《The Thirteenth Tale》第107章

；　very　old　and　very；　very　young。　with　every　breath　she　took　the　bedclothes　rose　and　fell　over　her　thin　shoulders；　and　at　each　sinking　the　ribboned　edge　of　the　blanket　brushed　against　her　face。　she　seemed　unaware　of　it；　but　all　the　same；　i　bent　over　her　to　fold　the　covers　back　and　smooth　the　curl　of　pale　hair　back　into　place。
she　did　not　stir。　was　she　really　asleep；　i　wondered；　or　was　this　unconsciousness　already？
i　can’t　say　how　long　i　watched　her　after　that。　there　was　a　clock；　but　the　movements　of　its　hands　were　as　meaningless　as　a　map　of　the　surface　of　the　sea。　wave　after　wave　of　time　lapped　over　me　as　i　sat　with　my　eyes　closed；　not　sleeping；　but　with　the　vigilance　of　a　mother　for　the　breathing　of　her　child。
i　hardly　know　what　to　say　about　the　next　thing。　is　it　possible　that　i　hallucinated　in　my　tiredness？　did　i　fall　asleep　and　dream？　or　did　miss　winter　really　speak　one　last　time？
i　will　give　your　message　to　your　sister。
i　jerked　my　eyes　open；　but　hers　were　closed。　she　seemed　to　be　sleeping　as　deeply　as　before。
i　did　not　see　the　wolf　when　he　came。　i　did　not　hear　him。　there　was　only　this：　a　little　before　dawn　i　became　aware　of　a　hush；　and　i　realized　that　the　only　breathing　to　be　heard　in　the　room　was　my　own。
beginnings
。。
The　Thirteenth　TaleSNOW
。
miss　winter　died　and　the　snow　kept　falling。　when　judith　came　she　stood　with　me　for　a　time　at　the　window；　and　we　watched　the　eerie　illumination　of　the　night　sky。　then；　when　an　alteration　in　the　whiteness　told　us　it　was　morning；　she　sent　me　to　bed。
i　awoke　at　the　end　of　the　afternoon。
the　snow　that　had　already　deadened　the　telephone　now　reached　the　window　ledges　and　drifted　halfway　up　the　doors。　it　separated　us　from　the　rest　of　the　world　as　effectively　as　a　prison　key。　miss　winter　had　escaped；　so　had　the　woman　judith　referred　to　as　emmeline；　and　whom　i　avoided　naming。　the　rest　of　us；　judith；　maurice　and　i；　were　trapped。
the　cat　was　restless。　it　was　the　snow　that　put　him　out；　he　did　not　like　this　change　in　the　appearance　of　his　universe。　he　went　from　one　windowsill　to　another　in　search　of　his　lost　world；　and　meowed　urgently　at　judith；　maurice　and　me；　as　though　its　restoration　was　in　our　hands。　in　parison；　the　loss　of　his　mistresses　was　a　small　matter　that；　if　he　noticed　it　at　all；　left　him　fundamentally　undisturbed。
the　snow　had　blockaded　us　into　a　sideways　extension　of　time；　and　we　each　found　our　own　way　of　enduring　it。　judith；　imperturbable；　made　vegetable　soup；　cleaned　the　kitchen　cupboards　out　and；　when　she　ran　out　of　jobs；　manicured　her　nails　and　did　a　face　pack。　maurice；　chafing　at　the　confinement　and　the　inactivity；　played　endless　games　of　solitaire；　but　when　he　had　to　drink　his　tea　black　for　lack　of　milk；　judith　played　rummy　with　him　to　distract　him　from　the　bitterness。
