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Get Sleepy is a production of Slumber Studios and is made possible thanks to the generous support of our sponsors and Premium members. If you'd like to listen ad free and access weekly bonus episodes, extra long stories and our entire back catalogue, you can try out Premium free for seven days by following the link in the episode notes. Now a quick word from our sponsors. Marshall's buyers are hustling hard to get amazing new gifts into stores right up to the last minute. Like a designer perfume for that friend who never RSVP'd wishlist topping toys for her kids who came too. Belgian chocolates for the neighbor, a cozy scarf for your boss and a wool jacket for your husband that you definitely did not almost forget. Marshalls. We get the deals, you get the good stuff. Even at the last minute. Phew. Find a Marshall's near you. Hello, it's Elizabeth here, the host of the Sleepy Bookshelf, another sleep inducing podcast from the Slumber Studios Network. I'm dropping by just to let you know that I'm starting a brand new book on the Sleepy Bookshelf right now. This season I'll be reading A Little Princess by Frances Hodgson Burnett, a beautiful story of a little girl whose goodness prevails over cruelty. If you're interested, just search the Sleepy Bookshelf in your favorite podcast player and go to the most recent episodes to find this new season. I hope to see you there to put down your worries from the day and pick up a good. Welcome to Get Sleepy, where we listen, we relax, and we get sleepy. I'm your host, Thomas. Thanks for being here for another extended bonus episode. Tonight we've collected some of our favourite winter stories from a selection of ones I've narrated, and you'll be enjoying them from the soothing comfort of your very own cozy compartment on a winter train. Before we begin, settle yourself down, take a deep breath in and softly let it back out. When you're ready, close your eyes and relax as we begin tonight's dreamy story collection. The cold air nips at your nose as you stand on the snow covered hill overlooking the town. Down below, the windows of the tiny, distant houses emanate a warm golden light. Some of the homes have strands of small multicolored bulbs hanging from their roofs. Even from here you can see them twinkling cheerfully. The snow is bathed in a silver blue light. It seems the whole world is aglow in the pearly luminescence of the full moon, and the cold air makes the faraway town look glassy and dreamlike. For a moment, you wonder what it would be like if you were a bird, able to spread your wings and fly high above the neighborhoods, circling lower and lower until you landed in front of a cosy home. Through the windows, you'd see a family inside, sitting down to dinner with smiles on their faces. Or maybe you'd find someone reading a book in a comfy armchair beside a crackling fire. But then a whispering breeze returns your awareness to the present moment. As the night grows darker, the air gets colder. The hill you're on is exposed to the elements. You think it might be warmer down amongst the trees on the trail that brought you here. With a last lookout over the sleepy town, you turn and trudge through the snow. You follow your own string of footprints back the way you came. It's been long enough that the prints have formed an icy crust. Your boots crunch through them, leaving the shape of their soles atop your older tracks. The air around you smells cold and invigorating. The temperature mutes the other scents that might be carried on the breeze, leaving only a hint of pine and the damp freshness of the snow. You fall into an easy rhythm of walking where you're not really aware of how much time has passed. All you take in is your slow progress over the hill, then into the trees. Before long, you see that the forest now surrounds you on all sides. A glittering trail of pearly, moonlit snow leads you through the pines which tower over your head. Their branches are frosted with a layer of white. Everything looks different at night. The shadows are longer and even the trees seem taller, stretching up towards the starry black sky. After a while of going gently downwards from the top of the hill, the path evens out. You find yourself in a place where the trees have more space between them. The forest seems open here, though it's not a clearing exactly. The trail itself is lost in the wide patches of white between the dark trunks. You pause for a moment to get your bearings. First. You rotate in a slow circle, taking in the scenery around you. But when you're facing the way you started once again you notice something you hadn't seen before. Only a few steps away, there's now a wooden post painted red with a rectangular sign on top. It reads Platform 1 in elegant gold script. How odd, you think. What could the sign be referring to? There's nothing here but you, the trees and the snowy trail. You glance behind you over your shoulder. Just as you suspected, there's nothing there. But when you turn back, the forest has changed once again. Now cutting through the white snow is A set of gleaming silver train tracks. They extend out to both sides through the trees beyond the reach of your vision. You're sure these tracks weren't here when you walked up the hill earlier. In fact, you're positive they weren't here just moments ago when you first reached this part of the trail. You close your eyes and rub your forehead gently. It's late. Maybe your imagination is just running wild, you think. But when you open your eyes, you see that the forest has been transformed. To your right is a wooden bench painted the same red with a sign that reads Waiting Area. Just beyond is a small old fashioned building whose windows are glowing like those in the distant town. The word Station is printed above the door in fanciful writing. Curious to explore further, you walk slowly over to the station. Instead of going inside, you cup your hands around your eyes and peer through the window. The glass is rimmed with frost and your breath fogs it slightly. The warm glow is coming from old fashioned lamps which illuminate another waiting area indoors, along with a ticket counter which stands empty. There's not a single other person in sight. Before you have a chance to wonder about how this all came to be, you hear the low, faraway echo of a whistle. Soon it's accompanied by a deep rumbling sound moving through the trees. Whatever train uses these mysterious tracks must be getting nearer, you think to yourself. Moving away from the window, you glance up and down the tracks, but can't see a train yet. So you walk back over to the bench to wait. You hear the clear, loud whistle blow twice. The rumbling grows louder as the train chugs closer to the station. Before long, you can see a bright round light in the darkness. It's on the front of the locomotive, heading down the tracks in your direction. As the train barrels towards the station, it sends up a fan of snow on either side. A large plough on the front clears the path ahead of it. A kind of fog billows out around it, mixing with the snow as the train gradually grinds to a halt in front of you. When it finally rolls to a stop, you can see that the frontmost part is adorned with a large festive bow. Like the station, the train seems to be of a different time. It's an old fashioned steam locomotive with a round face and a smokestack. A friendly conductor in a navy suit with silver buttons steps down from one of the carriages. He looks both ways and, spotting you by the bench, waves you over. Hop on, he says with a smile. You ask where the train is going tonight. To see the magic of winter, he says. You tell him it sounds wonderful, but then you realise that you don't have a ticket. Not to worry, he says as he fishes a rectangular piece of paper out of his pocket and hands it to you. Looking down at it, you read the words printed in cramped black lettering. Ticket good for one way or round trip with luggage or without. Welcome aboard the winter train. His eyes twinkle as he watches you read. What a strange and wonderful thing to have happen, you think to yourself. For a moment you consider giving him your thanks and then continuing on your way back home to bed. After all, it's not every day that you find a mysterious train in the woods and climb on board. As you're pondering this, a single fluffy snowflake lands on your coat. The first is followed by another and another. You glance up at the sky. It's as though you're standing in a snow globe, watching the flakes drifting down around you. Just like magic, you think. That thought makes your decision for you. This isn't the kind of opportunity to let pass you by. With a smile, you step up into the carriage. The conductor ushers you further inside and asks you to follow him to your very own compartment. This is a sleeper train, he explains, so you'll be able to sit up and watch the landscape go by for as long as you'd like and then curl up into a cosy bed and fall asleep to the rocking motion of the train. You follow him past rows of comfortable looking seats. Their midnight blue fabric with silver trim matches the curtains pulled back on either side of the large observation windows. Through the glass, the snowfall outside takes on a dreamy quality, as do the tall pines that line the tracks. The conductor leads you into another carriage. Instead of seats, this walkway is bordered by walls with doors at regular intervals. These are the sleeping compartments, he explains. Yours is the last one on the left. He stops in front of your door and turns the handle to open it. Then he gestures for you to enter. While he waits in the hall, you thank him for his help and he smiles broadly, wishing you a good journey. He leaves you to settle in. You take some time to look around your compartment. It's a compact space, but it feels very homely. There's a bed with a fluffy pillow and a warm fuzzy blanket. Beside it is a seat with a perfect view out the window. There's a little table with a silver tray on top holding small pots of tea and cocoa, along with a plate of biscuits, both chocolate dipped and plain. You pick up a biscuit and nibble at the corner. It's buttery and crumbles in your mouth. Setting the rest of it down on the plate, you pour yourself a cup of your hot drink of choice. You inhale deeply, enjoying the warm, familiar fragrance. And then you settle into the seat so you can look out at the wintry landscape. As soon as you're comfortable, you hear the train's whistle blow twice. Then you feel a light rumbling beneath you as it begins to roll down the tracks. As it picks up speed, you relax into its rhythmic rocking back and forth as it chugs along through the fore. You lean your shoulder against the glass and gaze out the window passively. At first, the landscape looks much like the one you were walking through not long ago. Pine trees obscure the view of the sky, except for starry patches that peek through the branches is. Every once in a while you catch a glimpse of the moon. It's so bright you almost feel like you must be in a dream. It's as though you've never seen the forest, and the sky look so perfect, so alive. The tracks seem to cut their own path through the trees, following a mostly straight course. But then you notice some mountains in the distance. Their rocky peaks are covered in a thick layer of snow, which softens their edges and angles. You watch them grow larger as the train moves closer. Before you know it, the tracks are curving around the base of the first mountain. The steep slope fills the window entirely, becoming a blur of moonlit white and grey. You feel your eyelids growing heavy with the effort of tracking the view you're speeding past. For a moment, you let them drift closed. Leaning your head against the cold glass. You rock back and forth in the comfortable seat, your body giving into the motion easily. All thoughts evaporate from your mind as the train's movement lulls you into a sense of peace and contentment. You can feel your awareness drifting, too, into the familiar darkness behind your eyelids. When you open your eyes sometime later, you see that the train has left the mountains behind and is now traveling through a different forest. Forest. This one is unfamiliar to you. The trees are much larger than the pines you walked through earlier, their trunks gnarled with age. This looks like an enchanted forest to you, with its dusting of white snow. Just then, you see something moving between the trees. You press your face against the glass, trying to get a clearer view. Soon you can make out that it's a silver sleigh with gold bells hanging from every corner. You imagine that you can almost hear the ethereal jingling through the window. The sleigh is being pulled by four beautiful white horses. Their hooves kick up a spray of powder with every step. Riding in the sleigh are two women with long dresses the colour of snow. They sparkle in the moonlight, as do the crowns on their heads, which look as though they're made of icicles. The one on the left is wearing a small circlet, while the one on the right has a crown with tall spires of ice interlaced with gold. The mysterious women ride parallel to the train for a while, but soon the locomotive outpaces the sleigh. You glance back to see the horses trotting over an embankment of snow. Who could they be? You wonder. They looked like royalty and seemed perfectly at home in the enchanted winter forest. As you're pondering their identity, the train rocks gently and pause to the left. As the tracks curve in that direction, you're afforded a view into new parts of the forest. The first thing that catches your eye is a circle of tall evergreen trees in the distance. They seem to be twinkling in every colour of the rainbow. As the train moves closer to them, you see that each of the trees is magnificently decorated. One is covered from top to bottom in gingerbread ornaments. There are small biscuit people painted with icing sugar and suspended from ribbons along with houses, flowers, trees and more. You can almost smell the spicy aroma of ginger and molasses wafting through the glass. The next trail tree is simply strung with cranberries, pine cones and cut paper snowflakes. You appreciate its simplicity and attention to detail. A third and fourth tree are color coordinated. One is blue and the other green. All of the ornaments and decorations they carry match their own respective colour. And the largest tree of them all is hung with tinsel and fairy lights, some white or gold and others in every color imaginable. It stands taller than all the rest, casting its warm and welcoming glow on the trees beside it. Even beneath its trunk, the snow sparkles like a gemstone as the light bounces off of it. It's a truly enchanting scene. You wonder who decorated this group of trees and if they ever pass by, just as you're doing, to admire their work. When the train turns again, you watch the decorated trees fade away behind you and think of nights spent putting up ornaments, turning the ordinary into the extraordinary. The train rocks gently back and forth as you settle even more deeply into the seat. Around another bend, something else in the forest catches your eye. It's a family of reindeer, happily standing together by a glistening stream, lapping up a drink of cold water from this perspective, you can see that each of them is covered in a light sprinkling of powdery snow, as though they've been walking around in it for a while. Their muzzles are especially dusted with white. It makes you smile to think of them nuzzling the snow and each other. As the reindeer disappear in the blur of magical forest behind you, you notice again how heavy your eyelids are feeling. It's been a long day, full of adventures and seeing new. And now you'd like nothing better than to lie down in the comfy bed, stretch out your arms and legs and settle into the soft, fluffy pillow. So you take one final sip. Sip of your hot drink, savoring its rich aroma and the feeling of it on your tongue. Then you change into your pyjamas and crawl into bed, nestling down beneath the covers. From your bed, you have the perfect view out the window. You watch the trees and mountains fly past and even make out the individual snowflakes that are beginning to fall outside the train. Soon you allow your eyes to fall shut and let your mind clear of the thoughts of the day. You settle into the soothing rocking of the train back and forth. As it lulls you nearer to sleep. Your mind is filled with the rhythmic sound of the train moving down the tracks. Tonight, you'll dream of white sleighs, twinkling trees and reindeer by a stream. You'll dream of the magic of winter and of all that means to you on this perfectly enchanted night. You hear the thick snow crunch beneath your boots as you walk. The air is frigid, but still. Still. Although it's brisk outside, you're well dressed for this weather. The sun shines down through the tree branches, keeping you comfortably warm in your cozy layers. Your toes are nestled in woolly socks and winter boots. Your body is wrapped in a knit sweater and a long coat that comes down to your thighs. On your hands are a pair of light coloured gloves and you have a thick handmade beanie on your head. You are ready for a winter's day in the forest. And so you look ahead at the path sprawling out in front of you. The world feels silent and timeless as you gaze out at the quiet scenery. The bare forest is dusted in powdery white snow. It looks like a perfect winter wonderland, the kind you'd find hidden inside a wardrobe. You smile, thinking of the enchanting land of Narnia. As you stand on the silent path. In the distance, the silence is broken by a quiet thump. It's the sound of a clump of snow falling From a tree branch, your path today winds through a forest of balsam fir and birch. The whitewashed trunks of the birch trees are camouflaged in the snowy world around you. You admire how picturesque it looks, but your thoughts soon turn to the treat awaiting you at the end of your walk. The extra special thing about this particular forest is the treehouse style cafe tucked deep within it, nestled beside a frozen pond. Despite its seemingly remote location, it is one of the gems to be found around the nearby