He had slept deeply and felt refreshed and altogether more optimistic about his situation. She stoked the fire and laid out his clothes while he yawned and stretched and finally swung his legs over the side of the bed. The floor was too cold to walk on without stockings so she got him some from the drawer and then opened the curtains. The sudden glare made him wince. The entire countryside was blanketed with snow. Each cottage was iced like a cake and only smears of grey from the chimneys broke up the uniform white. Through the ice-crusted panes he could just make out the shadow of the forest. Nothing was moving. The village must still be in their beds. ‘Why did you wake me up so early?’ ‘It’s past nine.’ But something was moving: a cart inched slowly up the hill in the direction of the lake – although the lake itself had been swallowed up by the endless white. He dressed, went downstairs and breakfasted by the fire. Today, he noticed, the mark on the chair-back looked exactly like a bloodstain.
