"Don't put your happiness in other peoples hands. They'll drop it. They'll drop it every time."
- unknown

JAKE WARRENS HADN'T uttered a word to me since I last saw him. The moons that slumbered in the sky and the sun that gave warmth to the Earth soon merged into one; and soon I did not bother counting the days off my calendar. I had wondered what I'd done to create this distance between us—if it was because of something I had done. By talking to him, had I given him a false sense of normalcy? Did he hate it—hate our friendship, hate the short time in the darkness of the night that we'd spent together?

Apart from Jake, I had only one other that I deemed a friend: Miss Mollie Harrison, soon to be Mrs M. James. I wasn't quite sure when her engagement began, but from the way her curls bounced upon her hair with bliss, and her doll eyes—of a mystifying grey—widened, I was sure that she was happy.

Or, as happy as any women in our time could get.

"And," Mollie began once more, not acknowledging my bored face. The words she spoke went through one ear and tumbled out the other, and all it was, to me, was what society wanted to hear. Not what she wanted truly. Truthfully. "We're to be married in a Church—Catholic, since that is his religion—and then we'll have three babes! The first, of course, will be a bouncing baby girl, and I'll name her Amandine after you!"

I turned to her, taking in the façade of happiness that graced her face. Marriage to Arthur James did not seem appealing in the slightest manner, but I wished not to argue against her. Mollie was my friend—my best friend—and I did not wish to make her feel sad. But, I would express my opinion, and my opinion was always harsh. "Well, your plans in life are pitiful." I paused. "And dull."

Her clouded eyes widened, eyebrows furrowed as they rose upon her face. "Dull! Pitiful!" She exclaimed—and the shrill in her voice was so loud that I knew someone was to awake. A soldier, hopefully. I would rather a solider than the Major—who also happened to be Mollie's soon-to-be husband. "Why, I think you're describing your own life. You haven't even a man to be engaged with, and you talk to no-one apart from me and ... him."

It took all my will-power to not roll my eyes. "You say him as though it's cursed." I slapped her shoulder. "Stop it."

"Stop what?" Mollie countered, following me around the room. The clothes she folded for Major were left estranged upon the marble counter—cold to the touch. I did always enjoy a good debate with Mollie; if she deemed something correct, she'd argue until one met her point. However, when it came to him, she never won. She never will win. Alas, she's too stubborn to realise that some battles aren't victorious. "You need to stop your lunatics! You converse with him, appreciate him, and even I've heard the rumours about the pair of you escaping in the dark of night—"

"Is that what she says? Oh well, it's petty idiocy. You know Clara would do anything to be near your husband." Clara: the women who I, unfortunately, share a room with. Lord help me if she's been running her mouth.

"Yes, but there's always reason to believe, Maddy! You—you have acquainted him, and no other has tried to do such a thing. You've taught him how to write—"

"How do you know about that?"

"Anyone could see the improvement in his writing—that is, when he attempts." Mollie sighed, sitting down on the rotting stool beside her. Winters winds had not ceased to exist in the summer, and persistent were they as they gushed through the room. Shivers flew down my spine. "Amandine, you need to be careful, you need to stop conversing with him and being friendly with him, for one day he could corner you and you could have no—"

A pause in Mollie's words, and rightly so. Silence poured itself into the room as he entered, his eyes only lingering on me for a second. No—less than a second. A millisecond; a microsecond, and yet I was infatuated—strangely. After all this time, he had not uttered a word or glanced at me and now ... now, he dares to look.

But doesn't dare to utter a word.

Footsteps echoed throughout the room. Mollie sat in silence, petrified to the core and I ... I was simply in awe. He had the nerve to come here and continue to ignore me after I tried to show him normalcy. Oh, how he did aggravate me.

"Why." I said, although I wasn't sure if I had. My mouth felt as though it was glued shut, as though no words had left it, but the look of Mollie's face, and the pause in Jake's actions suggested otherwise. Alas, there was not a sound more made, so I continued. "Why have you ignored me."

Jake turned, his amber eyes resting upon me. The softness and warmth was still there in his eyes, as did it radiate around the room. I could feel his warmth as it wrapped around my arms, embracing me tightly. I clung to it, not wanting him to let go. Ironic that, since he was never really there. "And you're talking to me because ... ?"

I stuttered—my eyes widening. "What?"

"Why are you talking to me? You're below me. All you are is a desperate maid. Do me a favour and fuck off." He spoke—Jake Warrens spoke. But, it wasn't him. I could tell it wasn't him. No warmth in his voice, no kindness—no gentle purr in the night, no childish twinge. Gone, as though it had never existed. No, this voice that talked to me was not Jake Warrens; it was another face, another mask, and I sought out to find the cracks within it.

But there was none.

Not one.

A perfectly sculptured mask. No cracks, no weaknesses. Just an air of unnerving calmness and aggravation. Of cold and winter. Of boredom and disinterest. Of rudeness—of enmity.

"I ... " My voice faltered, fading into the wind. No—it was not him. I refused to believe it was him. Those amber eyes, the devil's scar, the buzzed hair and fair skin. The lumbering walk and large body, the calloused hands that once wielded a pen with childlike gleam. No—not him, but a replica. A horrid, ceaseless hallucination. A nightmare that felt real. I may have not been close with him, but Jake Warrens had taught me things. He'd been my friend. He'd been the first person to say thank you to me.

I wished to believe it was not him, but I knew it was.

The moment he left, I was once more submerged into the cold—his warmth gone.