She wanted to reach for his hand and lead him to their bedroom, but the flood of snow was blotting out her thoughts, and she couldn't let go of the desk. She pressed her spine against him as he lifted her skirt and slipped her panties down. When they fell to her ankles, her distant feet moved automatically to kick away the garment, and then his penis reared up into her.
It was so cold that she gasped and began to shiver uncontrollably with shock or pleasure or the all-embracing chill. Patterns surged out of the night, his fingers roamed intricately over her as he rose higher and higher within her, waves of shivering spread to the limits of her body and seemed to pass beyond them. When he came, it felt like ice blossoming. She pressed her lips together for fear that the cry she was battling to suppress would bring Margaret and Johnny to see what the matter was.
Her shivering abated somewhat as he dwindled gradually within her. Her skin was tingling so much it felt unstable as a bubble, and her legs continued to shake. When she closed her eyes and leaned back against him the onrush of patterns lingered on her eyes. "Let's go to bed. I'm cold," she said.
"Yes, that's enough for now." He took hold of her so firmly that she felt safe in keeping her eyes closed as he guided her away from the window. "It's going to be colder," he said.
THIRTY-EIGHT
At first Ellen knew only that she couldn't move. The weight which had gathered on her torso was so massive that it was forcing her arms and legs wider, as if her limbs were straining to become symmetrical. She felt as though she was turning into a sign – of what, she didn't know. In a moment she realised that the mound which was weighing her down was herself.
If she was pregnant, so was everything around her. Stargrave and the trees and crags and moors were swollen with a new life which was taking shape in utter silence, the silence of the life it was supplanting. If she succeeded in moving or even in making a sound, might that at least slow down the change?
She became aware that Ben and the children were somewhere close to her, though she couldn't hear them breathing. She had to rouse them. She drew a breath which shuddered through her, and the convulsion of her body went some way towards releasing her from the paralysis. She was able to raise her head shakily, despite the burden which was sprouting from her face.
It took her some time to see that the white glow was emanating not only from her surroundings and from the sun in the black sky but also from herself. Then her dazzled eyes adjusted, or reverted to a state sufficiently familiar to let her see with them, and if the sight which met them couldn't make her cry out, nothing could: the sight of Ben and the children and herself.
Though the cry stuck in her throat, it wakened her. She was lying in bed, arms and legs splayed, a mound which must be of the quilt looming over her. There were no sounds at the window; the silence seemed as profound as it had been in her dream. Despite the stillness or because of it, she felt as if something immense was surrounding the house. "What is it?" she wanted to know.
She wasn't aware of speaking aloud, but Ben answered from beside her, sounding fully awake. "The last day," he said.
His response made so little sense to her except in terms of her dream that she felt as if she hadn't wakened after all. Now that she knew he was there she wasn't afraid to go back to sleep, so long as the dream wasn't waiting. Sleep claimed her almost at once, and then there was only stillness until Johnny and sunlight came into the room. "It's snowed lots," he said excitedly. "Come and look."
"I know it has, johnny. Just let me wake up." She was trying to decide to her own satisfaction what had happened last night. She and Ben had made love in front of an uncurtained window and a blizzard; no wonder she'd felt so cold and so odd. She heard Ben on the floor below, telling Margaret to come to her bedroom window. It was a day for the family to be together, Ellen thought, not for her to muse in bed. "Let's see what the night's brought," she said, and Johnny ran the curtains back.
For a moment she could see only whiteness beneath the sky, and she felt as if she was back in her dream. Then she saw the simplified outlines of the moors, barely distinguishable beneath the frozen sea of white which stretched to a parade of clouds at the horizon, clouds which looked as if the snow was beginning to ornament itself and reach for the blue sky. To Ellen the landscape appeared incomplete, waiting for its details to be filled in. If it seemed somehow ominous, that was the fault of her dream, and she mustn't spoil the day for the children. "Looks like a good start to the holidays," she said, and chased Johnny down to the bathroom.
She was in the shower, having ensured that Johnny didn't just pretend to wash his face and brush his teeth because of his eagerness to play, when she heard his voice through the downpour. "Pardon?" she called.
This time Margaret shouted it with him. "We're going to have a snowfight."
For no reason she could bring to mind, Ellen was suddenly nervous. She turned off the shower and pushed back the clinging plastic curtain. "How deep is it out there? Better not go too near the woods."
"They can't do any harm. I'll be seeing they don't go far," Ben said outside the door. "They may as well make the most of the day."
She heard the children racing downstairs and Ben's tread following them. She stepped dripping out of the bath, fumbled with the slippery doorknob and hurried onto the landing, towelling herself to keep warm. "Ben, come here a minute."
He looked up over his shoulder, then his body turned towards her. Below him in the hall the children were stuffing themselves into their anoraks. He put his finger to his lips as they ran to the front door and slammed it behind them. "Thought of something?" he said.
"Did you talk to me during the night, or did I dream it?"
"Depends what you think you heard."
"Something about the last day."
"Sounds more like a vision than a dream if you heard a voice saying that. Maybe painting and taking my story over have opened up your mind."
All this seemed so irrelevant it only made her more nervous. "But was it you I heard?"
"Would you like it to be?"
She lost patience with him. "I thought you were going to keep an eye on the children."
"I won't leave them alone." His expression flickered as he turned away. "Don't let's drift apart now," he said, and strode out of the house.
She heard his footsteps engulfed by snow as he pulled the door shut, and then the children shrieked. She would have smiled, imagining him pelting them with snow, except that she was trying to determine what expression she'd glimpsed on his face. Really, it was unfair of him to talk about drifting apart as if she should blame herself; he was the one who was playing word games. Still, she could be joining in the fun instead of brooding. She pulled on a sweater and jeans and ran down to find her boots in the cupboard under the stairs.
She was shrugging on her anorak as she dragged the front door open and stepped outside. "Where are you?" she called.
Beyond the doorstep, the snow was up to her ankles. She could see how the children had had to pull their feet out of their footprints, whose outlines were crumbling. Quite a few of the prints had been trodden down by their father. Except for their trail, the snow was as unbroken as the silence between the squeaks of snow crushed under Ellen's boots. Ben and the children must be lying in wait for her, she thought, and prepared to dodge as she followed the trail around the outside of the garden wall, up the track towards the crowd of white figures which had grown fatter and more featureless overnight. The figures moved apart as she approached, and just as she passed the corner of the garden, snow flew at her. She ducked, more out of nervousness than to avoid the snowballs, and scooped up a handful to shy at the children as they dashed away from crouching behind the wall. "Don't hide from me, all right?" she said.