Firefly sparks swirl up the chimney as logs hiss and smoulder in the grate, the blackened twigs twisted like charred bones. Smoke curls upwards, silent as a spell, as she holds out her palms and warms the span of her hands until they are too hot. Behind the window, a breeze blusters, seeping through the shutters. She smooths her skirt and stares into the hearth, watching flames leap, lick and slacken. There is no sound except the crackling fire. The blackthorn tree taps three times against the window, casting long shadows across the moon.
She moves outside on soundless feet to stand in the damp night garden. An owl sweeps its wings, hooting a single hollow cry; a hare leaps and is gone. She reaches slender fingers towards the sky as if to pluck something from it. Then the air becomes raw with cold as familiar voices echo from the old stone well. She knows the sound: it is as recognisable as her own heartbeat. She breathes out, murmuring softly in reply: it is her time now.
Over three hundred years have passed and the cottage stands solid through many changes. The old staircase has gone, the thatched roof has been tiled, the hearth is not quite as it was. The house hides so many memories, so many years of fingers touching the same walls, being warmed by the same fire.
She knows the house well: it is hers, she will not leave it. She peers through the windows, but her breath leaves no mist on the glass. The old stone well chatters and she whispers words that ripple in the deep water.
The blackthorn tree has remained in the ground for many times its natural lifespan, unbending in the dawns and dusks of each year: it belongs to her. Dark roots delve beneath the earth, deep as unspoken truths: its flowers blossom each May and sprout bitter fruits in October. It never rests and she too, can never rest.
Now two women stay beneath the same roof, sharing the same shelter. The walls keep out the cold, hold strangers beyond the door; it is a refuge where secrets and promises and love are precious treasures that have never been uttered for centuries.
Two women live in the house, embraced in its protective hold, watching, waiting. Two women, one then, one now.