Roderick stops at the wall that surrounds the herb garden and scrapes together enough snow to make a ball, and then he throws it directly at me. I gasp as the cold hits my face, some of it sliding into the recesses of the shapeless coat. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I suppose that’s the sort of thing one does to a schoolmate, not a sister—” But I’ve scraped together my own snowball, and lob it at him. He throws up his hands in mock surrender, and I chase him, uncaring that the servants are watching through the kitchen window and that Mother would find fault with our lack of dignity. We run until we are both doubled over, laughing. Our breath fills the air with wisps of condensation, like ghosts, except outside. The house casts a long shadow over everything, but the light through the windows is warm. I see Father limping past the parlor window. Pulling the curtains so Mother can rest, and I’m glad to be away from the house, even for a few moments. “I thought you were going to cry, when I first hit you with that snowball,”