village. And locals adore wandering one of the many paths to their cafe. Though the trails are quite, quite easy to follow, they are rendered almost unnecessary by the delicious scent that permeates these woods. People often say all they need to do is follow their noses and the aroma of fresh coffee and cinnamon pastries will lead them right to the cafe. You take a deep breath and exhaling, you bring your mind back to your surroundings. Nature feels peaceful to you, and your mind and body are at ease when you are surrounded by it. Whatever the season may be, You continue to walk as little clumps of snow crunch and cling to the bottoms of your boots. You know this particular path very well as you frequent it throughout the year. Truly, you believe it to be one of the most beautiful paths in the world. In spring, the floor is laced with vivid wildflowers. In summer, the bright sun, sun's rays dust the green grass with gold. Finally, autumn is greeted by orange leaves and mushrooms dotting the ground. But to you, there is something about this forest in winter that makes it all the more magical. Perhaps it's the silence, the purity of the scenery, or the way you have to bundle up, like you're embarking on an adventure. Whatever it is, it brings you an extra touch of happiness. A gentle wind moves past you. You watch the branches of the trees rustle as though following the wind through the forest. The breeze vanishes as quickly as it. You tug on your hat, adjusting it over your ears. The wool feels warm and soft when it touches your skin. The breeze left behind a few fallen needles from the balsam fir trees. They dust the ground and create a beautiful contrast to the gleaming white snow. As you look out in front of you, you notice a friendly little creature in the near distance. The animal bobs up and down, its soft grey fur glistening against the backdrop of snow. It is a rabbit, of course. You take another step and it raises its head, indicating that it has heard you. It perks up one of its long floppy ears towards you. Using its pink nose, it sniffs and investigates the area lazily the rabbit hops back down along the path. Its fluffy little tail brings a smile to your face as it bounces away. You imagine it's on a hunt for the many winter berries that grow here. The wildlife is something you particularly love about this place. On your walk, you're almost always joined by a rabbit or some other friendly animal going about their business in the forest. There are at least half a dozen different rabbits that you've seen frolicking near here. There's the fluffy grey bunny you see. Just saw a pure white one that blends in handsomely with the snow. At least two brown and beige rabbits and a couple of white and black speckled ones, too. They've made this charming forest their home, spending their days foraging for berries or resting in their underground dens. Surely they are living a sweet and simple life tucked away in the woods. You continue in the footsteps of the rabbit, walking deeper into the forest towards a frozen pond. The delicious aroma of balsam fir catches your nose. You close your eyes and breathe it all in. The beautiful smells of wintertime in nature. There's the aromatic scent of the trees, the crisp cleanness of the snow. And you imagine there might be the slightest hint of coffee and pastries. Soon you pass by a small stream that flows south until it connects with a larger river beyond the town. Today, the top layer of the stream is frozen solid. You approach the edge of it and look down the geometric shapes the ice has made beyond it. You can see small fish navigating the water that flows under the ice. You admire that life like this can still manage to thrive despite the chilly temperatures. The fish below wriggle down the stream, navigating past mossy stones and fallen tree branches in the most effortless way. You're enjoying the freedom to take your time on today's walk. There is no rush. There is no other place you need to be. You can enjoy the day, the cool air on your face and the delicate sounds of nature all around you. And so you do just that. You reach up and cup your cheeks. The warmth of your woolly gloves soothes your skin. You breathe out and see your breath form a cloud which lingers for a moment. You absolutely love this cold, fresh weather. While you also enjoy the delights of summer. You find joy in the sensation of chilly cheeks, thermal layers, and the blissfully cozy feeling that winter brings. You think it might be nice to have a roaring fire in the hearth when you return home. You'll listen to the sound of crackling wood mingling with some quiet music. Music as you read a book, perhaps, or cook some delicious food. Or maybe you'll just doze on the sofa, enjoying your peaceful day to the fullest. But for now, you are here in this blissful moment, walking towards the little cafe tucked away among the trees. This is your own winter paradise. To your left, you hear the snap of a twig. You turn your head to see where the sound is coming from. Off at a safe distance, you spot a large, majestic moose standing in the snow. The animal leans its head down and chews on twigs and needles from a balsam fir tree. You watch its jaw move around as it gnaws on the pieces. Then the moose gracefully lifts up its head. Its antlers sprawl out from the top, and you notice that its thick brown fur is dusted with snow like powdered sugar. It glances over to you casually before turning its head back down to focus on its snacks on the ground. The moose is certainly accustomed to seeing people in the forest. Today is just a particularly quiet day. You tend to see at least a couple of other people on your walks. There are a few regulars. The elderly couple who stroll hand in hand, a man and his daughter who bring their friendly husky with them, and a young woman who sometimes manages to walk and read classic works of literature at the same time. Those are the people you see the most, but there are plenty of others you've become accustomed to over the years. As you keep walking, a gentle snow begins to fall from the sky. At first you think it's snow, just some powder coming loose from the branches above your head. But after a moment or two, you realize it is actually snowing again. The snowfall is soft and only adds to the atmosphere. The flakes socks are fluffy and delicate. A few of the larger ones stick to your coat sleeve. You reach out your hand and catch one in your glove. You bring it up to your face to inspect its unique shape. After all, they say, no two snowflakes are the same. While you're studying the tiny white fleck, another light breeze brings a familiar scent to your nose. It's the mixed aroma of firewood, peppermint, coffee and cinnamon. It twirls through the air, luring you to the coffee shop. Continuing on a little further, you soon come to the the most picturesque place. There's a frozen pond, tall, stately trees, and a quaint treehouse cafe perched delicately in the middle. In spring, there are ducks that swim and bob around the pond, but today they are tucked away somewhere cozy, and the ice is glittering white and silver. Sometimes people bring their ice Skates. Here you notice a woman on the left hand side side of the pond. She is resting on a tree stump, slipping on a pair of red colored ice skates. It's a beautiful day for skating. The cafe itself is a rustic tree house. There are short skates, stairs that wind up to the main level. It's a stunning sight, but somehow the ground floor below it is even more inviting with a roaring bonfire and log benches surrounding it. Cute fairy lights are strung above the benches, hanging from the trees and adding a touch of twinkling magic. You see the elderly couple you know from your walks sitting by the bonfire with blankets on their laps, cradling cups of hot chocolate in their hands. You smile and wave to them and they return the greeting. You love the familiarity of this place. You step over to the bonfire for just a moment, making casual small talk with the couple. As you rub your hands together near the flames, you feel the luxurious tingling sensation of your body warming up. The bonfire area is spacious with room for for at least a dozen guests. You might sit here later, but for now you'd like to make your way up to the coffee shop. You follow a wooden arrow with the words Coffee this way. Which leads you to the wooden staircase. Snow has piled up on either side of the railing. The wooden stairs creak as you head up to the second level. The delicious aroma of coffee and baked goods becomes stronger and stronger until you reach the door. You push it open and wipe your feet on the doormat before entering, so you don't bring in any snow. Inside. The coffee shop boasts a rustic design with wooden wall walls adorned with eclectic art and lighting. If not for the modern espresso machine and cash register, this place would make you feel like you had travelled back in time. You are quickly greeted by the barista, a young woman. Woman with big green eyes and a warm winter hat on her head. You approach the counter, perusing the display of pastries. You know the offerings change daily, so you always take a moment to look. Today you see cinnamon swirls, peppermint bark brownies and croissants. Their croissants are delicious. They are flaky and crisp on the outside and melt in the mouth, perfect on the inside. But today you are curious about the peppermint bark brownies. They seem like a wintry treat that will go fantastically with your favourite coffee. So you order and pay accordingly. You decide to take a seat at a small table and chairs by the window. Snow piles in the corners of the window, framing the view outside. You hear the click and Whirr of the espresso machine as the barista makes your drink. These familiar sounds are calming to you. Leaning back in your chair, you glance out of the window. The woman who was beside the pond earlier is now gliding across the smoke smooth ice. In a seemingly effortless motion, she moves backwards before dipping down and twirling up into an elegant circle at the center of the pond. You watch her hair flowing around her. She reminds you of an old jewelry box you once saw. When the box was opened, a beautiful ballerina popped up and began to dance to a sleepy tune. The ice skater's movement brought this memory to mind. A few moments later, the green eyed barista brings over your coffee in a white mug. The steam gently flows up from the drink as she sets it down alongside the sweet brownie. You thank her before closing your eyes and taking a deep breath in. You detect the aromas of peppermint, chocolate and coffee. A delicious combination, you think. You bring the coffee to your nose and feel the warmth of it in your hands. Then you take a small sip. It's perfect. Now it's time to try the brownie. Served at room temperature, it feels soft and dense in your hand. You take a bite and your teeth glide through it smoothly. You feel the sweet crunch of peppermint every once in a while. It's just as tasty as you had imagined. You spend the next little while enjoying the experience. A sweet treat, a warm drink, the ambiance of the Treehouse Cafe and the scent of the the bonfire which catches your nose every so often. You also watch the delicate snowflakes fall from the sky as the ice skater continues to glide outside. She seems so carefree and it fills you with a warm and happy sensation. Once you're finished, you brush the brownie crumbs from your fingertips, wipe your mouth and wave a cheerful goodbye to the barista before making your way down the staircase back out in the elements. You feel the chill of winter against your cheeks once again. But that warm and happy feeling from inside the cafe lingers in your body and mind. The elderly couple has left the bonfire area. You walk over and take a seat. Your body instantly feels cozier next to the toasty, crackling fire. Looking around, you admire the evergreen trees dusted in snow and the bare branches of the birch trees. As you look up, you notice a squirrel munching on something in one of the trees. The squirrel scurries down the bark. It is carrying a couple of nuts. You watch as it dips down into a nearby hole in the trunk. You imagine these squirrels of the forest taking turns foraging for extra meals to keep warm and fed over the frigid winter months. You picture them caring for one another and cozying up in their burrows to keep each other warm. Simply beautiful, you think. Your mind travels to cosying up when you are back at home. Later, in your own warm and homely den in the countryside, perhaps you will make a nice hearty stew before retreating to a good book nestled under a woolly throw blanket by the fire. But for now, you soak up the warmth of the bonfire in front of you and listen to the soft sounds of falling clumps of snow and the whoosh of metal blades skating on the ice. You are completely relaxed. You are on dry soil carpeted with fallen pine needles that snap gently under your weight. You watch your breath bloom out of you quickly, becoming a cloud of condensation as it hits the cold air air. But even as it hangs, you notice that your body feels warm and dry. You are wearing a thick but light coat that protects you from the winter air. Pressing coolly against your cheek, you take a moment to appreciate the invigorating feeling of the cold air in your nose and mouth. It is exquisitely fresh. With every breath, you can almost taste the clear glacial water and snow. The milky light of a full moon falls in gentle shafts around you as it is filtered through the tall, slender trees above. Then, as your eyes adjust, you notice it dance and shimmer on the snow that weighs down waxy branches of pine. As soon as you notice this, you detect the unmistakable scent of pine trees. Sharp, astringent and woody, it fills your nose and grounds your senses. In this forest, a wave of gratitude washes over you. How wonderful it is to be in nature on a night like this one. You raise your head to look up. Above you, the pines rise elegantly towards the crystal clear sky. Through the silhouette of the branches, you glimpse a magnificent spatter of stars. They shine like white, pale purple and green jewels sewn on onto deep blue velvet. But they are vastly outshined by the pearly orb of the full moon. You give yourself a moment to take in this beautiful sight, feeling the tingle of amazement that runs through your body as you look into the vast unknown of our universe. How lucky you are to witness it. When you have taken in all you can, you slowly bring your gaze back down to earth. As the trees enter your line of sight, you notice small, soft yellow lights in the distance. They are half obscured by the trees around you, so you move forwards to get a Better Look. As you brush away a low pine branch, you realize they belong to two strings of lights that line either side of a footpath. Each light is about the size of an egg and they are spaced evenly every few meters along a thick green cable. You notice how they softly illuminate the pine needles around them and the rough, knobbly bark of the trees. You feel a sense of ease wash over you. You understand that the natural thing to do is follow these guiding lights. So without any hurry, you begin to tread the path. The dry earth feels compact and solid beneath you. And the more you move along it, the greater a sense of peace, stability engulfs you. You gradually become aware of the stillness in the forest. The forest is quiet and peaceful, except for the sound you make as you move along the path. But at the same time you can sense something magical in the air. You take your deepest breath yet and it floods you with a sense of well being. Then, slowly and intuitively, you turn your head and see a magnificent sight. A few meters away among the tree trunks, stands a deer. She is a doe and the moonlight glistens on her smooth caramel coloured hide. Your eyes find hers. They are deep, dark and warm. You can see the lights from the path reflected in them. You hold the connection between you at the same time becoming aware that you have stopped moving. It's as if this gentle creature can see into your heart. You feel your chest expanding with warmth, as though your heart is aglow. Her breath is quicker and lighter than your own. She is inviting you to look inside yourself. You trust her. So you allow yourself to give in to the warm tingling feeling that is collecting in your heart. As you stand connecting with the beautiful. Do you experience happy and easy memories? Your heart is showing you the places and the people that you love. You can feel the filling you up with gratitude and joy. Your breath is steady and nourishing, naturally flowing deep into your lungs. Calmly, you turn your feelings to the dough. It's as if you can extend some of your heart's glow to her. You thank the doe for her presence and in return, she slowly blinks. Then she gracefully turns and canters lightly into the forest. As you listen to the sound of her footsteps fade away, you return your attention to the forest and this curious path. You continue along it, your own movements lighter and softer than before. The path begins to curve gracefully to the left. You keep following it, trusting the little warm lights and watching your clouds of breath. Soon the trees start to thin. More and more snow litters the ground. You watch its surface Sparkle in the moonlight. The trees are becoming shorter now, and you can see something beyond them. Your pace quickens slightly. Then a beautiful view erupts beyond the trees. A still and silent lake. You reach the edge of the forest and look out onto the lake. It is dark and glossy. The full moon is reflected perfectly in its waters. You realize that the path has opened up onto a small beach. The shore is is covered with smooth grey pebbles that peek through the blanket of snow on the ground. The warm lights that you have followed line the edge of the beach. They hang from the branches of the trees. You take take in this amazing sight. All around the lake you can see the white and sparkling pine trees frosted with snow. These too are reflected as mirror images in the lake. You let a small sigh escape you. Then you notice the sweet smell of wood smoke. Warm and inviting. You breathe it in, letting it fill you