qqueenofhades:

It’s been snowing for three days at least. It’s several feet deep on the ground, jagged sheaves of icicles rimming the roof and crashing down in a turmoil of crystalline blades, the wind howling and swirling, hissing through the trees. It’s not any kind of typical nor’easter, even the bad ones you can get in Maine, and it’s getting worse. Emma has been run off her feet trying to deliver emergency supplies and fuel, dealing with the calls of accidents on the frozen roads, hectoring the power company (which appears to be Igor and a generator, but she doesn’t want to ask too many questions) to get the electricity back on, due to fallen trees and downed lines and all kinds of other problems. Hopefully the weather breaks soon, or things are going to get dicey. Icy, at least.

At the moment, however, she’s doing none of these things. Not by her own choice, but because she can’t. She responded to a call (someone thinks they’ve seen a suspicious person up by the old cabin in the woods) and by the time she’d finished casing the joint and finding nothing but an old blue cloak, the snow was coming down too thick and fast to drive back. The boat of a police cruiser nearly slid off the road when she tried, and she headed back to the cabin where she’s now bunked down. Her cell phone’s dead. It’s too far to walk. As long as this doesn’t turn into The Shining or something, she should be fine. There are plenty of food and supplies in the cupboards, a fireplace, and quilts. She’ll ride out the storm until it breaks. No big. She hopes her family doesn’t worry too much. Or that it’s not too long.

It only seems to be getting longer. And darker.

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