Nothing had changed. The walls were still rough-hewn logs fitted together and retained in upright split trunks. The white wattle filling still kept out the howling wind that drove the snowstorm outside. The floors were the same sawn boards, polished with varnish and covered in places by native patterned rugs. The woodsman axes still hung about the mantle, the pictures were in the same place and the cottage style Settle, still held the girl in its cushioned embrace.She hadn't moved.Jason rubbed his hands together and stimulated the circulation. Pins and needles reminded him that he should have been wearing gloves outside. His search of the cupboards had produced a bottle of Bourbon. Two glasses on the low table between the settle and the fire were half filled with the amber coloured liquid, warmed by the reflected heat of the dancing flames that refracted and glinted through the glass.Jason sat opposite her and reached for his glass. He studied her face as if to burn the image into his. He closed his eyes with an ache, before brushing the feeling aside with a shrug of irritation, returning to weeding the flowerbeds. By the lake, she pulled her sweater off, catching her T-shirt in her fingers as it rode up with the sweater. His face fixated in her mind, and she began to sketch an outline of his features, roughly hewn and tender. She recalled his face from memory, from touch, from scent and taste and everything between, his eyes slightly smiling, watchful. She drew his eyes first, in such a way that they seemed to gaze back at her as she worked, craggy eyebrows that could lift sardonically, for emphasis.She smoothed her fingers down the image of his nose, slowly smudging the lead to form a shadow, as if seen by the dim light of the reading lamp on her side of the bed. As she drew with the artist's pencil, the images somehow reversed, transposed, and he began to think in degrees of colour, remembering past times, the smell of her, the texture of her skin. As she began.
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