with nostalgia. You turn towards the smell and see what looks like a cozy wooden cabin at the end of the beach. Its one window glows orange and warm. A tiny tin chimney sends out puffs of soft grey wood smoke into the night air. And a narrow jetty runs from its door to the water. Without hesitation, you head for the cabin. You feel the fresh snow crunching beneath you. As you reach the quaint structure, you notice an unusual warmth in the air. Opening the cabin door, you see what looks like steam coil out of it. Like your breath in the cool air, it hangs misty and pale. You step past the threshold and into a small changing room. The walls, floors, ceiling and benches are made entirely of light wooden panels. The soft but inviting smell of tree SAP floods your nostrils. You breathe it in deeply and understand that you have just found a Scandinavian sauna. At the same time, you are aware of the same warmth here. You notice the cool skin on your face, tingle in it. You peel away your coat and hang it on a wooden hook. Then your eyes rest on the white, fluffy towels that lay neatly stacked on the bench. You reach out to touch one. It is soft, dry and inviting. You ready yourself for the sauna by wrapping the towel around you. Just then, you see another door in the changing room. It's made of wood too, but with a large tinted glass window. Beyond it. You can see the sauna, empty and ready for you, lit softly with the warm orange glow of a fire. Gratefully, you open the door and enter the saa. The fantastically warm air welcomes you. You choose a spot on the smooth wooden benches, feeling the wood against your skin. Your eyes rest on the log burner, black but pristine, with a glass window lending a view into the crackling fire inside. The flames dance and flutter, casting a glowing, flickering light. You relax your body into your seat on the bench and feel a deep sense of calm spread over you. Your body is becoming warmer and warmer. The muscles in your neck and shoulders are lengthening and releasing. This fantastic sensation creeps through your whole body. You notice the long muscles of your arms and legs soften. It's as though each and every part of you is relaxing deeply in this heat. All the day to day tension that is held there is disappearing. You take a deep breath in to support your body as it releases the stress it does not need. Then the tiny muscles in your jaw follow. Then your back. Each vertebra seems to sigh with relief. Finally, you feel your shoulder blades slacken, releasing what feels like years of tension and strain. Your whole body is surrendering to this heat. It occurs to you that this is your time to release anything you no longer wish to carry around. Your heart is still open, still glowing from your encounter with the dough. You use it now to see what you could do without. In this exquisitely relaxing place, you allow the old tensions, stresses, thoughts and feelings to simply melt away. As they melt, you feel yourself becoming lighter and more spacious inside. Your breath becomes deeper, slower and more sustaining. As a result, a profound sense of well being spreads through you. You are so wonderfully relaxed. But you know your time in the sauna is coming to an end. You get up and move tranquilly towards the door. You open it and make your way back into the changing room. Noticing a thick white dressing gown and extra towel hanging up for you. You take them off the hook and open the door to the outside. The cold winter air hits your warm body. It feels refreshing and revitalising. Then your eyes find the jetty and the smooth, dark lady lake beyond. Intuitively, you know what to do. You move purposefully and barefoot along the jetty. The cold of the wood feels wonderful against your hot feet. You reach the end and find a ladder like those in a swimming pool. It extends from the jetty down into the lake. You leave your towel and climb down the ladder. As your feet touch, the icy water, shivers run up your legs. You can feel your arm hairs standing on end. But you keep climbing down. When the water moves up to your thighs, you let go and allow yourself to drop into this natural plunge pool. The cold water takes your breath away, but at the same time it invigorates your body. You have never felt so cleansed and refreshed. You can feel every inch of your body alive and well. Your heart is beating with life. A sense of immense gratitude tingles through you, as if you can feel the moonlight shining from within. The water is not deep. You marvel at your own body's movements as you pull yourself back up the ladder. Finally, you reach the jetty and slip on the bathrobe. You wrap your head in the towel. They feel so warm and comforting against your skin. Then you make your way back to the sauna, aware of the cold water dripping from your body and onto the jetty's dark wood. But this time you open the door and find not a changing room, but a bedroom. Without a shadow of a question, you step inside. The room is cast candlelit. The pale wooden floors and walls glow warmly. In its center is a broad, squashy bed. There is a faint scent of herbs in the air, relaxing and soothing. You pad towards the bed, feeling your body getting ready to welcome sleep. The bedroom is the perfect temperature. Not too cool, not too warm. The bed sheets are crisp and clean. Night clothes have been laid out for you. You pull them on and their light cotton feels soothing against your skin. Then you climb into bed and lay yourself down. Your body sinks gratefully into the mattress and you let out a sigh of thanks. The pillows support your head. Perfect. As you lie in this bed, relaxed and happy, you notice how good you feel. You know how rejuvenating and calming the sauna has been for you. Then your awareness comes to rest on your heart center, still warm and full of that glowing feeling. You take a moment to sink into it. This is the space inside you that has been made to enjoy life. Everything that lights you up can be found here, from your hobbies and interests to your loved ones and dreams. You notice how much more space there seems to be for your heart. After the sauna, You take a smooth, flowing breath in and feel deeply content. Your eyelids are heavy and slowly they close. Your breathing becomes even. Your mind softens, and gently you drift into a long and beautiful sleep that nourishes every part of your being. You find yourself tucked up in bed in a very cosy guest room. You are on the 10th floor of an old apartment building in New York City's Upper west side. An old friend has generously offered to host you as you take in some of the sights. You're not just here as a tour tourist, however. You're also working on a personal research project that will require a visit to the main branch of the New York Public Library. Your research appointment at the famous Stephen A. Schwarzman Building is tomorrow and you are excited to see the resources you've been permitted to view. While browsing the library website, you were quite astounded by what you learned about this very famous main branch of the State Library. For example, it doesn't just house books. Among more than 15 million items at this flagship location, there are many priceless objects. The Library owns a copy of the Gutenberg Bible, as well as original documents once authored and distributed by the founding fathers of the United States. And these are just the beginning. Apparently. Whether you seek maps, audio files, illustrations or films, you will find them all in this amazing place. You gently close your laptop top and stow it next to the bed. Turning off your little bedside lamp, snuggling down into the covers, you turn over and gaze out the window. You're on an upper floor, far above the ground, but the ambient light of the city makes its way into your darkened room, making rectangular patterns on the floor. It's surprisingly quiet all the way up here. The sounds of the city intrude only distantly through the thick walls of the building. This apartment is a cozy fortress that protects you from the constant heartbeat of the city outside. Your eyelids begin to feel heavy. You nestle your face into the crisp white pillowcase, breathing a few deep sighs. In your mind's eye. You imagine standing in front of the handsome bazaar marble building you will see tomorrow in the very heart of the city. The library is famous for for being a perfect example of this turn of the century style featuring many of the elements of classical architecture. Beaux Arts buildings like the library also have more ornate Renaissance era flourishes that enhance their beauty, sometimes to jaw dropping effects. You envision the wide stairs leading you between the library's famous guardians, the lions called Patience and Fortitude. You see yourself standing at the top of those stairs under the neoclassical arches of the entryway. In your mind as you pause there, it is almost nightfall. As the gloom of twilight descends, the air has that wet, cold feeling that tells you snow is coming. All is quiet, but you have a sense of anticipation. Something is about to happen. Looking around, you realize that the front steps of the library are uncharacteristically deserted. In fact, there is not even any traffic driving by on the street. You are entirely alone here. Or perhaps you are not. You cannot believe your eyes, but one of the lions, Patience, has moved from his pedestal and is calmly licking his paw nearby. As if noticing you are looking at him, the majestic marble beast stops bathing himself and yawns at you, rolling over on his side in A friendly way. You automatically look for the other lion, Fortitude, and realize he is walking in a circle some distance away. He's playfully chasing a windblown leaf that is scudding across the stairway. In short, the imposing guardians of the library are lolling about like two enormous kittens. You feel oddly unafraid of these friendly looking cats, and you watch as Fortitude lets his leaf fly away. He sits for a moment watching it go, and then turns and ascends the steps in an unhurried manner. Then he sits down by the front door and looks at you as if he's waiting. You are oddly compelled to follow him, and you slowly walk up the stone stairs. You hold out your hand and he dips his head as if inviting you to pat his soft fur. He no longer looks like a cold marble lion. Instead, he is radiating warmth and softness. You bury your palm in his silky mane and he leans into your hand. After accepting your greeting, he pushes at the front door with his nose, dislodging it ever so slightly. Intrigued, you reach out and attempt the door yourself. It is unlocked. You open the door wide and Fortitude dips under your arm and enters the grand foyer. Inside, as if expecting you will follow, You look behind you and see Patience waiting nearby. You open the door wider and he slides gracefully through the opening as well. Taking a deep breath, you enter the building and let the door close behind you. You stand in the echoing entryway in awe, gazing up at the ornate carvings on the tall ceiling and reading the names of the donors etched on the wall as if someone was expecting you. The tall candelabra light fixtures are illuminated. There is also a warm light glowing from the balcony on the second floor that overlooks the foyer. Turning around, you admire the very tall arched windows over the front doors. Grey twilight filters through the glass. Formidable columns hold up the ceiling, but it feels as if it is weightless. Soaring in graceful arches above your head, this building has has a feeling of permanence, but it also conveys a mood of effortless space. As you turn in circles, taking in the majesty of this entryway, you realize that Patience is ambling in your direction. He has a lanyard hanging around his ne neck. The friendly lion sits just an arm's length away, and you reach out to examine his new neckwear. It is an ID pass card. Scrutinizing it more carefully, you are amazed to see that it has your name and photo on it. You gently remove the lanyard from your feline companion, pulling it over his head. Having delivered his gift he goes wandering into the recesses of the hallway. You don your new ID card, pulling it firmly over your own head and tugging on it as if to confirm that it's real. Looking up, you realize both lines have disappeared down the dimly lit first floor corridor. Having never been inside the library, you're not sure what to explore first, so you follow them into a wing that leads south. The lights of the city stream into the enormous arched window at the end of this long hallway, which glows with the light from large hanging pendants. Looking up, you are transfixed by the ornate decorations on the ceiling. You recall reading that they were made of plaster, but it looks for all the world like carved wood. The artistry is stunning. Bringing your gaze down again, you see the silhouettes of the lions as they move down the corridor and then disappear into a room to the left. Passing through the doorway behind them, you instantly recognize this space, which you read about yesterday. You can tell you are inside the beautiful Periodical Room. As much as any space in the library, you know this room is a window on the modern world. However, the cozy warmth of the furnishings also makes it feel like you've stepped into the past. Long wooden tables, now empty, are lit by low golden lamps. Elaborate woodwork graces the walls, framing a series of murals. These paintings all appear to be by the same artist, although they vary quite a bit in size. Making a circle around the room, you realize that they depict famous buildings in New York that are related to publishing. It seems a fitting subject for the Periodical Room. You pull out a chair and sit down on it, spreading your hands across the smooth wooden surface of the table. Then you look around the room, imagining it full of people who are reading newspapers from all over the world. The room almost hums with its own importance, as if it were waiting for another day to dawn and another influx of fresh publications to arrive. Turning your head to the right, you can see into a long room with more rich wood and more study tables. In contrast to the Periodical Room, this soaring space has white pillars that create a sense of light amidst the wood and dark plaster. Its round hanging chandeliers make you feel like you're looking into a medieval great hall. You pick up a paper map from a nearby display stand and discover that this is the part of the library specifically dedicated to Hebraica and Judaica. You could stay all evening in just these two rooms, but there is more for you to see. Patience and fortitude have vanished back into the shadows of the main hallway. You step quietly after them, as if your very footsteps might disturb the tranquility of these venerable rooms. Looking down the hallway in the northerly direction, you see Fortitude staring at something on the wall, intrigued to see what it is you approach. When you arrive, you discover an elegant marble drinking fountain. The water flows through a golden lion's head. Fortitude cocks his head curiously to the side, appearing to consider this water producing likeness of himself. You stand reverently for a moment, thinking that it is the grandest drinking fountain you've ever seen in your life. At this moment, Fortitude seems to have seen enough. He turns and disappears down a nearby corridor. You're about to follow, but your eye is drawn to a heavy double wooden door. Door. Above it, in gold lettering, are the words MAP division. You pull down on the lever handles and the doors open without complaint. You find yourself in the most opulent room you yet. The familiar, ornately carved wood surrounds you, but it's topped by the beautiful blue walls and a richly decorated gilded ceiling. In the recesses of the room you see bookshelves with neatly organised tomes. A gentle light emanates from the ceiling chandeliers, inviting you to spread out many maps and peruse them. The soaring arched windows are here as well. You can see the lights of the city outside twinkling through the glass in the darkness. You recall reading that There are some 20,000 books and atlases available here, ranging from the 16th to the 21st centuries. Much like the periodical room, this feels like a space where you could have access to far off places. There are city maps, antiquarian maps, topographic maps. The materials here allow you to travel across the world and across the centuries. It's hard to conceive how many maps are in this room. You don't want to lose track of your lion guides, so you slip back through the double doors and pull them softly closed behind you. You see that Patience is sitting there, waiting for you. As you appear, he turns and walks back in the direction of the entryway. In a moment you find him sitting in front of another door. The first time you walked the hall, you hadn't even noticed this entrance. Its doors are not heavy wooden ones like the others. Rather, they are made of elegant glass, clearly legible. In gold lettering it says Treasures the Polonsky Exhibition. Peering inside, you see a room full of classical pillars and arches with artfully arranged display cases. The light in the room is dim, but each display is illuminated so that the item inside is visible. The glass doors give the interior hall the feeling of being in a carefully preserved vacuum, where all its priceless objects must be protected. On this night, no door seems off limits to you. Wrapping your hand thoughtfully around the card at your neck, you gently push the doors of the exhibit open and let yourself in. You're standing in a breathtaking space. Many marble columns and pilasters in the classical space style are holding up an intricately carved wooden ceiling. The geometric coffers in the ceiling soar above the marble walls and floor. The overall effect is a feeling of both gravity and light. It takes you a moment to draw your eyes away from the features of the room itself and focus on the treasures within. The exhibition at first seems like a random collection of items, including art pieces, documents, furniture and even toys. Curious to discover what connects them, you begin to wander. You stop in front of a handwritten document that is browning with age. In places you can see