Chapter One

The desolation of a winter night sat brooding on the earth, and in the sky. But, the red light came cheerily towards him from the windows.

~Charles Dickens

No one in the village saw the dark shadow stagger forward, his feet stamping deep craters in powdery snow. No one heard the thump of his weary heart or saw the tremble of his fingers clutching the silver angel.

He trudged forward, relieved that the night covered him so well. The late hour meant villagers were tucked warmly in their beds, oblivious to him. He could pass through the town, undetected, hours before they awoke. He craved darkness—everywhere, at all times—so he could travel in solitude, never speaking to another soul. He knew, someday, he would have to face the light and be held accountable. Things had a way of being discovered. But at least for the moment, he could remain invisible.

He blinked snowflakes from his eyelashes and realized he didn’t even know which Cotswold village he was traveling through. They all looked the same—a main street flanked with pristine limestone buildings, always dotted with quaint shops, a pub, a grocer’s, and a novelty shop. And always tucked away at the edge were a church with a vicarage, several scattered cottages, and perhaps a farmhouse or two.

Like all the other villages, so late at night, it should have been dark, save for a streetlamp or maybe the soft glow of light beaming from deep within one of the shops. But the stranger saw cheery Christmas lights winking up ahead. At the end of the main road stood a Tudor cottage draped generously with multicolored lights. Everywhere. On hedges. On the rooftop. Even inside the front windows.

Someone certainly liked Christmas—more than liked it. From the look of things, the cottage’s owners were fanatical. “We love Christmas!” the cottage seemed to scream at the top of its quaint little lungs.

Hating the reminder of the season—a representation of love, peace, forgiveness, and every other emotion he felt numb to—the stranger pressed on. He shifted the heavy bag he’d slung on his back, turning his face from the cheery lights as he trudged closer to the cottage. He picked up his speed, hoping to pass it quickly.

He didn’t know how much longer he could survive without food, warmth, or sleep. But he did know that he had to keep moving, because as long as his feet slogged forward, his mind could slog forward, too. The moment he brought it all to a halt, the past would catch up with him, and he would be doomed. He must carry on.

But without warning, his body betrayed him, and his legs gave out. He felt himself stumble and fall, with no energy or strength to stop it…

 

Mary Cartwright rubbed her tired eyes under her glasses and blinked twice to correct the dryness. After readjusting the pillow on her lap, she carried on with her needlepoint—her only cure for insomnia. She pierced the patterned fabric with her needle then pulled it back again with expert fingers. No need for a thimble.

Nearly sixty years ago, when she was a little girl, her grandmother had taught her how to needlepoint. Mary had lost count of the many pillows and wall hangings she’d made for people over those decades. So, on a late evening on the first of December, she was finishing a gift for a great-niece who lived in Essex.

Earlier, she’d tried in vain to settle in next to her husband and doze off. The silence had kept her awake. She blamed the snow, the first real snow of the season, which had started falling hours before. Odd, how something as light and feathery as snow created a heavy hush that seemed oppressive, able to penetrate the thick walls of Mistletoe Cottage and render her restless. She had given up on sleep and gently drawn back the covers, so as not to awaken her snoring husband. Bootsie, their nine-year-old cat, had insomnia, too. He’d followed her into the sitting room and snuggled up by the fire, which she’d stoked into a comforting blaze. He closed his eyes and licked his fur in long, meticulous strokes.

Though Mary had been rocking by the fireside since then, needlepointing, she couldn’t get warm enough. The inescapable cold had seeped into every crevice of the cottage. Frustrated, she reached for the heavy quilt folded on the arm of the sofa, planning to cover her icy ankles.

But when she extended her hand, she heard something—a muffled thud outside her front door, like someone falling, like a male someone large enough to create a thud. Mary gasped, frozen in place.

She forced herself to move, setting her needlepoint silently on the ottoman. Her eyes remained on the front door, unblinking. Perhaps the late hour and solitude had pricked her thoughts, creating anxiety, but the longer she stood staring, the more she envisioned that person charging through it at any moment, guns blazing. Bootsie had already scampered back into the bedroom for refuge, leaving Mary to fend for herself.

Why did George have to be such a heavy sleeper? She would have to go it alone, face her irrational fears, and glance outside. Surely there was no danger involved. It would be fine. Only a peek…

She approached the front window, which blinked with festive lights, and tipped back the thick linen curtain gingerly.

Immediately, she saw the dark outline—the body of a man, crumpled in the snow, facedown. Snowflakes had begun to collect on his back as he lay unmoving. She strained to see his face, but it was turned away from her.

Time to awaken George. This man was no attacker. He needed their help. She most surely could not handle the situation alone.

She padded down the narrow hallway with quiet urgency and attempted to rouse her husband. She tried everything—jostling his shoulder, flooding the room with light, even whisper-yelling directly into his ear. He only flinched, gulped, then rolled over to continue his snoring.

