The Scent of Winter

Chapter 3: Trillium Woods

Fully awake, Kingsley glanced out the window at his surroundings.

"Here?" he asked the driver. They were seemingly in the middle of nowhere. The car was parked on the shoulder of a narrow road. To the east, Kingsley saw dense forest; to the west, he saw dense forest. Behind him there was nothing but winding road, a road that wound into even denser forest north.

"There's a path," the driver said. He pointed at a wooden bridge, the sort people erected in their backyards to span a large drainage ditch or to put next to a wishing will. "You're supposed to walk down that path. I'll pick you up at ten in the morning on the twenty-second."

Kingsley opened the door and stepped out onto a snowy road and the second he did, a blast of cold air slapped him right in the face. Kingsley wrapped his coat around him and walked in four inches of snow to the wooden bridge as the driver pulled away.

Kingsley was all alone in the snow in the middle of nowhere and the sun was rapidly setting.

He took out his phone to let Juliette know he'd arrived safely to wherever the hell he was.

No signal.

None.

Sighing, he crossed the footbridge and found a snow-dusted path that lead deep into the woods. He couldn't go back, because there was nowhere to go back to. He had no choice but to walk on.

As he walked, he cursed himself for giving up his boots. While Hessians weren't the ideal footwear for snow, they were better than his current footwear.

Thankfully, the trees blocked the wind so that the woods were actually warmer than the road. He'd walked about half a mile down the path when he saw light ahead.

It was a strange sort of light. Not sunlight. Not electric light. He walked toward it and found a tall iron lamp casting the light. And not an ordinary streetlight sort of lamp, but a gas lamp. He almost imagined if he turned around he'd see a fawn traipsing through the woods, an umbrella in one hand and brown-paper parcels in the other.

He turned and saw no such creature, but he did see the outline of a house. Not quite a house. That was far too grand a term. A cabin. A small log cabin standing in a clearing. He found it quaint and lovely as he walked toward it. If he had to freeze to death somewhere, it might as well be here.

He knocked on the front door, but no one answered. He lifted the latch and found it unlocked.

"Søren?" he called out, slipping inside. No answer.

Kingsley ran his hand along the wall, seeking out a light switch. Nothing. It was very possible that this cabin had no electricity. He sighed as he walked down the hall and into the living room where a low fire burned in the grate.

Of course Søren would enjoy staying in a cabin in the woods with no electricity. He'd say it was hygge. It probably reminded him of his grandfather's fishing village or somewhere equally benighted in rural Denmark.

Well, fuck Denmark.

Kingsley was from Paris, the City of Light. Light required electricity. And so did Kingsley's phone, which was dying.

He went out to the cabin's front porch and held his phone up, searching for a signal. He wanted to send a quick text message to Juliette, a quick message reading, "Get me the hell out of here."

No signal. And, judging by the lack of telephone poles out here, no landline in the cabin either.

He shoved his phone into his coat pocket with a sigh. Hopeless. It was hopeless. He was trapped, stranded, cut off from the world. And this wasn't good because Kingsley liked the world. His small corner of it anyway. He wanted to hear his daughter's voice. He wanted to tell Juliette he'd arrived safely in Maine. He wanted...