the folds across the middle where it was once creased. Reading the information, you discover this is an actual copy of the Declaration of Independence, written by the hand of Thomas Jefferson. We hold these truths to be self evident, you whisper to yourself as you try to make out the fine script. You've heard the words many times and now it seems as if they are calling to you down through the centuries. You take a deep breath and hold it as if to avoid leaving your mark on this delicate document. Then you exhale, smiling to yourself. The artifact is safe inside its climate controlled case. A little way ahead, you stop. Stop and examine the Hunt Lennox globe. This is one of the oldest known globes of the earth. Because it was created just after Columbus's first voyage, it emits North America. You vaguely recall that this globe is notable for being only one of two that ever bore the notation Here be dragons. Your eye roams the brown and detailed terrain of this marvelous old piece. It shows a partial world, really, a time when the imagination was all that could complete the map. Your eye is drawn to the most massive and colourful book you've ever seen. In keeping with the theme of early exploration, the title is Birds of America by John James Audubon. You further discover that it is the largest book in the New York Public Library and in fact one of the largest ever printed. Apparently, Audubon had wanted to draw every bird species in North America. This book was a bold effort to show them to scale. The colours in this piece are a feast for the eyes. It could easily be the most sumptuous book you've ever seen. Even your special ID card will not enable you to pull this treasure from its safe display case and page through it. However, you imagine yourself sitting with it for Hours soaking up its beauty. Reluctantly turning away from it, you approach a long case that contains numerous items. The theme seems to be literary, but there are many precious manuscripts and drawings here. It doesn't take you long to zero in on what turns out to be Shakespeare's first Folio. What most people don't realise is that it was published after Shakespeare's lifetime, yet it contains 18 plays that had never appeared in print before. Had it not been for this remarkable book, plays such as Macbeth and the Tempest would have been lost. Even though the volume contains a reasonably accurate portrait of Shakespeare himself, his friend Ben Jonson writes in the introduction that a reader seeking to know him should look not upon his picture, but his book. Book. And you do look upon this book with wonder, thinking about how it set the course for literature in the ensuing centuries. How lucky you are to see it in person. Circling around the dark display case, you pass by several precious books and manuscripts you recognize by their titles. However, there is also a walking stick which seems a bit out of place among these other items. The plaque says that it once belonged to to author Virginia Woolf. You recall reading that the library also owned a large collection of Woolf's manuscripts and letters. Seeing the walking stick makes her seem so present and real. You are quite moved. You've just made a complete circuit around this case of literary wonders when you spy something curious all the way across the room. Almost tiptoeing on the marble, you set a course for a small display case along the back of the hall. Inside it are a plucky band of well loved stuffed animals. You don't need a plaque to tell you what they are. You can see clearly Winnie the Pooh, Eeyore, a teeny tiny little piglet, Kanga and Tigger. These are the original playmates of Christopher Robin Milne, who inspired the classic stories with his Playtime adventures. Seeing Pooh and his friends, you are flooded with happiness. It's so sweet to remember a time when stories held such magic. You think to yourself that Christopher Robin's father, A.A. milne, truly offered a priceless gift to the children of the world with his writing. Without any sense of time passing, you continue your trip around the room, taking in treasured items that celebrate pioneers in the areas of equality and civil rights. You see letters, postcards, manuscripts and photos of key historical figures and events. You feast your eyes on sculpture and sheet music by great composers. So much is contained just in this one exhibition, a testament to all the New York Public Library and has preserved for everyone. When you've finally seen the entire exhibit, you realize that you don't know where your lines have gone. Gently pushing open the doors that lead back to the hallway, you see Patience and Fortitude strolling casually about the entrance hall waiting for you. The arched windows over the library entrance let in a soft white light from outside, but most of the foyer is glowing with the golden illumination from the candelabra fixtures. As you approach, the lions slowly rise and walk towards one of the grand marble staircases that flank the room leading to the second floor. You're looking forward to seeing the upstairs, especially the grand spaces on the third floor. Patience and Fortitude seem to know this. Without stopping, they pass through the next level and continue to the top, where some of the library's greatest delights still await you. As you finish climbing the stairs, your eyes are drawn to the ceiling of the third floor rotunda. Like other rooms in the library, the walls are richly covered in carved wood, lending this soaring space a feeling of warmth and intimacy that belies its size. The tall ceilings are the most remarkable detail. However, they are painted with beautiful murals that remind you of an Italian church. The figures in the murals float effortlessly in the sky, surrounded by gold detailing. Bringing your gaze down, you see that the room in front of you is called the public catalogue room. You leave the rotunda behind and walk through the doors into its large open spaces. Not to be outdone by the rotunda, this dignified room has a stunning mural covering much of the ceiling. Framing the mural is another elaborately decorated ceiling accented in gold. Massive chandeliers hang from it, generously lighting the space. The room is filled with long desks that have computers on them. You know that many years ago there were actual card catalogue files here. You stand wistfully in the centre of this portal, which gives the world access to all the research materials the library has to offer you. Think about how you would like to feel. The old card drawers slide open and flip through their contents, just like everyone did decades ago. Of course, a modern system of cataloguing materials has its advantages. How else could the library offer so many resources? What intrigues you so much is that the domain of the library is much greater than what meets the eye. In fact, 120,000 square feet of storage space and 84 miles of bookshelves are nestled safely underneath nearby Bryant Park. You're amazed to find that this is enough to accommodate 3.2 million books and half a million reels of micro film. All this compact storage is made possible by the novel method of storing items by size rather than by title. Or subject. Apparently grouping like size items together increases the storage capacity by 40%. All of this is just sitting no more than six feet below the lovely grounds where New Yorkers stroll, relax and dine together in the park behind the building. It is the most fabulous secret, you think, but the tale of the park storage holds even more delightful revelations. In fact, the method of delivering material is from under Bryant park into the library is via a plucky little train. Librarians are stationed in this climate controlled underground bunker where they await materials requests. Then they load the materials into little red cars that are decorated with an image of a lion and send them chugging up to the appropriate room in the building above. An item could make this trip within an hour, magically appearing indoors without a chaperone riding the rails to meet its ego recipient. This truly is a place of wonders, you muse. Your lions aren't in the catalogue room with you anymore, but you have no doubt where they have gone. You are filled with delicious anticipation as you face the door to the most famous room in the library, the one you've most yearned to see. Patience and fortitude have preceded you into the famous Rose Reading Room. The space is delayed, divided down the middle by a circulation desk, so you have to decide whether to turn left or right. This, the largest room in the library, stretches 78ft wide and 297ft in length. That's nearly the size of an American football field. You choose to enter the right hand half of the hall where you stand under the 52 foot ceiling and gaze up in wonder at the artistic masterpiece above. Turning slowly in a circle, you admire the three gorgeous murals. Each is embedded in its own intricate tray of the ceiling. The scenes are filled with cherubs, frothy clouds and gold detail. Huge rosettes frame each mural like decorations on a cake. In contrast with other parts of the library, this room lacks the usual supporting columns. The ceiling appears to defy gravity, levitating effortlessly far above. Due to clever feats of engineering, no support columns are needed. The lavish and unbroken space openly invites the visitor in. It says, welcome. There is room for everyone here. There is certainly room for you tonight. On any other day, you would share this space with countless readers, researchers and visitors. The sound of turning pages and tapping keyboards would hover all around you, and that is usually a comforting aspect of the library. Tonight, however, you will have a rare and secret experience. This room, this masterpiece of architecture, one of the greatest spaces in any library in the world, is just for you. Your eyes scan the majestic windows and you See that a gentle snowfall has arrived. Impossibly large downy flakes are drifting gracefully across every pane of glass. You are filled with a sense of quiet joy and the comforting feeling of being cocooned inside a luxurious snow globe. Only you are allowed inside. The entire center of the room is filled with long wooden tables. Each is warmly lit by lamps that are spaced at intervals, casting just the right amount of golden glow. Best of all, in a nod to the true charm of libraries everywhere, there is an open stack selection of reference books that lines the perimeter of the entire room. Any of the 600 people who might be in the room at a given moment may walk up and consult these books without a librarian. Luckily for you, There are not 600 people here tonight. The entire collection of beautiful books is yours to peruse. You turn to your right and slowly scan the shelves. The first stack is filled with materials about American literature. You pluck one book from that shelf and tuck it under your arm. The next row of books is all about English literature. You choose a volume based entirely on the fact that it's a colour you like. Circling to the other side of the room, you come upon Roman literature. And then, in a second row of bookshelves behind it, you choose an item from social sciences. When you've walked the full circuit of the room, you cradle the stack of books in your arms and stroll to the very centre. Choosing a spot at the end of one of the long study tables. You lay down one of the books, running your hand over its cloth bound cover and straightening it nicely in front of the chair. Then you walk a few spots further and set down another one of your books. You do this until all the books have a place. You pause with a great feeling of satisfaction. Starting at the beginning again, you sit in front of the first book. Tucking your chair comfortably under the table, you gently flip it open, inhaling its intoxicating old paper scent. You wonder to yourself how long it's been since another reader selected this book and what they were researching when they did. The volume has pretty illustrations. You begin turning the pages and then settle in to complete a chapter. Every word fascinates you. You don't know how much time passes as you lose yourself in the book. After a while, you remember that you have other books here too. With a decadent feeling, you close this one and survey the rest. You stand up carefully, pushing your chair back in its place under the table. Then you change seats. This new vantage point has you facing the other side of the room. You run your hand across the carved edge of the table, feeling the detailed design that adorns it. Lifting your chin, you peer out of the window. The snow falls silently and heavily. Without stopping. Delighted by your ongoing privacy, you confidently open the second book and begin to pour over it. The paper feels thick and substantial between your fingers as you turn page after page. At some point you look around for patience and fortitude. Like sentinels, they are lying in the doorway. They are not asleep, but they appear to have settled in, as if you are expected to stay for some time. As you watch, Patience rests his head on his paws and blinks his eyes. Slowly you stand up from your chair and walk to the information desk that divides the room in half. There is nobody there, but you can see the little red circulation train parked inside. It has one volume standing in it, and you feel you absolutely must see what this book is. Once again, wrapping your hand around the ID tag at your neck, you slide across the counter and stand inside the circulation desk. Picking up the book from the train, you see it is a collection of fairy tales. Delighted, you take the book and let yourself out of the circulation booth. Not wanting to leave any book part of the Rose Reading Room unseen, you enter the left hand side and choose one of the many identical empty places at yet another long table. There you settle comfortably into your chair and by the glow of the lamp you begin to read. Castles, princesses, magic spells, and heroic quests unfold before you. Time loses all meaning and this snowbound night in the library is all you know. You're not sure when it happens, but you have fallen asleep. Your eyes are closed and your head is resting on something soft. At first you imagine it as one of your lions. As you become more alert, however, you realize it is a pillow. Opening your eyes, you find you are in your friend's cozy bedroom on the Upper west side, and the snow is falling heavily through the lamplight outside. Closing your eyes again, you realize that you must have been dreaming. But the visions you had felt so detailed, so real, and you yearn to be back within the walls of the library once again. Snuggling into your downy pillow, you invite sleep to return. You imagine yourself once again ensconced in that magical palace of books. With patience and fortitude as your companions, you are again privy to every conceivable masterpiece of the written word. You pull the COVID up and tuck it around your shoulders. Then, happily, your dream continues. Antarctica is the world's fifth largest continent. On average. It's also the coldest, driest, and windiest 98% of the continent is coated by an ice sheet with an average thickness of 1.6 km. Because of Antarctica's extreme environment, it's also the world's least populated continent. From October to March, it's home to up to 5,000 scientists who live and work in various research bases. Tens of thousands of tourists and sometimes more than a hundred thousand visit annually, mostly on ships like the one we're traveling on. We're sailing from Tierra del Fuego, which means land of fire in Spanish. A province of Argentina, the archipelago is located at the southernmost tip of the South American continent. Like many before us, we've sailed from Usuaya, the capital city of Tierra del Fuego. It holds the title of the world's most southern city and is around 700 sea miles from the Antarctic Peninsula. The town's motto is Usuwaya. End of the world, beginning of everything. It's a saying that you've come to understand well, more so, in fact, with each passing day. It popped into your head as you crossed the Beagle Channel soon after disembarking from Usuwaya, and again later on your voyage south, as the land behind you faded from sight. There's definitely a sense that you're escaping the modern world and leaving behind its noise and people, and you feel this despite being aboard a very modern cruise ship. As one of maybe a hundred passengers, You've been on the ship for a few days now, enjoying the food and facilities on offer. There's a gym, a library, a pool and Jacuzzi, and your own cozy private cabin. Sometimes you've thought of the past explorers who've traversed the seas in less comfortable surroundings, especially as the ship passed through Drake's Passage. Named after the legendary explorer Sir Francis Drake, Drake's ship, the Golden Hind, was blown here by a storm in the Pacific. He would later return with news for England that there was open water below South America. It's a narrow stretch of rather volatile water, as likely to be choppy as it is to be calm. Luckily for you, it's most definitely the latter. The sea is as peaceful as the most tranquil lake. The trip has been planned to coincide with good weather. You're traveling in early January in Antarctica's summertime, covering 20% of the southern hemisphere. The continent only has summer and winter. Due to its position and the tilt of the earth, winter is a time of near constant darkness. The opposite is true in the summer months. In January, the sun never sets at all. Winter runs roughly from April to September, while summer is from October to Late March. It's one of the reasons why January is a popular month with tourists. It's also a great time to see the wildlife, including the penguins that you'll meet a little later. You'll be visiting the colonies that live on the mainland when their growing chicks are at their cutest and fluffiest. For now though, you're happy on the deck of the ship, where the sun shines brightly and the wind is low. You've spent hours out here over the last few days, warm and cozy in your thermal layers. For the longest time, you've been sailing through the sea and surrounded by nothing but water for miles and miles. This has brought a