Ashen Snow Dancing in the Sky
Ash-like snow danced across the sky.
My chest ached until it felt ready to split open.
Even though the memory was not my own, it cut so deep and raw that I could not stop the tears. For a long while I simply wept, until my knees gave way and I sank to the ground.
My eyelids burned. My vision kept blurring. No matter how many times I wiped them away, the tears forced their way out again and again, clouding everything in front of me.
“Edward…”
Ania came toward me, her voice tight with worry. Her warm hand settled against my back.
“It’s all right.”
The soft words brushed my ear.
“Everything is all right.”
I could not tell what she meant by that. Whether it was all right that I did not remember, or all right that I was crying. Either way, it only hurt more. The shattered fragments of that hazy memory kept stabbing into me like thorns.
A scene as faded as a weathered photograph filled my sight: a young boy and girl standing on this very hill, looking down over the village.
— I’ll… do it… forever…
Young Edward’s voice stretched and warped like the sound from an old phonograph.
What…?
I could not make out the boy’s words. Only his blurred expression reached me.
— It’s a promise… you have to…
Then came young Ania’s voice, just as impossible to understand. They seemed to be making some vital promise, yet I could catch none of it.
What are they saying…
Suddenly the memory that had been forcing its way in cut off, as abruptly as a cloudburst ending. My mind snapped back from the distant past to the present—not the cool autumn wind and red leaves painting the sky, but the cold wind of festival eve in the Brontë Territory.
On the freezing hill the children were gone. Only two adults remained.
“Hah…”
I let out a breath and wiped the tears from my eyes. Ania’s worried face came into focus. She had wrapped her arms around my shoulders as if holding me close.
“Edward…”
I tried to turn away from the face that had drawn so near, but my body would not obey. I collapsed forward against her. Ania caught my heavy frame with everything she had.
“On this hill… it feels like we made a promise.”
My voice cracked as it left my throat.
“Yes.”
“What promise was it?”
“......”
Ania gave no answer. The hand that had been stroking my back slowly stilled. She took my shoulders, gently eased my weight from her, and offered a small smile—a lonely one.
“What promise could it have been?”
“It felt terribly important.”
“Mm.”
I had asked what it was, yet she only nodded.
“Shall we go back now?”
She rose slowly and started toward the stairs. Her steps, the empty line of her back, looked fragile.
“Be careful. The stairs are slippery.”
“I won’t fall. Don’t worry.”
I watched that lonely figure for a moment, then lightly caught her arm.
“Even if you do.”
“Let go of me.”
“Why all of a sudden?”
“I don’t know.”
When I tugged the arm of the stubborn girl, her body spun around. Clear drops fell with a soft patter—tears from Ania’s eyes.
“Why…”
I could not finish the question. The reason was plain enough; my words had done this. So I simply took out a handkerchief and gently wiped the corners of her eyes.
What kind of promise could it have been, that merely my failure to remember it made her cry like this? A woman whose expression was more composed than ever, yet who shed sadder tears than I had ever seen— all I could do was look at her.
In the end we descended the stairs in silence and returned to the mansion. Ania neither looked at my face nor spoke a word; she simply went to her own room.
That night I lay in bed and stared into the dark until morning, turning over the past memories that kept rising unbidden. Were they Edward’s memories? My mind was wholly my own, yet the recollections dwelling in this body had suddenly broken the surface. Thinking brought no answers.
At last I watched the morning star rise and greeted the dawn of festival day. Yet even a festival could not lift my spirits. Ania’s greeting that morning was subdued in both face and voice. The deliberate way she avoided my eyes told me last night’s events had settled like a stone in her heart.
I vowed never to sulk again.
Not even a week had passed since that promise. If I was going to break it so soon, what had my carefully spoken sincerity been worth? What had that deep night meant, when I laid my honest heart bare? Every mealtime I had kissed the back of her hand and called her the most beautiful woman in the world; now that version of myself felt like a fool.
At breakfast Ania behaved as though no such promise had ever existed. The girl who once insisted I kiss her hand seemed no more than a mirage. Still, no one else noticed the chill between us. From the moment she arrived in the territory she had worn the mask of a lofty noble lady. The Ania Brontë who whispered sweet words only to me was a side of her no one else knew.
I glanced at her as she moved her utensils with elegant grace. The face I had always found beautiful no longer looked beautiful at all.
Yes… this was how the relationship was always going to end. If she never spoke of divorce, I had no reason to offer her affection, and she had no reason to seek love from me. One day Edward would be abandoned by Ania. If I ever came to love her, her base possessiveness would cool. Ania was a woman who lost interest the moment something became hers. Like a predator seeking new prey, she would simply go looking for another man.
If I ever held her in my heart, I would cling to her the way an abandoned child clings to its parents, begging her not to leave, promising anything if only she would stay. I knew the men who had died that way—the ones who fell for her sweet lure and finally offered even their lives.
Yet a bitter feeling still rose in my chest, something I could not name. I did not try to name the emotion that boiled inside me. It was not that I failed to understand it. I simply had to pretend I did not.
The harvest festival of the Brontë Territory unfolded smoothly. The previous year poor weather had left the wheat half-ripened and the festival subdued; this year fine weather all season long had brought a full harvest. As a result Ania spent the day in constant motion.
The villagers and the Brontë household servants handled the preparations, yet overall command still fell to the family itself. And of the Brontë family only two remained: the duke, Valentine Brontë, and Ania. Valentine was buried under the businesses he had launched and the administrative work of the festival, leaving Ania as the sole person who could direct the event on the ground. Perhaps that, more than any ceremonial speech, was why her father had summoned her.
Ania looked up at the sky with a bitter smile. Ash-like snow was dancing overhead. A name rose unbidden—someone whose face she could barely recall.
Mother.
She let out a quiet laugh.
Will Mother not come this year either?
Of course she knew her mother lived a relentlessly busy life. Viola Brontë had married a nobleman yet had never suited the role of a noblewoman. Fascinated by Eastern technology, she had left for the East when Ania was so young the memory itself had faded. She returned to the territory every few years, but she was always so occupied that even a glimpse of her face was rare. Five years had already passed since Ania last saw her. Now even that face was dim; she had to dig through her memories for a long time simply to summon it.
Does she even remember me?
She had never asked for much. She had never demanded the kind of love other mothers gave. Studying Eastern technology was her mother’s dream; Ania would never have asked her to abandon that dream for her sake alone. Still—if she was a mother, if she had at least given birth to her—could she not have been present the way other parents were? Even if she was busy, could she not have sent a letter now and then? Could she not have asked whether Ania was well, whether she was healthy?
She did not need a warm embrace. Simply being remembered would have been enough. Was even so ordinary a wish forbidden? Was she not allowed to hope for it? Was that what it meant to be an adult and a noble? Or was she simply someone who must never hope for anyone’s love?
Men who would have given their lives just to possess her were everywhere, yet she had never received the love of those who truly wished to love her. Neither her mother nor Edward could remember her. Even the vow to never forget, Edward had forgotten.
She could not blame him. Ania herself had lived for years forgetting the Edward who once saved her as a child. Edward had done nothing wrong. The fault was hers alone. Even so, she hated the cold way she treated him. She felt only disgust for a self that had no right to love and no right to be loved.
Snowflakes poured from the sky. Joyful laughter of the villagers rose around her. In the very heart of the festival that celebrated the year’s harvest, Ania forced the corners of her mouth upward. She was the young lady of the Brontë family— a noble, and an adult.