She hopped to a chair by the fire, wincing as her weight found the wrong place. Soft bronze liner framed her eyes; glossy nude lips pressed together against the pain. Long honey-brown feathered hair spilled from under the fair isle hat onto the cream turtleneck. A smear of melted snow tracked along one cheekbone like a tear that had forgotten its purpose.
"Is this your cabin?" Ellen asked.
Ray struck a long match. "It's the mountain's cabin. I just borrow it."
He lit the kerosene lamp. The room turned golden. Shadows climbed the log walls and settled into the corners like old guests returning home. Outside, the wind scraped the roof with a sound like distant applause. Inside, the lamp hummed with a low, steady flame. The sudden color of the place—amber on pine, the dull red of the stove's door—felt almost ceremonial after the white erasure of the storm.