The Glow of Ice at Dawn Light

“I’m sure Sheri will just live in here,” says Karryn with a little giggle.

“Sheridan.” She scowls, looking around the sitting room, resenting her stepmother’s accurate assumption. They’d barely walked in the door from a four-hour car ride when Karryn asked Uncle Rudy to take them on a tour of the chalet to see the renovations that had prevented their large family from convening last Christmas.

“Sorry, force of habit,” Karryn says, cheeks reddening.

The woman is seven years older than her but looks the same age, though her father would never admit it. He’d insisted they make the drive together while he was delayed at work for a few days, and Sheridan had run out of excuses to keep Claude’s wife at arm’s reach.

“It’s always been Sheridan,” she deadpans, walking further into the room to take in the changes.

Rudy clears his throat. “We had the sofa reupholstered.”

“It looks great,” Sheridan replies.

“I love the grey,” says Karryn. “I remember the beige from my first visit.”

Rudy grins. “It was so well-used it turned grey anyway, and the good thing about neutrals is that you can dress them up.”

“You’re parroting Aunt Julia.” Sheridan laughs.

“I am!” Rudy chuckles.

“Where is she anyway?”

“Clearing snow with Tom and Dennis.”

“This is such a lovely piece of art,” Karryn interrupts, drawing their attention to the large watercolour illustration over the mantelpiece. Dawn colours warm the surface of the property’s large frozen pond in a beautiful winter scene, and the large old tree on the bank reflects on the ice.

“You can give Norah your compliments later,” Sheridan says. Norah’s family has their own chalet five hundred meters away. As kids, they used to blink Morse Code at each other with flashlights from their bedrooms during the summer. They often spent Holidays together.

“Afraid not,” says Dennis from the doorway, Norah’s uncle and the groundskeeper of both properties for the last thirty years. “Norah ran off last month.”

“What?” Sheridan says.

“She was helping with the house,” Dennis says, removing his hat. “Painting, picking colours for rugs, cushions— she has an eye for that sorta thing. Then she left, clothes missing, and we found a brochure for a fancy interior design school in Europe so…”

“No one looked for her?” Karryn asks.

Dennis shrugs. “She’s an adult. We figure she’d rather ask forgiveness than permission.”

Sheridan is unable to articulate her skepticism.

“I’m going up to my room now,” she says abruptly.

“We’re not done the tour.” Karryn pouts.

“You can continue.” Sheridan rushes to the hall to grab her suitcase before anyone can stop her.

-

The house is quiet by ten o’clock.

Sheridan takes a hot shower and changes into some thermal pajamas and wool socks.

The bed creaks whenever she shifts, and a funny sound catches her ear.

SHHHTCK.

Sheridan gets up, moving her pillow to get a peek behind the bed frame. She makes out a pale corner and reaches blindly down until her fingers touch the soft folded edge of sturdy paper, freeing it with a gentle tug.

Sheridan unfolds it.

It’s a black ink drawing from the perspective of the window seat across from her, looking down at the yard outside. Two people are conversing; one looks like uncle Rudy, but the other is hidden by the awning. The light from the afternoon sun, per the artist’s discretion, reflects off another window downstairs and creates a glare that distorts the windowsill in her room.

Sheridan goes over to the window seat herself and looks outside, startled to see Rudy in the very same place as the drawing, smoking a cigarette and talking with someone that she can’t see. He looks up at her. She waves. He waves back.

Sheridan closes the curtains, noticing a slight gap between the sill and the wall right where the light-glare was in the drawing. She pushes on the sill, and a familiar corner of paper appears, that she pinches free within a few tries.

Now she has two drawings.

This one is of the central staircase at night, with light seeping into the front hall from the kitchen like spilled milk. The moonlight shines in from the entrance as well, reflecting off the ornate mirror above the console table.

Sheridan gets a sweater from her dresser and shrugs it on, tucking the drawings into her Kindle’s case, and goes to her door, pulling it open hurriedly.

Karryn squeaks in surprise, fist raised to knock.

“What are you doing?” Sheridan demands.