as　for　me；　i　spent　two　days　writing　up　my　final　notes；　but　when　that　was　done；　i　found　i　could　not　settle　to　reading。　even　sherlock　holmes　could　not　reach　me　in　the　snowlocked　landscape。　alone　in　my　room　i　spent　an　hour　examining　my　melancholy；　trying　to　name　what　i　thought　was　a　new　element　in　it。　i　realized　that　i　missed　miss　winter。　so；　hopeful　of　human　pany；　i　made　my　way　to　the　kitchen。　maurice　was　glad　to　play　cards　with　me；　even　though　i　knew　only　children’s　games。　then；　when　judith’s　nails　were　drying；　i　made　the　cocoa　and　tea　with　no　milk；　and　later　let　judith　file　and　polish　my　own　nails。
in　this　way；　we　three　and　the　cat　sat　out　the　days；　locked　in　with　our　dead；　and　with　the　old　year　seeming　to　linger　on　past　its　time。
on　the　fifth　day　i　allowed　myself　to　be　overe　by　a　vast　sorrow。
i　had　done　the　washing　up；　and　maurice　had　dried　while　judith　played　solitaire　at　the　table。　we　were　all　glad　of　a　change。　and　when　the　washing　up　was　done；　i　took　myself　away　from　their　pany　to　the　drawing　room。　the　window　looked　out　onto　the　part　of　the　garden　that　was　in　the　lee　of　the　house。　here　the　snow　did　not　drift　so　high。　i　opened　a　window；　climbed　out　into　the　whiteness　and　walked　across　the　snow。　all　the　grief　i　had　kept　at　bay　for　years　by　means　of　books　and　bookcases　approached　me　now。　on　a　bench　sheltered　by　a　tall　hedge　of　yew　i　abandoned　myself　to　a　sorrow　that　was　wide　and　deep　as　the　snow　itself；　and　as　untainted。　i　cried　for　miss　winter；　for　her　ghost；　for　adeline　and　emmeline。　for　my　sister；　my　mother　and　my　father。　mostly；　and　most　terribly；　i　cried　for　myself。　my　grief　was　that　of　the　infant；　newly　severed　from　her　other　half；　of　the　child　bent　over　an　old　tin；　making　sudden；　shocking　sense　of　a　few　pieces　of　paper；　and　of　a　grown　woman；　sitting　crying　on　a　bench　in　the　hallucinatory　light　and　silence　of　the　snow。
when　i　came　to　myself　dr。　clifton　was　there。　he　put　an　arm　around　me。　“i　know；”　he　said。　“i　know。”
he　didn’t　know；　of　course。　not　really。　and　yet　that　was　what　he　said；　and　i　was　soothed　to　hear　it。　for　i　knew　what　he　meant。　we　all　have　our　sorrows；　and　although　the　exact　delineaments；　weight　and　dimensions　of　grief　are　different　for　everyone；　the　color　of　grief　is　mon　to　us　all。　“i　know；”　he　said；　because　he　was　human；　and　therefore；　in　a　way；　he　did。
he　led　me　inside；　to　warmth。
‘oh　dear；“　said　judith。　”shall　i　bring　cocoa？“
‘with　a　touch　of　brandy　in　it；　i　think；“　he　said。
maurice　pulled　out　a　chair　for　me　and　began　to　stoke　the　fire。
i　sipped　the　cocoa　slowly。　there　was　milk—the　doctor　had　brought　it　when　he　came　with　the　farmer　on　the　tractor。
judith　tucked　a　shawl　around　me；　then　started　peeling　potatoes　for　dinner。　she　and　maurice　and　the　doctor　made　the　occasional　ment—what　we　could　have　for　supper；　whether　the　snow　was　lighter　now；　how　long　it　would　be　before　the　telephone　line　was　restored—and　in　making　them；　took　it　upon　themselves　to　start　the　laborious　process　of　cranking　up　life　again　after　death　had　stopped　us　all　in　its　tracks。
little　by　little　the　ments　melded　together　and　became　a　conversation。
i　listened　to　their　voices　and；　after　a　time；　joined　in。
HAPPY　BIRTHDAY
（／小｜说｜网）
i　went　home。
to　the　bookshop。
‘miss　winter　is　dead；“　i　told　my　father。
‘and　you？　how　are　you？“　he　asked。
‘alive。“
he　smiled。
‘tell　me　about　mum；“