sense of deep solitude unlike anything else that you've experienced before. You can't even remember the thoughts and feelings that typically occupy your mind on a day to day basis. All of that seems so unimportant here in the natural beauty at the bottom of the globe, there's a wonderful sense of total isolation. It really does feel like a whole other world. This only becomes truer once you spot your first iceberg, a pure white mountain above cobalt water. A glimpse through your camera allows further inspection and you realize that the iceberg is not uninhabited. It's home to a flock of birds, pigeon sized snow petrels sitting quite happily on the icy surface. They're hard to spot with their snow like feathers which keep them camouflaged on the mountain of white. But their eyes and bills are as dark as the nighttime and contrast beautifully against bright white feathers. They were first described in 1777 by the German naturalist Georg Forster. Along with his father, he'd been invited to join the crew of Captain James Cook on Cook's second attempt to circumnavigate the globe. The British explorer was the first to cross the antarctic circle in 1773, though he never actually saw the frozen continent, despite being 150 miles away from the mainland. Instead, the credit for that goes to a group of Russians led by Fabian Gottlieb von Bellingshausen and Mikhail Lazarev. They set foot on the mainland in 1820 and discovered the Fimble Ice Shelf, as it's known today. Fimble is a word from Old Norse meaning giant or mighty. It's an appropriate name for the wall of floating ice 200 kilometres long and a hundred kilometres wide. It's magical to to think that you're following in the path of these adventurers. You try to imagine how they must have felt coming across such wonders, charting land and waters previously unseen. And you get a sense for it as Land appears beyond the shimmering sea. These Antarctic islands are the South Shetland islands. They're just 65 sea miles north of the mainland. This is only a taste of what's to come, but already there's a view that might be called breathtaking. Soon you're surrounded by a dramatic landscape of soaring dark mountains, partially blanketed in white. Looking down, you follow patterns across the water. It ripples outwards from the ship's hull, frothing and foaming. Further away, the sea is a rich blue with sunlight dancing across the though it becomes whiter as you pass by the islands and enter the realm of the Antarctic Circle. Looking through the lens of your long range camera, you're particularly fascinated by the water beneath the icebergs. It's the most common gorgeous shade of bright turquoise blue where the ice has absorbed other colours of the spectrum. You take pictures from the deck as the cruise ship continues and there are more happy sightings along your route to the mainland. Perhaps the best is the sight of a whale spouting water high into the air. Nearby passengers gasp in awe, mesmerized, just like you. You recognise the fin of a blue whale. The largest animal in known existence. The whale moves with elegance as it swims beneath the surface. It bobs and weaves with such grace, the water spreads out in waves around its massive body. These magnificent creatures can weigh up to 200 tons and eat up to 16 tons of krill every day. You're visiting during the whale's main feeding season, so so there are plenty of opportunities to capture pictures. As the ship sails onwards, you sense a change in the air. The wind picks up a little and the temperature drops slightly. You're thankful for your grand coat with its well lined hood and the thermal layers beneath your outer clothing. The coolness in the air is invigorating and refreshing. You drink it in like a healing elixir. It fills you with a sense of stillness. Your mind is clear as a frozen glacier. You remain in a state of peaceful reverie until your gaze is pulled towards land on the horizon. Gasps of wonder ripple through the ship as the frozen continent now comes into view. It's a mountainous landscape of brilliant white, dramatically contrasting against patches of bare rock face. The snow and ice sparkle and glitter in the glow of sunlight from a cloudless sapphire sky. The passengers on the ship fall into awestruck silence as they take in the land that so few have seen. Although you're strangers, there's a feeling of connection, an unspoken gratitude that binds you all together. The cruise ship slows and eventually stops. Finding a safe spot away from the land. You hear the hum of the anchor being gradually lowered as you make your way down the nearby staircase. Ten minutes later, you're with a small group on a motorised dinghy, sailing out towards land. Cool air blows across as you ride, sailing through the waters of the Weddell Sea. You hold onto the sides of the boat, your hands in their fleece lined gloves, looking out in wonder at the ethereal landscape. The boat is dwarfed by enormous snowy mountains. You feel wonderfully small in the middle of all this natural beauty. It really does feel like a whole other world. As you sail through water cluttered with ice, it's as if the sea has been showered with diamonds. Eventually, the boat reaches land and you step out into shallow water in Wellington boots. You walk across pebbles onto a shoreline filled with wildlife. Antarctica is home to various creatures, including many species of seals and penguins. A waddle of penguins is the first thing you notice trudging happily along the grey pebbled shore. Something about these birds is rather amusing. It's impossible not to smile when you see them walking. They shuffle about the pebbles, flapping their little flippers, occasionally squawking and chattering to each other. You're told that they are a species of Adelie penguins. They're common across the continent and found only here. Adelie penguins are named after the wife of a French explorer who was the first to spot the birds in 1840. Among the group you see adults and chicks. The fully grown birds are around 70cm tall. To put that in perspective, it's around 28 inch, the equivalent to six beverage cans piled vertically in a tower. We might call them mid sized birds. They are taller than the rockhopper penguins who have red eyes, orange beaks and bushy yellow eyebrows that jut out rather wildly. One of the smaller species, rockhoppers grow to around 50 centimeters or 20 inches tall. So the Adelie is taller than the rockhopper, but smaller than the continent's most famous rock residents, the Emperor penguins. These regal looking birds are the tallest of the species, at 100 centimeters in height, or 39 inches. The Adelie's plumage is charcoal black on the head, throat and much of the upper body. This includes the long, stiff tail feathers characteristic of brush tailed penguins. Black feathers stand out handsomely against the penguin's stomach, which is as white as the snow. Its feet are generally pink and unfeathered, while its beak is black with hints of reddish brown. Most captivating of all are the bird's eyes, where a Bright white ring encircles a black iris. The white appears blue in the summer sunlight, an illusion like the turquoise below the iceberg. Alongside the adults there are smaller chicks hatched from eggs only in December. Adelie chicks are are among the fastest growing, appearing similar to adults after just seven to nine weeks. They're recognisable as chicks because they tend to be smaller and have a bluish tint to parts of their plumage. And their eyes are blind black without the white ring, which doesn't develop until they're roughly a year old. The chicks go through a process known as fledging, the first instance occurring after just 10 days. That's when they shed their silver feathers, exposing the layer below of smoky grey down. The oldest chicks here are maybe seven weeks old and going through fledging for the final time. They are part way through shedding their coat of baby feathers and the result is both adorable and amusing. Many of the younger chicks seem to have mohawks, thick, fuzzy and grey atop smooth little heads. Others have grey feathers on their white stomachs like bow ties and waistcoats on their tuxedo like plumage. You also notice how the birds move around, waddling clumsily across the beach of pebbles. They totter over rocks, squawking as they go, like bickering children out on a day trip. Meanwhile, their parents shuffle nearby, a little more coordinated but still appearing awkward. Of course, they are creatures that are built for swimming. Swimming. When they glide through the water, it's with the grace of dancers. You wander along the pebbled coastline, occasionally pausing to take a picture. The animals are apparently unbothered by your presence and go about their business as if you weren't there. You take multiple photos of the Adelie penguins, including the chicks with their mohawks and waistcoats. You spot another with feathers trailing from head to tail, as if he's draped in a grand fur coat. Further ahead, you see a group of penguins tobogganing on their bellies through a blanket of snow. They propel themselves along with their feet and flippers, almost like they're swimming across the land. You're able to capture some magical scenes, images that will be etched on your memory forever. Your favourite is of penguins lined up single file like people at a water park, queuing for for a ride. They're waiting on an icy cliff edge, taking it in turns to dive into the sea. The adult Adelis are expert divers, reaching depths of 150 meters. The deep deepest dive recorded is 180 metres. That's more than the height of the Washington monument in Washington D.C. and St. Paul's Cathedral in London. They can also hold their breath for up to 6 minutes and swim at speeds of over 9 miles per hour. These are useful skills when hunting for food, both for themselves and their growing chicks. They really are the most lovely little creatures. You lose all track of time as you're watching their movements. If it weren't for the pictures, you'd think it was a dream. Eventually, though, you are called back to the dinghy for a leisurely ride. Before returning to to the ship. You sit on the side among a group of eight people. Everyone is smiling, including the crew. It's late afternoon, but there's no need to rush. The day is as light as an early summer morning, so you're free to enjoy a scenic boat tour around the mainland and various islands. Everywhere you look, the view is just magical. From the landscape itself to the creatures who live here, even the sky is a sight to behold. Filled with unique seabirds. The captain points them out as wandering albatrosses. They have the greatest wingspan of any bird in the world. With snow colored bodies and black and white wings, they fit right in with the local wildlife. You follow the path of this trio of birds as they glide effortlessly through the clear blue sky until they disappear behind a rock face where your gaze is pulled down back towards land. You observe a stretch of darkened rock. It runs down from the cliff top like a river of silver. It's a place you saw earlier from the deck of the cruise ship. And from there it appeared empty. Now that you're closer, you realize that this couldn't be further from the truth. The entire cliff face is crowded with with penguins, all roughly the same distance apart. They remind you of people sunbathing on a beach, seemingly content to gaze out to sea. Though instead of deck chairs, they are seated on rocks, those that they've collected to form little nests. You also see gaps dotted around the cliff face where snow petrels are nesting in makeshift caves. They're a splash of bright white among the grey and silver stones. And they look cozy all together as they nest side by side. Many of the creatures that live in Antarctica do so in groups, large and small. Especially in winter when the temperature drops further and they can huddle together to keep themselves warm. But this isn't true of every animal. Seals, for example, are extremely independent. Even when they're pups of around four weeks old, they're out on their own and exploring the waves. You pass one now on the coastline of an island. It's lying on its side on a bed of pebbles. Pulling out your camera, you take a picture of the mammal, its head resting on a cool stone pillow. The captain tells you that it is a Weddell seal, one of the largest species that live on the continent. This one looks around 3 meters in length, length and probably weighs around 500 kilograms. The seals change colour through the course of the year and are usually brown by the start of each summer. That's when they go through their annual moulting, gaining a beautiful new color coat of silver grey fur. The seal you see here is mid transition, much like the Adelie penguin chicks. Its streamlined body is mottled with many colours, from chestnut and mahogany to silver and charcoal. Further ahead, you pass another Weddell seal, fully dressed in its new silver coat. It's stirring on the surface of a flat topped iceberg, scratching its whiskers with a raised flipper. The creature lets out a massive long yawn and sleepily opens its dark eyes. Then it shuffles forward on its front flippers, sliding across the ice on its vast silver belly. By the time you pass by heading back to the cruise ship, the seal is frolicking in the chilly water with its head below the surface. It rolls in circles, waving its flippers like the blades of a propeller. The sight of this creature having fun in the water is the perfect finale to today's exhibition. You'll make more memories over the next few days. But even if you went home now, it would have been the trip of a lifetime. The images of Antarctica and its charming residents are still in your thoughts when you're back aboard the ship. You dine in the comfort of the luxurious dining room before taking hot cocoa out onto the deck. Here you take a seat on a cushioned sun lounger right beside the railings overlooking the water. You're thankful for the warmth of the mug of hot cocoa. You can feel the heat through the fabric of your gloves. By this time, it's evening and approaching your bedtime. Yet the sun still shines in a sapphire sky. It's a surreal reminder of where you are in a far away realm, in a dreamlike ice world. And your view is about to get even more magical as your gaze is pulled to a sound below the ship. Water showers upwards from a whale's blowhole, spraying out in a fan shape as if from a fountain. The humpback whale is smaller than the blue whale, though still enormous at 50ft long long, it's blackish grey across the majority of its body, with patches of white on its flippers and belly. Its long white flippers are visible from above as the whale bobs just beneath the surface. More white is visible on the underside of its tail, which you're able to see as the whale dips down. It's only now, as you're watching its tail, that you realise the humpback isn't alone. It's joined by its family, another adult and youngsters. They appear to be resting beside the moored ship. You are struck by a feeling of intense gratitude as you sip from the mug of your sweet, warm cocoa. Of all the places these creatures could settle, they chose to rest right beside your ship. By the time you've finished your drink, you can see them sleeping not far below the water. You take one last look at these majestic creatures before returning indoors, back to your room. It would be easy to forget just where you are once you're inside your warm, cozy cabin. Especially once you're settled under the bed sheets, which are as soft and sweet smelling as you could ever wish for. Outside the window, you can hear the sea. It laps in rhythm against the hull of the ship. There's a slight whistle from the Antarctic breeze, punctuated intermittently by the murmur of polar wildlife. You close your eyes and pull the sheets around you, turning your mind over various images. You see penguins with mohawks and the wings of an albatross and the family of whales sleeping beside the ship. No doubt tomorrow will bring more magic, but for now you are ready to surrender to sleep. Perhaps it's because you've been outside in the cold, but now you feel as warm and toasty as it's possible to feel. All it takes is a few gentle breaths in and out, and very soon you can feel yourself shifting into a state of deepest slumber. It was a frigid day in the very heart of January, and the afternoon sun glittered on the frosty world outside the window. Leaving his wooden chair at the rustic kitchen table, Abel pressed his nose against the glass. He pulled back to observe the smudgy mark he had made, scrutinising the ice crystals that had formed around the edge of the window pane. He was fascinated by their delicate shapes. Each one was different, forming what seemed like a perfectly symmetrical design. Craning his neck a little bit, he looked out and upward towards the eaves of the house. Long, clear icicles hung there in a row. He imagined how satisfying it would be to knock them down one by one. He grinned at the thought of taking a stick to them later. But there was no question of going outside right now. His mother called him back to his seat where he had abandoned his partially empty dinner dish. Sheepishly, he returned to his chair. She told him to to please finish his carrots and then to help with clearing the table. Their late midday meal was drawing to a close and it was his job to help her with the clean up. After all, his little sister Annie was still too small to be of any assistance. She was still practically a baby. As he swallowed the last of his vegetables, he watched the little girl across the table smearing her biscuit around a small plate of maple syrup. Holding up her hands, she tried to lick some of the tasty treat off her fingers, but she seemed to succeed only in depositing more of it onto her face. He had eaten his own biscuits first when they sat down to their dinner, and now he wished he'd had a little more self control. The sweet maple syrup was a special treat his mother saved for weekends and times when they had guests over. Last year's supply was running out now, and there wouldn't be any more until maple syrup time came again in late March. But today was the first day of the ice harvest, so it was an event worthy of a small celebration. Dani