The morning was born with a sparkling icy mist, which soon burned away into a crisp, biting cold sun-kissed afternoon. Outside the osteal trees held occasional puffy birds, who’d lighted upon the skeletal branches for a rest.
In the drawing room; the fire snapped and popped energetically in the hearth. It had burned all day. In it, slabs of the large limb of the apple tree that had succumbed to the weight of the winter snow sported the flames with enthusiasm, pouring fragrant warmth out onto the fender where father’s feet rested. The soft snores from the wingback chair quietly reminded the others of his presence in the drawing room.
The sun cast itself though the leaded panes and brought surprising warmth onto the woolen rug where Ellie chose to play. Clasping her dearest friend Bearlina, she followed the rectangle of sun. Across from slumbering father, Mother’s sat on her elegant, worn chair, her hands moving with purpose and stealth, moving, twisting, plaiting and clicking the bobbins on her lace-pillow, which bristled with pins.
Interrupted only once, by the delivery of a tray of tea and cakes, the afternoon wore on. Ellie and Bearlina played until the sun patch climbed up the back of father’s chair, and then she sat on the floor in front of her mother and father near the fire. She propped Bearlina up against the fender where she would collect and store the cozy warmth for later enjoyment. There, Ellie admired the pages of her most beloved book, closely studying its delightful illustrations, occasionally sharing her favourite ones with the ever watchful, silent and toasty Bearlina.