m not saying it’s magic, I’m saying there’s a strange energy in the woods, that’s all.”

  The large gate swung on creaky hinges and threatened to snap back and break my wrist. The clatter of it reengaging with the catch sent a nearby flock of birds screeching up into the sky. The clarity of the air caused their cry to echo around us and we burst out laughing.

  “Well that’s a little bit more than freaky,” Tom said, raising his eyebrow. “Perhaps you’re right.”

  The woods were coated in hoar frost, making the whole place look like a scene from a picture book. A sharp bark proceeded the appearance of a golden Labrador, which came bounding towards us with its tongue lolling out. Following closely behind was an older woman who I recognised as the landlady from the village pub.

  “Here boy!” she commanded, adding a whistle. The dog wasn’t interested in his owner as he was too busy bounding up to Tom.

  Tom was desperate for a dog of his own. He volunteered at the local rescue centre, which was run by Meg over at Primrose Farm. He had spent months begging his parents to adopt Stanley, one of the shaggy mutts. Tom had fallen completely in love with it, but had had little success in persuading his parents to let him bring Stanley home. Tom’s dad claimed to be allergic to dog dander, but in truth, Tom’s dad was just a bit of an asshole.

  “Hey, boy,” he said, crouching down and roughing the Labrador’s head. The daft dog was putty in his hands and it collapsed to the floor, rolling over onto its back, begging for belly rubs.

  “Bertie,” the woman said in a half-pant. “Stop bothering the handsome young man.”

  I blushed to see the woman, old enough to be Tom’s mother, go all flushed and glittery at the sight of him. It was bad enough that the girls were always going all sparkly over him at college, but this was just cringe-inducing.

  “It’s okay, I love dogs,” Tom said, rubbing Bertie’s tummy.

  “Looks like you’ve made at least one friend,” I teased.

  “You don’t want to be out for too long,” the woman said, taking Bertie by the collar and clippi
ng his lead on whilst never taking her eyes off Tom. “It’s as cold as it looks. The pond is completely frozen – not that you should test it. Not worth the risk. Brrr, it’s not been this cold in as long as I can remember. I can’t wait to get back and take a long hot soak in the bath,” she said, her eyes lingering on Tom in some kind of silent perverted invitation.

  Tom stood and gave Bertie a final pat on the head.

  “It’s so pretty,” I interjected. “We’re just out to take some photos for my art project.” I took Tom’s hand in mine, making it perfectly clear he was definitely not allowed on her radar.

  I ignored the slightly startled look on Tom’s face and continued to smile at the woman, who as I had hoped, had got the message loud and clear that Tom was mine – even if that wasn’t technically true.

  “You should get some good shots,” she said, smiling tightly. “Enjoy.”

  The woman walked on, Bertie trotting sulkily behind her. I dropped Tom’s hand like a hot coal, suddenly finding the sensation too intimate.

  “What was all that about?” he asked, smirking.

  “God, you’re so blind – she was flirting with you, practically inviting you to go and scrub her back?”

  “Nah – she’s old enough to be my mum.”

  I shook my head and rolled my eyes. When it came to women, Tom was totally clueless, and I wouldn’t have him any other way. Some of the boys at college thought they were Casanova reborn, and as a result had turned into complete idiots. Take the football team as a case in point.

  We walked on in silence for a little while, mostly because Tom’s teeth were too busy chattering to make small talk and partly because there was something about the woods that demanded silence; that and the fact the sensation of Tom’s hand in my own had caused a weird effect in me and I wasn’t sure how I felt about it.

  A robin flitted in the bracken causing a streak of beautiful flash of red against the white.

  “Are you going to the Lara’s Boxing Day party?” Tom asked, breaking the wondrous moment apart.

  Lara Danes’ family had always thrown a party for her on Boxing Day night because her birthday was on Christmas Day. The Danes lived in the biggest house in the village, the old manor house, and her party had become quite the highlight of our social calendar over the years. When we were smaller, the whole family was invited, but now we were all older, the parents were only too happy to head to the local village pub and leave us to it, leaving Lara’s aunt as the adult in charge. Lara’s aunt was only twenty-five and from my memory of the last time I went, two years ago, she spent most of her time upstairs with her boyfriend. It all had the ingredients of a being completely out of control.