(There's a timid knock on the door, which no one hears, what with all the music and merrymaking. Slowly the latch lifts and a woman slides in, eyes downcast. Her high button shoes are caked with snow. She wears gray knitted gloves and a worn and faded calico dress. Her cloak was once expensive scarlet velvet, but has seen so many years of use that the nap has worn off in places. The lines in her face speak silently of hard times and hard places, but strength shows through too. She pushes her graying hair back under the bonnet and makes her way quietly toward the fire, thinking of the letter she carries in her reticule.)

--lin