Late June, 2019

[andhiswife]

Greta's second worry is that something awful has happened to Elsa -- or perhaps Jessica -- but a few hurried texts are enough to put that fear to bed. Whatever this is, it's Darrow's doing, which means it probably won't last more than a few days. A week, at most.

Her first worry is for Regan and Saoirse, who are alone at the cottage (aside from the dogs, of course). There's no reason they should be unsafe there, especially since they're so much closer to town -- and therefore any potential rescue -- than Greta is here at the Gardens. But she hates being apart from Saoirse, in particular, while there's some sort of Darrow nonsense afoot. Even if it only takes the form of weather so poor that she, the children, and the staff who happened to be working when the skies opened are all thoroughly stuck.

She supposes there are worse things. The children are clearly relieved to have her here, and if she'd been snowed in away from the Gardens, she would have spent the whole time fretting over them and feeling awful that she wasn't here.

But the few days of ridiculousness that she was anticipating stretch into a full week, and then beyond. She's received some increasingly restive texts from Regan that she's done her best to mitigate. They'll be safe enough at the cottage, and the snow in the countryside has drifted so deep that frequent shoveling is the only reason they can open the front door at all. Going much beyond the stoop is a fool's errand.

Still, she'd be lying if she said she wasn't considering it. It's only a combination of pride and her lingering unease with being directly bespelled that's kept her from calling Magnus and asking if he might magically fetch her, somehow.

The absolute last thing she's expecting, then, is a knock at the door. More of a frantic pounding, actually, and she hurries over to pull it open. Who on earth would be out in all this?

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[negative_feedback]

She's freezing.

She doesn't own any clothes that are really meant for this weather. Just the few things Greta had helped her get when she'd first arrived, and that's not enough. Saoirse'd had plenty, so Regan had layered socks and shirts and leggings under her jeans before they'd set out. They'd kept close together, hands clutched tightly.

She isn't sure how they got her. She'd felt Saoirse's hand tighten, a tug on her arm, and even as Regan had whipped her eyes around, they'd grabbed her. They moved better in the snow than she does.

And she'd tried to follow them. She had. But then she'd found herself back at the house, first, and realized she'd gotten turned around, somehow.

So, tears streaming down her face, Regan had set back out to the Gardens. Her eyes are still red, and she's sobbing when she slams the side of her cold-numbed hand against the door. She can barely even feel how hard she's hitting. She has no idea if anyone inside can even hear her.