Chapter Six
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SnowmenThere were perhaps twenty figures, snowmen, one might have called them in a long forgotten past. The figures stood at contorted angles as though blown askew and frozen in time, piles of inhuman sculptures. If it were not for the purple trails tracing the contours of their forms, they might have remained hidden against the white backdrop of the Arctic plains, except for those with tanned faces.
“That's an awful waste of lavender essence,” Merryweather said, but I was already on the move.
As the wind, I skirted the perimeters of each individual hoping and praying that the face of the one I loved was not amongst them. I called her name like a pathetic child as I passed from one to the next. The others must have thought me mad. Perhaps, I was? Where identification wa