It was extreme, but Mary knew what would work. With all her strength and all her might, she nudged at George’s back, pushing him carefully toward the opposite edge of the bed—farther, farther, until he began to topple over it. She knew the distance would be short—their thirty-year-old bed sat extremely low to the ground. He hit the floor and produced the second muffled thud she’d heard that evening.

“What in blazes…?” His balding head appeared from the other side of the bed as he gathered himself and stared at his wife with a groggy frown. “Are you trying to kill me?”

“Hardly, George. Don’t be ridiculous. You wouldn’t wake up,” she whispered accusingly. “Are you all right? Anything broken?”

“I can’t tell yet. Let me get up.”

“I need you to pay attention. We have a crisis.”

“What is it?” His eyes wide, he stood and rubbed the small of his back with a groan.

“There’s a man. Outside. I think he’s been hurt.”

“A man?”

“I heard something. I was needlepointing, and then there was a thud. We don’t have time for all this.” She waved at him to follow. “Come and help me.”

He obeyed, stepping into his shoes along the way, and by the time they finally reached the front door, she hoped the stranger hadn’t disappeared. She hated to think she might have nearly killed her husband for no reason at all.

Rather than crack the door and peek through, Mary decided to fling it open. “See?” she proclaimed, letting in a blast of frigid air and drifts of snow. She reached for her long coat on the rack and found her shoes. The moment George saw the man lying motionless, two meters outside the cottage’s small front garden, he sprang into action, as though he’d gulped down three cups of strong coffee—no matter that he wore only his striped pajamas with no coat. His nimble instincts were due to his training as a medic in the war. Mary had seen him respond that way before—he knew precisely what to do. George was a confident man who took charge when it mattered. Those qualities had drawn her to him when they’d first met.

He dropped to the stranger’s side to check his vitals. Mary saw the side of the man’s face—well, as much as she could see through the scraggly dark beard clotted with snow. Longish dark hair peeked out the sides of the knit cap he wore—a “skull” cap, she remembered the young people calling them. The man appeared to be in his mid-forties, but he might have looked even younger without the beard. He let out a quiet moan and winced, his eyes still closed. Fortunately, the falling snow had lessened to a few occasional flakes.

“Can you hear me, son?” George asked.

“Amanda,” the stranger mumbled then slipped back into oblivion.

“What will we do?” Mary asked as a rush of ice-cold air nipped at her cheeks and her ankles.

“Let’s see if we can get him inside.”

“Our cottage?”

“Yes, love. There’s no other way. We can’t leave him out here.”

“Of course not. No.”

George grasped the man under the shoulders in an attempt to hoist him up, but George wasn’t strong enough. The stranger was at least six feet tall, and George was a mere five feet six.

“I can’t do it,” he whispered, out of breath.

The stranger groaned, then his eyes fluttered open and focused on George’s face.

“Son, can you hear me?” George tried again. “Do you think you can raise yourself up? You can lean on me.”

The man nodded then rose and took a couple of significant stumbles. The impression of his body remained in the snow, like a chalk outline at a crime scene. Mary noticed something wedged beside the outline—something shiny reflecting the blinking lights nearby. Mary stooped to pluck up the object then dusted off the snow. A silver angel, a pendant of some sort, glittered in her hand. Beautiful.

“Mary, love, get his bag, please?” George grunted, helping maneuver the man’s arm around his shoulders.

Mary reached down for the bag and found the weight impossible to lift on her own, especially with her bad back. So, she got creative and dragged it inside, along with an accumulated pile of snow.

Shutting the door, she abandoned the bag and watched George tip the shivering man into a sitting position on their sofa beside the fire. Then George removed the man’s damp leather jacket, shoes, and socks. After that, he leaned the man backward to recline and covered him with the heavy quilt Mary had reached for minutes earlier. She could see the stranger’s teeth chattering from across the room.

“I’ll ring Dr. Andrews,” George whispered, squeezing Mary’s arm as he passed her to find his mobile phone. At the kitchen table, he tapped out the doctor’s number. One ring, two rings, more rings. No response.

“I’ll have to go and fetch him,” George said, reaching for his coat on the rack.

“In the middle of the night?”

“It’s only a precaution. This lad may have a serious injury. At the least, it appears he hit his head. We found him. Now we’re responsible for him. It’s the right thing to do.”

“Yes, of course. You’re right. But—”

“What?” he asked, buttoning up.

“You’re going to leave me… alone? With him?” She pointed. “He’s a perfect stranger.”

George grinned through his beard. “You’ll be fine. He’s in no shape to do anything. Besides, I think he’s passed out again.” He pointed to the man, whose eyes were closed tightly. “I’ll only be a moment. And I’ll carry my mobile with me, in case you need to reach me.” He shoved the phone into his pocket.

“All right,” she agreed, feeling mildly better.

“Besides, you’ve got Bootsie to keep you company.”

“Tsk. Hardly the same. He’s still hiding in the bedroom!”

George gave his wife a wink and a kiss. Then he walked out the door, back into the snow.

In the silence, Mary could tell that her heart rate had elevated from all the excitement. Keeping an eye on the man, she inched over to the adjoining kitchen and found her pillbox on the counter beside the toaster. She snapped open the box’s compartment, poured a glass of water, then swallowed her blood pressure pill with a generous sip.

During the entire fifteen minutes George left Mary alone, the stranger moved only once, repositioning himself with a mumble. By the time George returned with a disheveled Dr. Andrews, Mary had relaxed. The man was harmless, indeed. And by the scruffy look of him, he was more vagabond than thief or murderer.

Mary stood back while Dr. Andrews crouched at the stranger’s side, checked his vitals and temperature, and examined his eyes with a penlight. Then he spoke to the man, who opened his eyes, whispered a few words, then closed his eyes again.

Dr. Andrews rose with a grunt, his seventy-year-old knees giving him trouble, and turned to George and Mary. “Probable dehydration and hypothermia. No sign of concussion that I can see. Still, the lad’s in poor shape.”

Mary’s gaze returned to the man on her sofa, and an inexplicable sympathy filled her heart. He had been dropped at their doorstep for a reason. He might’ve died out there in the snow, if not for Mary’s insomnia.

“What does he need?” Mary asked Dr. Andrews. “How can we help him recuperate?”

“Keep him warm. Liquids tonight, then soft foods when he’s ready. And rest. Lots of rest. That’s what he needs the most, at this point. If his condition worsens—vomiting or dizziness, especially—don’t hesitate to ring me.”

“Thank you, Jim.” George shook his hand. “I appreciate your coming out here so late.”

“Yes,” Mary chimed in. “Let me put the kettle on before you go.”

“No, no.” Dr. Andrews waved in protest. “I must get back. Early schedule tomorrow. Thank you for the offer, though.”

George escorted the doctor out, thanking him again, then locked the door. “Well, this was certainly an unexpected twist in our evening.”

“Yes, indeed. He needs some hot tea. Or water,” she insisted.

“He’s asleep. Let’s leave him be. We can nourish him in the morning. He can drink all the tea you want him to drink then.”

“But you heard what the doctor said. Dehydration—”

“You’re welcome to try, Mary, but look at him. Sound asleep. Probably needs rest more than he needs fluids. He’ll be fine for a few hours.”

“Do you think he’s warm enough?” She watched the man’s chest rise and fall with deep, purposeful breaths. “Perhaps another blanket?”

“We don’t want him too warm,” George said. “He’s close to the fire and looks quite bundled up. No more chattering teeth, see?”

“True,” she said, semi-satisfied.

“Come to bed, Mary. He’ll be fine.” George reached out to nudge her in the right direction. “He’s indoors, out of the cold, the doctor’s seen to him. All is well.”

She agreed reluctantly, knowing she wouldn’t be able to sleep a single wink. “Oh! I forgot something. You go on. I’ll be there in a minute.” She patted his arm and watched him shrug and yawn. He pivoted to go down the hall, scratching at his thick gray beard. He would surely be snoring before she joined him again.

Mary walked to the kitchen counter, where she’d set it down earlier, in order to swallow her pill. There it sat—the silver angel. Grasping it, she tiptoed over to where the sleeping man lay. When she placed the angel into his half-open palm, his fingers closed over it tightly, as though the angel belonged there and always had.

 

Mary tried to sleep. She wrestled with the covers, flipped her pillow, and even attempted an old trick of thinking the alphabet backward. But the image of the man, cold and malnourished, wouldn’t leave her troubled mind.

So, an hour after she’d followed George to bed, she carefully peeled back the sheets, found her slippers in the dark with her toes, pulled on her dressing gown, then trudged down the hallway. The fire had dimmed, so she coaxed it back to life with the poker then switched her attention to the sofa. The man was sleeping, but his body twitched as his eyes roamed back and forth beneath his lids. He was wrestling with something. And the shivering had returned.

She took the quilt, which had fallen below his elbows, and tucked it back up beneath his chin. His fingers grasped the edges as he let out a long sigh.

Mary made her way to the kitchen and warmed a pot of broth on the Aga’s stove top. Back in the sitting room again, she sat at the edge of the coffee table and waited patiently with the bowl of broth. When it was cool enough, she ladled the broth and held it close to his lips. His eyes remained closed, but his mouth reacted, sipping on autopilot. She dabbed the broth from his beard with a napkin she’d brought from the kitchen.

She spent the next half hour that way, one spoonful at a time, until he’d consumed half the bowl. Finally, she could sleep.