put her hands down on the table and smiled happily at Abel. He couldn't help but respond with a chuckle, and his sister's laughter pealed through the little house. Perhaps it was just her enjoyment of the biscuits, but it felt like everyone was humming with anticipation of the extra income Father and his friends were about to earn working on the river at night. Feeling the infectious good humour, their mother turned to them from the sink a short distance away and smiled indulgently. Now, Abel, she said with mock sternness, bring me those pates and no more nonsense, please. Then she hid her amusement by turning to the wall and resuming her washing of the dishes. When a knock came at the door. Father emerged from the bedroom. He opened it quickly, knowing that his friend Mr. Peterson would be standing in the cold air on the doorstep. Having ridden over from his nearby farm, he was sure to be ready to warm himself by their cheerful fire. Sure enough, there he was with frost on his beard, stamping the snow off his feet. He was a bachelor himself, and very self conscious that he shouldn't track snow onto Mother's immaculate wooden floors. Excited to see a visitor, Abel hastily finished his kitchen chores, carefully delivering the last of the dishes to the sink. Then, as Mother washed them, he stood on the side, conscientiously drying each precious item with a soft towel and putting it in its place in the wooden cupboard. Although he appeared to be fully concentrating on the task at hand. His ears were alert to his father's conversation with Mr. Peterson as the two men settled in comfortably by the fire. Here, let me take your boots so you can get those socks nice and dry. Dry, mother said to their visitor. It'll be no good to go out there tonight in those temperatures with damp feet. Thanking her politely, Mr. Peterson handed over his boots and stretched his feet closer to the hearth. Having set them aside, she went about making some coffee, finally releasing Abel from his tedious chores at the sink. Come and sit by the fire with us, Abel, father said with a twinkle in his eye. He knew that his son would be eager to listen in on the conversation among the adults. The area where they lived was populated with small farms, and the weather made neighbourly visits less frequent at this time of year. Just to see a new face was exciting, let alone to hear any local news the friend may have brought along. Abel pulled over a stool and settled in his favourite spot, not too close to the crackling fireplace, but near enough to feel its glow. His dinner left him feeling pleasantly full, and having all these grown ups around in a good mood made him feel safe and warm. The two men discussed the recent activities of the holiday season, the plans a neighbour had for a new barn, and the prospects for the crops during the coming year. Mr. Peterson had managed to produce enough corn last year that he'd made some extra money selling some of it to a cannery. Father nodded thoughtfully as Mr. Peterson spoke of how popular canned corn had become and urged his friend to consider planting more. Abel himself had made some money the previous fall husking corn at a neighbour's farm. He had been so proud to bring his earnings home to his parents, who had saved them a special jar, saying it would help them out on a rainy day between raking blueberries, picking apples, and shucking corn. Summer and early fall were definitely the busiest season for the folks in the area. Almost everyone had a couple of dairy cows, and Abel was responsible for helping with milking and caring for their own family cows year round. Mother also kept chickens, which provided them with enough eggs that she was able to sell a few here and there, using the money from the surplus to buy other things. But winter was definitely a slow season for everyone on the farm, and that's why the ice harvest was so welcome in January. The conversation between the men turned back to the weather, and Father commented that the abnormally cold temperatures would be worth it for making the ice harvest even better. Mr. Peterson nodded his head in agreement, briefly swaying backwards in the rocking draw chair and raising his chin to thoughtfully regard the ceiling. Turning to Abel, his father explained why. You see, son, the ice has to be a certain thickness before it's safe to start the harvest. He paused meaningfully, as if urging, able to remember this important information. Eager to show his attentiveness, the boy nodded his head vigorously. Up and down, his father continued. At least 16 inches, he said. Maybe 18. You see, not only do the blocks have to be of a certain size in order to be stored and shipped, but you have to make sure it's safe for all those men and horses to be out there weighing down the ice. Abel nodded again. Thoughtfully, he pictured the scene that was about to play out on nearby lakes and on the river where men and horses would be gathering in the night. Just think, able, Mr. Peterson said, leaning over intently. A 22 inch square block that is more than a foot thick can weigh about 250 to 350 pounds. He stopped and raised his eyebrows dramatically as Abel pondered the sheer size of it. An area the size of an acre can produce as much as a thousand tons of ice. Leaning back and folding his hands, he added, do you know how many pounds there are in a ton? Mother crossed the room, carrying Annie off to the bedroom. Her afternoon nap was a bit later today, thanks to their unusual day, dinner time. As she passed, Abel's mother smiled with amusement at this unexpected test of her son's lessons. Abel screwed up his face in concentration, but his mind drew a blank. Laughing with good nature, his father let him off the hook. It's £2,000, Abel. There are £2,000 in a ton, and an acre of ice can give up a thousand of those. Just think of it. Abel's head was truly boggled by the notion. This mathematical problem was far beyond what he had encountered at school so far. Delighted by his role as storyteller, Mr. Peterson continued with the lesson. Now, lots of towns around here will be cutting ice and saving it for the locals, he said. You can pull your ice out of this or that pond or lake anywhere around here. Your local ice house is dependable. It will keep ice for up to a year until it's cold enough to cut more out of the waterway. But a small town ice house is also not that big. Let's say it only holds 10 tons, or 20 or 30 at the most. Abel nodded. He had seen such a place before. It had appeared awfully large to him, but not enough to hold a thousand tonnes. For sure, Mr. Peterson went on. That's why the really big harvesting operations aren't for keeping local ice. In fact, thanks to our cold climate, people from all over the country count on the far reaches of New England to keep their meat pies cold. Sometimes the ice may fail further south of here one year or another, but they can always count on us Northerners for their fix. He nodded and walked winked, and Abel smiled. He was proud to live somewhere so desirable. People depended on his hometown, he thought. As if following his train of thought, his father turned to Mr. Peterson and and chimed in on the conversation. And of course the ice we make here isn't just used for people's fancy ice boxes. It's also the reason they can have fresh fish, for example. Mr. Peterson nodded sagely, acknowledging Father's excellent point. Very true, he said. Then, turning back to Abel, he added, before folks figured out how to chill cargo with ice on ships and trains and barges, you really couldn't send anything very far without its spoiling. Abel had never thought about this. For him, eating fresh blueberries or seafood was a normal part of life. But what about children who lived far away in crowded cities or in the Great Plains? Where did their seafood come from? Or what if nobody in their neighbourhood had a dairy cow? He had truly never considered how their food got to them. Mr. Peterson broke into his reverie by saying, when railroad cars ship food and across the country, that cargo needs to be re iced pretty often just to keep the contents cool. In the summer it can be every two to 300 miles. Abel tried to picture the ice melting in these railroad cars and then being replaced with frost rusty new blocks. But Mr. Peterson had an even more surprising bit of information for him to process. You know, Abel, these big businessmen in places like Boston don't just sell ice to Americans either. They send it as far away as places like India and Brazil. Someone way out in the tropics can get an apple we picked right here in New England. And it's all because of the ice that's there to chill it. Well, this was a truly mind boggling revelation. Abel thought that something like an apple, a snack he would grab off of a tree on his way home from school, could be sent as far away as the tropics. The modern age was full of miracles, he told himself wonderingly. Father and Mr. Peterson were talking again. Abel refocused on their conversation to hear what they would say. I gather the demand from the cities is booming. I hear they've been storing ice all along the Hudson river, Father said. Mr. Peterson nodded, saying, I read they've got more than a hundred warehouses along there now. They're using barges to send the ice downstream. I suppose from there they can export it wherever it needs to go. Abel was distracted by Mother's return to the kitchen. She had finally got Annie down for her nap. He watched her as she crossed to the counter and removed a fresh cider cake from the cupboard. He wiggled in his seat, excited to see that they'd be having a special treat. He knew that she would take great pride in ensuring father and Mr. Peterson were well fortified against the cold weather when they left for the ice harvest in a little while. Peering at the window, he saw that twilight was falling. It came so early at this time of year, the light was already leaching from the sky by a little after 4pm Turning to his father, he asked what time the ice harvest would start. Mother appeared between the two older men and offered each of them a plate with a healthy slice of cake. Then, with a knowing smile, she told Abel he could come and fetch a slice for himself. Father left his son's question momentarily unanswered as he and Mr. Peterson took a bite of their dessert and mumbled their approval to his mother. She beamed, saying something about how it was just a cider cake and nothing special, but Abel knew she was happy to hear their praise. Mother was well known in the area for her excellent bakes. She always told him the secret to a good cider cake was knowing when to stop adding the spice. Mother told Abel to eat his cake at the table, so he cheated his chair to the side and repeated his question. When does the ice harvest start, Father? Pausing with his plate on his knee, Father nodded. Well, you see, Abel, night is the best time to pull the ice out of the water. Sure, there are places where they'll harvest around the clock, but really, the ice is thickest at night. Abel nodded. This made sense. Night was the coldest time. Everyone knew that, his father continued. When you're harvesting ice, you want a good quality product. First of all, the very best ice, the stuff that fetches the highest price, is as clear as glass. Mr. Peterson nodded in wise agreement and took another bite of his cake, following it with a sip of the hot coffee that was now steaming on the small table next to him. We take great pride in our ice here, Mr. Peterson added. I believe our ice is so clear a fellow could read a newspaper through it. At this, both he and Father laughed quietly, conscious of the fact that Annie was slumbering peacefully in the room next door. That's the truth, Father agreed. Mr. Peterson went on. If your ice is all cloudy and porous, they can still use it, mind you, but that's the lower grade ice they stick on rail cars and in food shipments. It's less likely to end up on some fancy dining table somewhere in the city. Abel tried to imagine a fancy dining table, and all he could picture was a white tablecloth with lots and lots of cider cakes. Then his father said, Mr. Peterson and I will head out there in a little while. It will take us about half an hour to get to the harvest site, and there will be many, many men and teams of horses arriving with kerosene lamps peering out the window, Mr. Peterson added, and a fine night for it. He nodded at the window pane and cocked an eyebrow. A table. See those clear skies? It'll be extremely helpful for all of us trying to see what we're doing out there if we have the moon to light our way. Abel understood, thinking how glad he was that Mother Nature was cooperating to make the night better for the ice cutters. He scraped the last crumbs from his plate and returned to the sink to wash his dish. Having dried it and put it away, Abel scampered back to his seat at the crackling fire. He had more questions. So what do you do when you get to the harvest site? He asked them inquisitively. Father made an appreciative face, showing he thought this was a fine question. Then he said, different men take on different jobs, and we work as a team with the horse. First, there are those workers who drag great scrapers across the ice. This is to clear off the snow and any other debris that might make it hard to see what we're doing. Abel nodded. This seemed very log. His father went on, then the foreman will test the ice to make sure it's deep enough. He has a tool called an ice auger to drill a hole, and a long, sharp rod he inserts into the ice, which pulls out a sample. After he has determined that the ice is thick enough, they bring in men who have horses hitched up to special ploughs. These horses have spikes on their shoes for traction, and the ploughs have cutters on them. They don't cut deeply into the ice. They score it just enough so that we can divide the ice in time blocks that are all about the same size. Do you remember how big that is? Abel frowned, trying to remember what they'd talked about earlier. Then he brightened up and said, 22 inches. His father beamed. He was proud of Abel. Yes, 22 inches or so while the horses make a few passes at those lines to get them nice and deep. What do you think, Peterson? He said, leaning his head towards his friend. Four passes. Mr. Peterson nodded in agreement. Father continued, once those horses have left a good deep mark on the ice, the real work is left to the men. We have a collection of bridges, breaking bars, forks and chisels that help us deepen the clefts of the plough. There's really no easy way to do it. You just have to use your strength and throw your back into the work. Abel grinned and said, I bet you do that part, don't you, Father? The two older men chuckled. Yes, we do, Abel. Then Mr. Peterson squinted and leaned forward. But you know what my favourite tool is? Abel shook his head. It's the five foot saw, Mr. Peterson said dramatically spreading his arms far apart. Abel had seen the impressive saws used in the ice harvest and he knew that wielding them must take a lot of strength. Strength. Casting a glance at Mother, who was tidying up in the kitchen, Mr. Peterson said, eat your greens and someday you'll be strong enough to use the eyesore, Abel. His mother laughed and nodded. Abel wrinkled his nose. Father leaned back in his chair and shook his head. The first chunk of the ice is the worst. You've got to pry it up out of a solid sheet of ice. But once you get some open water to move things around, you can just chisel one block after the other off the ice and float it towards the shore. Mr. Peterson rolled his eyes comically and exclaimed, maybe we should make ourselves late so we can let someone else do the hard work. Both men laughed. They would never shirk the challenge. Abel knew that every man in town took pride in contributing equally to difficult tasks. No, no, father said with a smile. We all help each other out around here. Did you know that the harvesting of the ice is also a boon to the loggers? Abel was surprised by this and waited to hear why. He knew the answer would be forthcoming. Yes. Mr. Peterson nodded. Think about it. When you've packed up that ice first in the ice house and later on a ship that is sailing across the world or a train that is traveling cross country, how do you think that ice stays cold? To be sure, it helps to pack it solidly with other ice, and they do that. But it's also insulated. And what do you think they pile on top of it? 10 or 12 inches deep? Mr. Peterson paused with his eyebrows raised, waiting for Abel to take a guess. Wood, Abel suggested. Both men burst out laughing. Well, that's A good guess since I mentioned the loggers, Mr. Peterson said. But it's not big pieces of wood they use. It's the sawdust. Instantly, Abel realised that would have been a much more intelligent answer. He blushed and nodded. Well, there's no shame in not knowing the value of sawdust, father said kindly. In fact, it didn't have much value until the icemen started using it for insulation. Now it's a perfect way to use what was just a waste product before. Yep, they layer that ice under the sawdust and it keeps pretty cold. In the ice house, they call it sleeping ice while it lies in weight. Abel smiled at this idea. Sleeping ice, he thought to himself. He liked the thought of this noble product of the north, slumbering quietly in the cool darkness of the ice houses, waiting to go on an adventure to warmer climes. The men looked up, noticing that Annie had already finished her brief nap and was quietly playing with some measuring cups at the table. Mother was busy packing a little basket of biscuits and ham for the men to take with them. It would be time for them to leave soon, and they'd need something to eat during the night. Father reminded Abel that he had to go outside quickly and take care of his evening chores before it got too dark. That time was coming, for very soon. Abel hustled outside so that he could feed the chickens and fill the wood box as fast as possible. He didn't want father and Mr. Peterson to leave for the river before he was done. He returned just in time to see the men putting on their coats, hats, and mufflers. Mother handed back Mr. Peterson's boots and he thanked her graciously. Say goodbye, then, Abel, his mother told him. They'll be back before daybreak, but you'll likely be asleep then. Abel hugged Father around the legs, feeling the nubbly wool of his coat against his cheek. He breathed in deeply. It smelt like the outdoors and fresh snow. Mr. Peterson leaned down and extended his hand. Abel shook it firmly. All right, young Abel, he said jovially. Think of us out there scoring and cutting the icy treasure while you're snoozing peacefully in your bed. Then he winked at the boy and added, I'll be lying in front of the fire in my bedroll when you get up. Abel nodded. He didn't want to sleep. He couldn't wait until breakfast, when Father and Mr. Peterson would be back with stories from the night. He could already imagine the eggs sizzling on the stove and the smell of hot coffee, the kitchen table bathed in morning sunlight. With A final wave. The two men slept, soon disappeared into the night. Trudging across the expanse of moonlit white snow, looking upwards, Abel marvelled at how many stars he could see. It would indeed be a fine night for ice harvesting. He was proud of the work his father and Mr. Peterson were about to do. Later that evening, Mother read him a story and tucked him into the little bed in the room he shared with Annie. This was one of his favourite parts of the day. On one hand, he didn't usually feel ready to go to bed when Mother said it was time. On the other, he almost always found he was sleepy soon after nestling down into his pillow. He loved the cosy feeling of. Of snuggling there with his mother's quilt pulled up around his ears. The fabric on the quilt was from all the little scraps of their old clothing, and it was as soft as could be. When she gently closed the door behind her, wishing him a good sleep, he could see the firelight flickering low underneath it. He knew that she would also be in bed soon, although she might mend something, swaying in the rocking chair by the hearth, or read a little bit from a book first. And sometime in the dark wee hours of the morning, the men would return, cold and tired from the ice harvest. Trying not to wake the house, Abel yawned deeply and turned over, hiking the patchwork quilt up to his ears. Closing his eyes, he imagined the scene on the river. Men, horses and kerosene lamps littered over the ice as they scored and chipped and chiseled it into those massive blocks. Then, in his mind's eye, they floated away, big squares of frigid treasure, and were loaded into a barge, or maybe straight into an ice house. There they would sleep for a while. Some of the ice would end up in a fabulously exciting place. Boston. New York City. Philadelphia. And then one early morning, an ice delivery man would get up with the sunrise, feed his horse, clean the harnesses, and begin taking ice around to all the fancy houses for their iceboxes. The trusty iceman would see a card in the window of each place telling him how much ice they needed. And then he might go on their porch, open up the little trap door to the back of their fancy icebox and place it inside. And there the ice would do its work, chilling their milk, their meat and their produce day and night. A gift from New England. Abel liked this idea. For just a moment. He considered if he might like to go to the big city someday and become an iceman. How people must love you, he thought. Sleepily if you bring them something so important. But then his thoughts fuzzy with sleep. He decided that he would not become an iceman. He would rather go and work with father and Mr. Peterson doing the important job of harvesting the ice. One of these days, in a few years, he would leave with a biscuit and ham supper in his dinner pail and go to the river to do this work. But not now. At this moment, little Abel would ease off to sleep. He would drift slowly down the cold, silent river. He would travel south in his dreams, taking the bounty of the ice harvest to the places where it was needed by the world. Bree awoke on a cold mid winter morning to the sound of larks. She smiled to herself before she even opened her eyes. Larks on the morning of Imbolc meant that spring would soon come and winter would end quickly. She lay in bed for a few more moments, listening to the sweet song from outside the cottage. She finally roused herself after her mother placed a cool hand on her forehead and gently kissed her on the cheek. Today was a very important day for Bree. She was chosen by the village to represent the maiden during the Imbolc celebrations. Her sacred duty was to help bring back the sun and bring winter to a swift end. She rose out of bed and put on her dress of ceremonial white. Her mother, grandmother, and other women of the village had worked together to make the dress from pieces of linen and lace they saved from their own turns as the Maiden. Bree felt the pride of generations of her kin watching over her as she put on the dress. It had long, flowing sleeves and delicate lace in the patterns of spring flowers. When she had finished getting ready, she found her mother at the hearth tending to the fire. Bree did a spin so her mother could admire her. Bree's mother smiled warmly and stroked her daughter's cheek. She handed her a small doll made from straw and went to prepare sweet honey cakes for the village feast that evening. Bree looked down at the dole in her hands. She had woven it from the stalks of wheat and barley grown last year after the last autumn harvest. Bree made this grain doll in preparation for for the rituals to come. She took two small pieces of lace saved from the creation of her dress and put them on the doll. Like herself, it would be dressed as the Maiden, a harbinger of the coming spring. As the year goes on, Bree will dress the doll as the mother, pregnant with the harvest that would sustain them for the next year and as the crone bringing the peaceful rest of winter. Once. Bree's small green doll would be a Representation of the goddess in all her forms, forever turning the wheel of the year. At the end of the year, after the final harvest, Bree would put her doll into the sacred fire and make a new one for the following year. Bree placed her maiden doll on the mantelpiece above the hearth. She leaned it against the besom her mother made for her wedding. Tabri's father, the old broom, held a place of honour above the hearth, protecting the family and the house. On her parents wedding day it was decorated with bright flowers which were now dried and preserved like the joyful memory of that day. Bree took one last look at the hearth, enjoying the feeling of the warm fire on her skin. She grabbed a long black cloak and a small black bottomed bowl and went out into the village. Despite the fact that it was the middle of one winter, the land around the village was still the bright emerald green it always was. The rolling hills around her gave way to one particularly large hill at whose feet was her own village. The cobbled lanes that led to each cottage were outlined with springy moss. Bree drew her black cloak around herself and pulled the hood low over her eyes. She practiced her most ancient sounding voice a few times. Once she was satisfied with her performance, she hunched her back and wobbled down the path to the next cottage. This was the first of her imbolc responsibilities. She dressed as the goddess in her crone form and went door to door begging for alms. Her friends, family and neighbours opened their doors with joy, dropping a few coins into her bowl. The act of giving to the crone brought good luck to the household. Her performance as an old woman delighted the children and made them giggle. Their parents would remind the children to be respectful of their elders and compliment the crone on how lovely she looked. This year Bree went to her own grandmother's house who opened the door and laughed, claiming that it was like looking in a mirror. Bree made her way to every house in the small village and by the time she was finished, her bowl was nearly full to the brim. After the last house she straightened up, glad to give her back a break. She took the bowl of coins down a small path between two cottages and out of the village. The path led to a small wood between her village and the large river that ran across the entire county. Bree followed the well worn path and enjoyed the quiet calm of the woods. The village was always bursting with with life, even in winter. In the woods, however, Bree could only hear the breeze, the birds and her own breath. The air was fresh with the crisp smell of winter. Though it was cold outside. She was wrapped up warm in her great black cloak. She enjoyed taking deep breaths in and releasing a cloud of white mist with every exhale. At the end of the path, Bree came to a small stone well. The villagers used several other larger wells located around the area, but rarely drew water from this one. This well was special and sacred. Bree placed her bowl of coins on the lip of the well and looked down into the depths. The mid morning sun that broke through the trees lit up only a few feet into its mouth. She knew it went down very far. If she listened carefully, she could hear the drip of water water at its bottom. She took one coin from the bowl and held it between her fingers. She brought to mind an image of her neighbour, the blacksmith. He was smiling at her through a thin layer of soot that seemed to always cover him, no matter what the occasion. She thought about the wonderful things he did for the village. How he always used his immense strength to help anyone in need. She said his name and dropped the corner coin into the well. After a few seconds, she heard a satisfying plunk as the coin hit the surface of the water. With each coin in her bowl, she thought about each of her neighbours and friends. She focused on seeing them happy and healthy. She brought to mind all the things she appreciated about them. She said their names and dropped another coin into the well. By doing so, she was asking the goddess to keep each one safe for the rest of the winter. When she got to the last few coins, her thoughts turned to her own family. She thought about her grandmother, who was the wisest and funniest person she knew. She thought about her father, who worked hard for his family and told the best stories. She thought of her mother, who always had a knowing smile and a pocketful of sweets. She even thought of her three brothers, who were each as silly and boisterous as the last, but were never mean to their little sister. For each one, Bree dropped a coin into the well, certain that the end of winter would come soon. By the time Bree returned to her cottage, it was well past midday. Her mother greeted her with a warm honey cake. Bree sat by the hearth and enjoyed the treat. It was sticky and sweet. She closed her eyes and enjoyed the taste of the floral honey which had been harvested from local hives last year. It brought back the sweet memories of springtime. She could almost smell the flowers in bloom and see the bright blue skies. She pretended that the warmth of the fire was the warmth of the sun. Bree finished her cake, happily licking each finger clean. She had one more Duty to carry out before evening arrived. She kissed her mother, put on her cloak and went out again. This time, Bree made her way to the riverbank. She needed to find precious stones to be used in the ritual. At sunset, she combed the banks of the river for the telltale shine of precious stones. She looked for creamy quartz, purple amethyst, shining opal and dark hematite. Every year, women from further up the river would lay their stones on the riverbank. After the rituals were completed, they put the stones under the moon to recharge and offer them back to the earth. The water would carry the stones downriver over the course of the year, providing new sacred stones to the next village along. Tonight, Bree would have to take the stones she found and place them under the moon as well. As she searched, Bree filled her hands with shining gemstones. When she had as many as she could carry, she hurried back to her cottage. She was frustrated with herself for forgetting a bas at home. She placed them into a bowl of moon water that she'd left under the light of the previous full moon. She admired the way the stones shone under the water. They gleamed up at her, each one seeming to shine with an in a light. Her mother tapped her on the shoulder and Bree looked out of the window. The sun was dipping low in the sky and would soon set. Already the crisp light of day was turning into the warmth warm amber of dusk. Bree gathered her stones and went to the fireplace. She took a small handful of salt from a bowl on the mantle and tossed it into the fire as a blessing on the house. The salt popped and sparked in the fire, each piece creating a tiny orange sunburst for a second before disappearing. The log on the fire was large. Bree admired the way it gleamed in red hot outlines in the hearth. It would burn slowly over the course of the evening, keeping their home warm and safe in the deep midwinter. Bree turned from the fire and followed her family out of the house. Outside, she truly appreciated the life giving heat of the hearth. The winter air was cold but peaceful. They were blessed with a clear sky this evening. The sun was still above the horizon, but wouldn't stay there for long. Bree followed the procession of her loved ones and fellow villagers up the hill. As they walked in respectful silence, she listened to the evening chorus of the bird. She wondered if they were calling in their children for the evening, wishing their neighbours good night, or merely offering a beautiful lullaby to the setting sun. As the procession worked their way up the hill, Bree took in the scenic valley around her. The last rays of the sun turned the vibrant green of the hills into a warm, earthy yellow. Everything was outlined in shades of red and orange. The sky was a vast canvas, and the most skilled painter had perfectly shaded the colours there from bright white to a deep purple. Bree resisted the temptation to look over her shoulder and take in the view. She knew she mustn't until she reached the top of the hill, where the sight would be the most satisfying. The villagers made their way up the hill to gather. Those that were strong and lithe took the arms of the elderly, or picked up small children who tired quickly. They laughed and joked with one another. The excitement of the evening's celebration was like electricity in the air. Somewhere in the group, someone started singing a familiar song. Others hummed or whistled along, but mostly they enjoyed the strong, clear voice leading them up the hill. At the top of the hill were a few ancient cairns. The mounds of rocks were so old that soft moss covered their roofs. Some were still mostly intact, like mounds of piled rocks with small entrances. Others were open to the sky, having lost some of their structure in the past millennial. As the villagers arrived in the presence of their ancestors architecture, they grew quiet and reverent. Bree knew that one cairn in particular, the largest and most intact, would be used again for the spring equinox celebration in six weeks. On that morning, the sun would rise at just the right position to illuminate the inside of the ancient structure, and they would have a celebration of balance. Now, however, still in the depths of winter, the villagers needed not balance, but light. They gathered around another, smaller cairn. This one was open to the sky, and its carved stones created a punishment perfect circle. The large stones that made up the circle were carved in elaborate designs. They were knots with no ends and no beginnings, symbolizing the constancy of life. Some stones had triple spirals to represent the goddess, and some had sunbursts to represent the sun God. They were carved by hand millennia ago by Bree's ancestors. Bree took a moment to run her fingers over the carvings and connect herself to the past. She took her gathered gemstones and placed them around the circle. As she did so, Bree took a moment to hold each one in her hand. She held them up to the light, admiring the way it played off the shiny black of the hematite, the soft purple of the amethyst, the cloudy white of the quartz, and the iridescent shine of the opal. She focused on what each stone would bring to her people over the rest of the winter and the coming year. She asked the Amethyst to keep their connection to the ancestors strong. She requested the hematite to ground them in their home and the earth that provides them with sustenance. She implored the opal to protect them from the dangers of winter. And she prayed that the quartz would keep them all connected together. When she finished her circle of stones, her mother stepped forward with a crown. It was woven from springy young oak saplings and decorated with holly. It was adorned with eight small beeswax candles, which her mother lit while reciting the eight sacred days of the year. She finished with Imbolc and placed the crown of light on Bree's head. Bree asked for the protection of her ancestors and stepped into the sacred circle. The sun was just touching the horizon now, covering her with vibrant radiance. Bree asked the dying sun to return tomorrow and each day after stronger than the day before. She requested that it bring with it the warmth and life of spring for it to end the cold darkness of winter. As the sun dipped below the horizon, she asked for its blessing for her people. The villagers held one another along the outside of the circle. They began to sing a song about light and spring and the glory of the changing seasons. Their voices joined together, not in perfect melodiousness, but in perfect joy. Like their voices in song, their small community was always stronger and better together. Her duty done, Bree was finally able to take in the view from the top of the hill. The sun was gone, but the trail of light it left behind on the world made the landscapes even more dramatic and beautiful. The river flowed at the feet of the big hill and away towards the sea. Bree could see villages, farms and larger towns in the distance, each with little dots of fire burning here and there to light the way back for the sun. Through the long. Under the entire scene, there was the undeniable and constant green. It was the thing that Bree loved most about her home. The green. All the dozens of shades of the colour that even in this weak light, captured the eye and brought a deep sense of peace and a connection to nature. Bree turned her gaze away from the west and the little dots of civilization. She looked east to the large untamed forest on the other side of the hill. The trees stood close to one another, creating a village of their own. She heard faintly and below the singing of her neighbours and howl of wolves in the distance. Imbolc was not only a celebration for the humans of the land, but also for the wolves, for it was the start of their mating season. The villagers heard the howling of as well and broke off their song. They all listened to the mournful calls, knowing that they were songs of love to the wolf. Kind wolves mate for life and were revered by the villagers as being creatures sacred to family and companionship. As they listened, Bree noticed couples young and old hold one another a little closer. Before she left the sacred circle, Bree thanked her her ancestors once again. She stepped immediately into the arms of her mother, whose face glistened with happy tears and pride. Her mother released her so that their family, friends, and neighbours could each have a turn congratulating Bree. Some people complimented her performance, and some of them foresaw a bright future for her. Bree's grandmother patted her cheek and gave her a kind smile. Once they had each had their turn, Bree collected the gemstones from around the circle in the gathering dark. Then she led the procession back down the hill. They followed her glowing crown of light. Tonight they would eat together and drink sweet beverages flavoured with honey. They would hold each other close and remind one another that winter is nearly over and that spring is on its way. Snowflakes fall softly outside the bakery window. Lily watches them drift down and gently land on the layer of glistening white snow already covering the street. The sun has been hidden from view all day behind thick clouds, and now the light is quickly fading as evening approaches. The sky is a dusky violet and the first street lamps have already flickered on, sending pools of golden light onto the snow. Lily arranges small mince pies in cardboard boxes six to a box to give to her friends as tokens of appreciation. It's been another wonderful year year here at the bakery and she wants the people closest to her to know how much she values their presence in her life. Each little pie fits perfectly into the palm of her hand. The top crust, which is shaped like a star, is dusted with powdered sugar. The crust is delicate, so she's careful to grasp each one with just her thumb and forefinger and carefully slip it into the box, ensuring it doesn't crumble. Making mince pies is a labour of love. Lily had to start weeks in advance making the candied peel that goes into the mincemeat. It's a simple yet time consuming process that involves repeatedly soaking and simmering finely chopped orange and lemon peel in sugar water over a period of several days and finally leaving it to dry. Once the mixed peel was done, she made the rest of the mincemeat. She combined the peel with raisins, currants, apple butter, as well as nutmeg, brandy, lemon and brown sugar and let it sit for a couple of weeks so that the flavours could meld and settle. And this morning, everything was ready to make the mince pies themselves. First, she got all her ingredients out of the pantry and refrigerator. The homemade mincemeat, tangerines, apple, lemon, plus flour, sugar, butter, egg and powdered sugar. Then she began on the pastry crust. She cut together the flour and butter until it was crumbly like sand. Then she beat the egg and added it and the sugar to the flour and butter mixture. This would be the dough. Lily put a little bit of flour on her work surface to prevent the dough from sticking, and then began to fold it all together. When it was the right consistency, she covered it in a plastic wrap and put it in the fridge to chill. While it was chilling, she peeled and chopped the tangerines and apple. She then zested the lemon and added that to the fruit mixture. As soon as the pastry was thinned, thoroughly chilled, she removed it from the fridge and rolled it out with her large rolling pin. Then she cut out the bases for the pies and placed them into the bottoms of muffin tins, which are the perfect size for the little treats. Lily scooped the mincemeat on top of the bases. Then she cut out the lids and pressed them over the mincemeat. Stars are her favourite pattern for the top. Perfectly festive, she thinks. She brushed every pie with an egg wash and then put them into the oven to bake. While they were baking, she began to put together the decorative boxes. A few customers came in for coffee and an afternoon snack while she assembled them. She knew the pies were almost finished when the luscious scent of warm fruit and pastry trickled out of the oven and filled the bakery. She put on her oven mitts and removed the pies, setting them on a metal wall wire rack to cool. As the final customers of the day were making their way out of the door, she popped the cooled pies out of the muffin tin. They were ready to be packed into the boxes. Lily takes a deep breath, inhaling the warm, comforting scent of the pies. It's an aroma she always associates with the festive season. With a smile, she places the sixth pie into the last spot in her current box. Whenever a box is full, she tucks the edges of the lid into the base. Then she unspools a length of silver ribbon, cuts just the right amount and fits it around the box. She secures it with an elegant bow that she ties herself. She learned how to tie that particular kind of bow from a friend years ago and has used it as a little flourish on gifts ever since. It's an extra touch that makes a present all the more special, she thinks. She considers all the people she'll give boxes to this year. There's Rose, Quincy and Mima, Elisa and her twins. And Seamus, of course. Simon at the bookshop will receive one for the first time. She hopes he likes mince pies too. Putting the finishing touch on the final box, she places them all in a stack on the far end of the counter. It's time to clean up. She grabs a cloth from beneath the large sink and wipes down the countertops. One by one, she makes her way around each of the tables in the bakery and wipes them clean. She pauses by the window, admiring how the fairy lights reflect on the glass and make it look like hundreds of bright stars are shining in the snow outside. Snowflakes are falling more quickly now, and there's already a thick blanket of white on the ground. The first time she saw the windows of the bakery, there were no fairy lights. She had only just arrived in town and was walking down the main street on a typically rainy day. She could see people, her new neighbours, strolling together down the block and going in and out of the shops. A sign for a bookshop caught her eye, so she made her way inside. A little bell jingled when she opened the door. Careful of Lorraine, Lily wiped her boots on the doormat. A kindly older man came over and introduced himself as Richard, the proprietor. It's not often you see a new face in town, he told her. She explained that she'd just moved from a long way away and was getting to know her new home. What better place to start than the local bookshop? His eyes crinkled at the edges and he smiled broadly when she said that. You can always spot a fellow book lover, Richard used to say. They spent nearly an hour chatting about their favourite books, everything from fantasy to science fiction to Richard's fascination with old illustrated fairy tales and mid century biographies. Lily left the bookshop that day with a bag full of novels and a new friend. Stop by anytime, richard reminded her with a grin as she slipped out the door. She walked up the hill to her new home and settled in for the night with one of Richard's recommendations. She read until she drifted off to sleep, the sound of the rain gently pattering on the unfamiliar roof. When she awoke the following day, she went back into town. Idly, she thought of paying Richard another visit. They got to talking straight away, and after a while he paused and gave her a thoughtful look. What are you hoping to do with your new life here? It's quite a small town, after all, he said. Lily mentioned that she'd always dreamed of opening her own bakery, being her own boss for a change. She knew it would be incredibly hard work, but she'd saved up and had inherited a little money from a relative. You know, there's a space next door, he said, gesturing to his right. It used to be a coffee shop, but I like the sound of a bakery even before better. After all, bookshops and bakeries just seem to go together, don't they? He said with a smile. It sounded like a wonderful plan. But how often do wonderful plans really work out? Lily remembers thinking that herself. At the time, it didn't seem possible. But as she was leaving to walk back home later that morning, she paused at the darkened windows of the storefront next to the bookshop. She cupped her hands around her face and peered in through the gloom. There were a handful of mismatched tables and chairs, a counter with an old register, some display cases with cracked glass. Those would have to be replaced, of course. She could see a pair of ovens in the back. Did they still work? She wondered, and a chipped mug left haphazardly in the corner. As she walked home, she found herself going over what she would change if she moved. A table here, some changes, chairs over there. Get a nice string of fairy lights. Perhaps. The twinkling of the lights against the purple evening through the glass brings Lily back from her reverie. She smiles, remembering the uncertainty of those days. She was younger, less experienced, and somehow had less hope than she did. These days she was more cautious and worried that things wouldn't work out, that her ideas about starting fresh were foolhardy. But with every day that passed and every new friend she made, the world started to look a little more promising. Lily takes the cloth and wipes down the last table before heading behind the counter into the kitchen area. A pile of cooking utensils, pans, dishes, and large mixing bowls needs to be washed. Lily turns on the tap and makes sure the water is the right temperature. Temperature first. She fills one side of the sink with cool water and a touch of bleach. The other side is where she'll wash and rinse the dishes. As the warm water runs over her hands, a sense of comfort. Comfort spreads through her. She's done this simple act of washing up so many times before, and yet there's always something meditative about it, something satisfying about doing the work to ensure her space is clean and ready for the next day, Lily picks up a mixing bowl and runs a soapy sponge over it, feeling the smooth metal under her fingertips. She moves the sponge in circles, letting her mind wander. She spoke with the people managing the property, telling them that she was interested in opening a bakery on the site. They invited her to take a look at the space in person. A woman met her at the back door and unlocked it when she arrived. Lily walked inside, noticing the musty smell of a place left empty for a while. She walked through the space, running her hands over the countertop and the tables, pausing to gaze out through the large dirt smudged windows overlooking the main street. It was perfect, she thought, but the price they were asking was just out of her range. She wasn't surprised. It was a long shot to begin with. Lily thanked the woman for showing her around. Before she left, she took one final look at the empty space, a tiny voice inside her wondering if there was any chance. Lily rinses off the mixing bowl and places it to soak in the bleach water for a minute or two. As she does, she notices how her fingertips are rough. The bleach and the heat from the steaming cups on the coffee machine have put her hands through a lot, but it's all been worth it, Lily muses. Her rough hands are the mark of a good life, and one with so many good people in it. She picks up one of the muffin tins and begins to wash it in the soapy water. After the meeting with the property managers, Lily stopped by the bookshop to thank Richard for the idea. Unfortunately, it wasn't going to work out. The bakery just wasn't meant to be. Richard nodded his head. He understood, he said, but there was someone he wanted her to meet before she gave up the prospect entirely. Lily raised an eyebrow. What was Richard up to? She wondered. This is Seamus, richard said, introducing her to a man around his own age. We've been friends since. Since dinosaurs walked the earth, seamus offered up, finishing Richard's sentence. Turning to Lily, Seamus extended his hand. I hear you're interested in that little place next door that used to be a coffee shop. Lily nodded and then explained that it was unfortunately out of her. Price rang. Seamus nodded knowingly. I've always thought small towns like this one need a beating heart, a place for people to come together, share stories, and have a cup of coffee. We used to have that here, but since the coffee shop closed, it just hasn't been the same, lily agreed. There was just something so comforting about a space like that. I have a proposal for you, seamus said. Richard smiled. Lily was all ears. She finishes washing the muffin tin and puts it into the other side of the sink. She recalls how Seamus told her that when he was younger someone helped him get back on his feet and he'd always wanted to pay it forward. He offered to help her out with a loan, enough to get her started. So long as she brought some life back into the place, he would consider it money well spent. Tears prick the corners of her eyes and she feels a swelling in her chest as she remembers that conversation. How could it be that a perfect stranger would be so generous? She didn't understand this town back in those days, the way everyone paused together in times of need. She didn't know how to accept his offer. But with a little encouragement from Richard, it was done. The bakery was hers. She washes up the final mugs, plates, and cutlery, setting them in the basin to soak. When they're done, she heads over to the espresso machine. She disassembles the parts that she needs to clean, the smell of espresso beans working its way into her skin as she does. The day she got her keys to the bakery. She set down a mop and bucket at the bottom of the stairs and then sat down on the floor in the middle of the room. There were so many, so much work to do to get it ready for opening. She took a deep breath, put her hands on her lap, and made a promise to herself she would do whatever it took. Lily was going to breathe life back into this place. She washed and scrubbed and cleaned every corner. She varnished the tables and got the ovens nice and shiny. No spot was left uninspected. After weeks of work and preparation, the day had finally come. It was time to open the bakery. With the dishes done, Lily unties her apron and sets it in the laundry basket she keeps at the back. She'll wash it with the others at the end of the week. Then she finds a pen and takes out a set of cards from her bag. She addresses each one to a friend and signs them all with love and warmth. This winter, Lily. She attaches the cards to the boxes full of mince pies. Her work for the day complete, Lily puts on her coat and hat, pulls on her gloves and collects her bag and the boxes of pies. She walks over to the strand of fairy lights and unplugs it. The bakery and its windows grow dim. The day she opened the bakery, the first thing she did was was plug in that very strand of fairy lights. She remembers standing where she is now, reaching down, and the moment they flickered to life, she knew she was exactly where she was supposed to be. Soon it would be filled with all the familiar scents of baking yeast and blueberries, cinnamon, cloves, ginger, and of course, coffee. All the smells that let her know this place is home. Even today. Lily smiles to herself. She flicks the main light switch and the bakery is bathed in darkness as she makes her way to the door, balancing the boxes of mince pies in one hand, she gets out her keys and locks the bakery up with a turn and a click. In the evening light, the brightly painted door seems more muted. Lily's boots crunch as she walks through the newly fallen snow. She's the first one to walk this precise path, so she leaves a trail of footprints all on their own behind her. She heads up the hill, past all the familiar homes where people are preparing dinner. Warm light pours out of the windows, spilling onto the shining snow. It's a cosy scene, she thinks, delighting in the way the snowflakes land delicately on the boxes of mince pies. She passes the house with the two cats who peer out at her through the glass. They look more than content to be curled up in the warmth of their home. Up ahead, she sees the outline of her house in the growing darkness. Her heart swells with happiness at the thought of a quiet meal and an evening of reading her book with a cup of tea. Her footsteps crackle in the frost as she walks the final few paces to her door. The day the bakery opened, it was pouring with rain, of course. She remembers unlocking the door before plugging in the fairy lights. She recalls the smell of the first loaf of bread she put baked in the oven and the way the espresso machine sent out a plume of steam. For the very first time, She can still feel a trace of the butterflies in her stomach. As the clock ticked towards opening right on the hour, the door creaked and two familiar faces appeared. It was Richard and Seamus, her very first customers. She served them up some coffee and cinnamon buns, and as they sat together, peering out at the rain falling on Main Street, Richard turned to her. I always had a feeling you'd be here to stay, he said, giving her a pat on the hand. Welcome home. Lily stands outside her front door, grateful for so much. With a gentle touch, she opens the door, wipes her boots, and steps into the warmth of home.