She’s wearing Claude’s thick grey robe, her phone clutched in her other hand.

“I’m about to call your dad, came to see if you want to talk to him too.”

“We texted earlier.”

The disappointment on Karryn’s face is clear, but she recovers.

“You okay? You seem preoccupied. Are you thinking about Norah?”

Sheridan frowns. “We haven’t been close for a few years so…” She shrugs.

Karryn nods. “Still weird though.”

“Yeah.”

They stand in awkward silence.

“I’m gonna read by the fire,” Sheridan says. “Goodnight.”

“Night.”

The fireplace in the sitting room casts an orange glow on the hallway. As soon as she reaches the first floor Sheridan goes straight to the console table and mirror. It’s a vintage restoration with an ornate frame but no immediately apparent gaps.

Footsteps interrupt her just as she reaches up to check behind it. Sheridan turns to see her Uncle Joel, Aunt Julia’s brother, come into the hall from the back of the house.

“Hi, Sher. Whatcha doin’?”

“Appreciating the subtler restorations,” she replies.

Joel shrugs out of his coat, hanging it up in the front hall closet. He smells like smoke.

“Beautiful work, huh?”

“Sure is. Were you outside with Rudy?”

“Rudy? No. Wifey forgot some wine in the car so I snuck in a quick smoke. Mums the word.”

“Sure thing.”

He considers her for a beat. “See you tomorrow, kiddo.” He heads for the stairs.

“Sleep tight.”

Sheridan goes to the kitchen, listening to Joel’s footsteps disappear as she puts the kettle on. She takes another look at the drawing while the water boils, looking at the familiar decorations featured on the console table, including a pair of electric candleholders.

Returning to the hallway while her tea steeps, Sheridan checks behind the frame carefully, finding nothing. She then checks under the candleholders, sucking in a soft breath when she finds another folded drawing.

“I don’t think we got a proper greeting.”

Sheridan startles, dropping the candleholder and her Kindle.

“Auntie!” Sheridan exclaims, shoving the drawing into her pocket as she stoops to pick up the items.

“I’m sorry!” She laughs. Whether hosting a party or doing manual labour, Julia has always worn the same handsome signature scent. Like wine, coffee and tobacco altogether. Which is exactly what Sheridan smells on her when she steps in for a hug.

“Oh— your ears are cold!” Sheridan remarks.

Julia chuckles. “Takes me so long to warm up these days.”

“Were you outside?”

“Let the dog out. What are you doing down here?”

“I’m waiting for my tea to steep. Can I turn on the candles?”

“Of course, the batteries are rechargeable anyhow.”

“Cool!”

“We’ll talk tomorrow, eh? Tell me how you’re feeling about Karen.”

“It’s Karryn,” Sheridan replies automatically.

“Of course.” Julia winks. “Don’t stay up too late, I know what a bookworm you are.”

“I’ll try, thank you.”

Back in the kitchen, Sheridan pulls out the newest drawing. It’s a view of the sunroom, with its floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the field. Sheridan has slept in there to watch the stars on many occasions. The glare from the setting sun distorts the metal stag-head bust on the table as well as the books beside it.

Sheridan was ten when Julia told her what the bust commemorated. It was the first and only time she’d gone hunting with her father, who had made her process the deer right where she’d shot it. Joel had been jealous, and believing he could do it better and faster, had shoved a crying Julia right into the stag’s guts. He’d ultimately thrown up when he tried.

Mindful of the noise she makes, Sheridan takes her tea to the sunroom. It’s lit by the moon and the snow outside. She stops short though, realizing with a pang of dread that the bust isn’t there. An oddly shaped vase sits in its place.

She sets her mug and Kindle down on the side table, pausing to listen for any nearby movement. Norah left these drawings behind for a reason, and Sheridan needs to know why. Without intervention.

There isn’t anything under the vase, nor any nearby items, and being any more thorough would make noise. She picks up her mug, bringing it to her lips for a sip.

“Ugh—” Sheridan sharply puts down the too-hot tea, spilling some on the table.

She quickly picks up the books to avoid any damage, grabbing a few tissues from a nearby box to sop up her little mess. Another folded drawing falls out of one book and onto her lap.

Sheridan stares at the paper, and then at the book, and goes suddenly cold.

The title of the book is Find Me.

She puts the books down and unfolds the paper.

This drawing is of the sitting room, the sun gleaming off the glass covering the art above the mantel.

Sheridan tucks it into the Kindle case with the rest and quietly makes her way to the sitting room.

The fire is low, the flames licking the logs sleepily, glowing from the inside out.

She checks under every decoration on the mantel, tries to feel under the frame without jostling anything and even checks nearby shelves, but she doesn’t find another drawing.

With a sigh, Sheridan settles into an easy chair, unfolding each drawing on her lap. She pores over them until her eyes are heavy. Reluctantly, she tucks the drawings away again, intending to return to bed, but dozes off right there in the easy chair.

-

Sheridan wakes to the light of predawn with a throw blanket draped over her. The fire has been stoked and she smells coffee.

“Sheridan?”

Karryn sits a few feet away on the sofa, still wrapped up in Claude’s robe, clutching a mug. Her phone sits on the table next to Sheridan’s Kindle and each unfolded drawing.

Sheridan sits up. “What are you doing? What time is it?”

Karryn holds up a hand. “It’s about seven. I woke up early and couldn’t fall back to sleep… realized you never made it to bed. Your Kindle was on the floor and these fell out when I picked it up.”

Sheridan’s brow knits.

“You put the blanket on me?”

“It was cold, the fire died.”

A log crackles.

“Are these Norah’s drawings?”

Sheridan sighs. “I found one in my room. Each one led me to the next.”

“She must’ve left them before…” Karryn picks up the drawing of the sitting room.

“I couldn’t find another drawing hidden in here,” Sheridan admits.

“Something’s missing here,” Karryn says, scooting closer to Sheridan. “See?”

She points at the mantel. “There’s no art in the frame.”

Sheridan scrambles over to Norah’s watercolour illustration, taking a closer look as the room slowly brightens. The ice glows in the dawn light, a shadowy reflection of the tree on its mirror surface.

The dawn light.

A shadow.

“Oh my god,” Sheridan whispers.

“What?” Karryn says.

Sheridan turns around, grabbing Karryn’s phone off the coffee table and rushes into the hall.

“What are you doing!?” Karryn exclaims, trying to whisper.

She shoves her feet into her boots and wrenches open the front door.

“What’s going on?” Joel calls gruffly from the stairs.

“Is something the matter?” Julia asks, just behind him.

“What’s the commotion?” Rudy says, furthest away.

Sheridan bolts into the frigid morning, toward the pond, boots crunching on the hard snow.

“Sheridan!” Karryn yells. “It’s too cold!”

Concerned voices fade out in the whine of the wind, biting at her cheeks and making her eyes water.

Every inhalation tastes like blood by the time Sheridan stops at the edge of the bank, panting, breath clouding before her.

She crosses the dock and steps onto the ice.

Dawn breaks as Sheridan makes it to the middle of the pond, lighting up the snow like millions of glittering diamonds. She drops to her knees and starts to swipe at the dusting of snow covering the ice with the sleeve of her wool sweater.

“Sheridan!” Karryn says, breathless, a few yards behind, clutching Sheridan’s coat.

She clears a big patch of beautiful, thick ice, perfect for skating.

Clear, thick ice.

With numb fingers Sheridan turns on Karryn’s phone flashlight, leaning over to shield her view from the sun’s glare. It permeates the ice, illuminating it, and with the flashlight held just above it, she can make out, not the reflection of the tree, but a body.

“Norah didn’t run away to school, Karryn.” Sheridan sits up, shivering.

“She’s in the ice.” Sheridan’s voice breaks. She starts to weep.

Karryn hugs her tightly, wrapping her coat around her shoulders.

“One of them killed her,” Sheridan whispers.

They look behind them.

Joel and Julia are watching them from the end of the dock.

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— Rooney