Page 69 of A Snowfall of Silver

“And Alice and Jack are the same,” Lou goes on. “They’ve always just … fit. Love doesn’t have to be a great thunderclap and choirs of angels. Love can start as friendship. You don’t want to be with someone who breaks your heart or treats you badly or tries to control you – you want someone kind, steady, thoughtful. Someone who really sees you. It might not sound glamorous, but it feels wonderful when you find someone like that. It’s bigger than just passion, that kind of love – it’s a gift. Passion alone burns out when it becomes miserable.”

“I suppose,” I say.

“Imagine living inside Wuthering Heights.” Lou shudders. “What a nightmare Heathcliff would be. Only think how miserable.”

“I was thinking more Romeo and Juliet.”

“Well, either way, everyone dies. I don’t call that romantic.”

“I guess not.” I think this over. For a novelist, my sister can be very practical. “Do you really think I’m in love with Kit?”

Lou laughs. “It’s not for me to say, Freya. I think you know yourself, one way or the other. Don’t you?”

I’m left to mull that question over for a while. In search of a distraction I settle on Nora’s parcel. After she gave it to me I left it languishing in the corner of my room, too heartsore to look at it. I didn’t want to be reminded of Nora; I didn’t want to think about any of it.

Taking a deep breath, I pull the brown paper open. Inside is a dress. It’s a simple day dress in a warm, mossy green fabric. There’s a note on top of it in Nora’s hand.

You deserve a dress made just for you.

N x

I unfold the dress, shaking out the creases. It’s lovely. I try it on immediately, and it fits like a glove. It wraps around at the top across my bust, and the neckline is wide, sitting on my shoulders, cut into a V shape that is deep enough to be just the right side of scandalous. The skirt hugs my hips and flares out around my calves. I look in the mirror and smile, because I understand what Nora has done. She’s made a dress for me. The colour, the fit, the style, they’re all mine. It’s not one of my sisters’ hand-me-downs, it’s not Lou’s London wardrobe, or a golden dress for a romantic heroine, it’s not an amethyst gown or a Victorian street urchin costume. It’s me. Freya.

Just then, the front doorbell rings.

“Freya,” Lou’s voice calls through from the hallway. “It’s for you.”

“For me?” I clatter down the stairs and make my way through to the front door. Lou steps back, past me and away, a smile playing around her lips, and there, standing at the bottom of the front steps, with my postcard in his hand, is Kit.

I look at him wordlessly for a moment. His face is impassive, his grey eyes serious, searching.

“Oh!” I say. “You’re here.”

“I’m here.”

And then he smiles.

The smile is slow, it lights his eyes, his dimples deepen, and suddenly I know, with my whole heart, that every word Lou said was right.

I walk out of the door and straight into his arms.

It’s as easy as that.

I lift my chin, his lips come down on mine, and the whole world disappears. Kit cradles my face in his hands, and his mouth is soft and warm. His thumb strokes my cheek. My knees tremble, and I lean against him, his arm moving to wrap around my waist and pull me closer. My fingers slip inside the dark wool coat he wears, and I feel his heart hammering madly in his chest.

Finally, we break apart, and he rests his forehead against my own while we both catch our breath. Slowly, I open my eyes, and see that his are still closed, long golden lashes against his cheek.

I smile. His eyes open, pupils wildly dilated.

“Thank you for the postcard,” he says huskily.

“I missed you.”

“The feeling was mutual.”

And then he kisses me again, slower, sweeter, taking his time, and I am dimly aware how funny it was that I ever thought he was just a friend, that I thought Russ with all his polish, and the girl in the golden dress could ever be the real deal. And then I’m not thinking of anything at all, except the feeling of his lips on my skin and his hand in mine.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE