As soon as he was inside, he slammed the door and pulled the scarf away from his face. “Are you holding up all right?”
“Great,” she said, trying to make her expression match her voice. The hike had worn her down more than she had expected. The blistering cold and exercise had combined into a surreal sensation—her core was hot, but her limbs were chilled. Despite the layers, she was shaking. She promised herself she would never doubt Dorran’s judgement about clothes again.
The cabin they’d entered was small and crowded. Dozens of shelves were stacked full of gardening equipment, most of it rusty and cobwebbed. Clare guessed this was another part of the house that its owner never visited.
Dorran pulled off his hat and ruffled stray flecks of snow out of his hair. “It is a longer walk to the forest. If you are tired, you could return to the house. I can reach the car alone.”
“I’m good to keep going.”
“I promise I won’t think badly of you if—”
She elbowed his side and grinned. “Stop trying to talk me out of it. I’m coming.”
He sighed, but it was parsed through a smile. “Very well. Let’s get you some snowshoes. That will make the hike a little easier, at least.”
A row of the shoes had been stacked against the back wall. Dorran picked out a set and fit them under Clare’s boots. He checked and double-checked the fasteners, then he had Clare walk up and down the cramped cabin to make sure they weren’t likely to fall off. Once he was satisfied, he fitted his own and retrieved a shovel and pickaxe from one of the shelves. Then he opened the door and again lifted Clare so that she could scramble over the bank of snow, slipping and kicking awkwardly. He threw the shovel and pickaxe after her then hauled himself out and closed the cabin’s door behind them.
The snowshoes were unwieldy, and Clare had to struggle to get standing. When she did, she held out a hand to carry one of the implements, but Dorran just chuckled and shook his head. He tugged his scarf back into place, put the tools over his shoulder, and set out towards the forest.
The snowshoes made a world of difference for crossing the open yard. It still took effort, but she no longer felt like she was about to topple with every step.
As they passed the house’s front again, Dorran nodded to the left. “If you ever leave Winterbourne alone, be careful not to stray too far in that direction. There is a pond, and it is most likely liquid right now.”
Clare stared at him. “Liquid?”
“I am not joking.” He laughed. “The furnace in the basement directs heat towards the garden. But it has an automatic valve to redirect the flow of air outside if it ever starts to rise above a certain temperature. That release valve channels heat out near the lake. It won’t be enough to make it warm, but it won’t be solid ice, even in this weather.”
Dorran must have been able to recognise the courtyard’s layout under the snow because he led them along the easiest path, weaving around obstacles and keeping them on level ground. Before long, the snow flattened out. Clare guessed they had left the courtyard and were in what must have been a field separating the house’s grounds from the forest. The wind was louder and harsher without the hedges to buffer it.
She kept her gaze fixed on the line of trees ahead. The forest encircled the estate, winding around them. The day had low visibility, but seeing the trees was still easier than it had been during the snowstorm.
Dorran yelled to be heard through the wind. “The road is straight ahead. A path leads from our property’s driveway to it, though it will be submerged in snow by now. We have a better chance striking through the forest, where the trees will have sheltered the ground at least a little.”
She had no breath to reply, so she nodded instead. Dorran adjusted the tools over his shoulder and put his head down as he forged on.
A harsh flash made them both freeze. Clare’s first thought was that someone had taken a photo of them, but that was impossible—they were alone on the icy terrain. Dorran turned to face her, and his eyes, the only part of his face visible, reflected Clare’s own confusion.
Then a deep rumble followed the flash, and her breath caught. Lightning.
Dorran stared into the distance, squinting, and Clare followed his gaze. The sky had turned a sickly green colour near the horizon.
“What is it?” Even though she yelled, the wind snatched away her words.
Dorran shook his head. “It… it may be hail.”
“Is it safe to keep going?”
He looked from the skyline to the forest, then at the house, and finally at Clare. He stomped one shoe to clear the snow from it as he looked back at the sky.
“Dorran?”
“We will press on a little farther. But be prepared to turn back if the storm nears.”
She nodded, and Dorran began walking again. He’d increased his pace, and Clare had to breathe in gasps as she struggled to keep up with him. Every few paces, he looked over his shoulder to check on her. The rest of the time, he alternated his attention between the green-grey haze in the sky and the forest’s edge.
They were getting closer to the trees. They passed a mound of snow to the left. The groundskeeper’s cottage. She’d seen it from the window the day before. Its roof had been coated, but the walls and windows were still visible. Now only traces of grey wood peeked out between the snow banked over it.
Another heavy rumble shook Clare. It reverberated through her, vibrating every atom of her body. Another lightning flash followed immediately, along with a second, closer, crack of thunder.
Dorran stopped. He dropped the tools and stared at the storm. While only one corner of the sky had been tinged green before, now half the heavens were dark. He shook his head and began backing up. “It is moving too quickly.”
“The forest is close.” Clare could distinguish the individual trunks, frosted with snow, their boughs weighed down until they sagged. “We’ll be sheltered in there.”
“No.” He kept shaking his head as he grabbed Clare’s arm and tugged her back. “We have to go. We have to go now.”
Chapter Thirteen
Clare wanted to argue, but the alarm in Dorran’s voice was sharp. She knew better than to ignore his caution. She turned, and together, they ran for Winterbourne.
More thunder rumbled behind them, but this time it didn’t fade. It grew louder.
Not thunder. Hail, Clare realised. Hail beating on the trees.
She chanced a look behind them. The horizon had become a haze, almost like dense fog had fallen over the forest. The trees trembled where they were touched by hail.
The sour taste of fear flooded her mouth. The storm was moving fast, faster than anything she’d seen before. They would take at least ten minutes to reach the house, even running. The hail would be on them in seconds.
Dorran yanked her arm. “The cottage,” he yelled, his words almost drowned out by the thunder of a million spits of ice whipping into each other. Clare looked to her right and saw the snow-coated mound. It was close. She followed Dorran as they sprinted for it.
A new noise joined the thunderous roar. Subtle thumps sounded as hail impacted the soft snow. The noises blended together, becoming almost painfully loud. Clare didn’t spare the time to look behind them. The cottage was close, no more than twenty meters.
An icy stone impacted the snow ahead of her. She didn’t see the hail itself, but she saw the hole it had created. Then another landed, above and to the right. Hail the size of her fist drove into the snow like meteors.