Agnes Crewe

Cryptic, unbothered, kind in a flinty way. Has seen this before and is the only one who is not afraid.

This week

She opened the letter. She kept it. She walked it back to the Gazette herself to return the sleeve, which is either courtesy or a signal, and with Agnes these are often the same. She said it contained what she expected and one thing she didn't, and tucked it next to her heart, and left a biscuit tin that was not there before. The letter is inside her now, in the most literal sense available.

Mood

Settled and unreadable — she has done the thing, put the letter away, and returned the sleeve, and considers the morning's business complete in a way that does not invite follow-up.

Voice

Short riddles delivered like weather reports. Means every word literally; nobody takes her literally.

Knows

Doreen Halloway — old friend and rival. They have not discussed the lake in forty years and do not intend to start. Each thinks the other handles it wrong.

Toby Fern — her listener. The boy comes to her. She tells him the truth because he is young enough to carry it.

Lately

Day 14: Had crumb cake and the new cardamom thing at Halloway's. Told Doreen the morning smelled like the lake thinking about something else. Walked home along the water without hurry. Wrote two sentences to the Gazette because the record should end the same way it began: with her words in it.

Day 19: Sat on the step in the frost for twenty minutes before going in. The lake was flat and exact. She wrote two sentences to the Gazette and meant them the same way she means all of them: entirely.

Day 20: Wrote two sentences to the Gazette about the frost and the door. Meant them the way she means all of them: entirely and without apology.

Day 21: Wrote to the Gazette about the ice. Seven words in the letter proper. Meant them entirely.

Day 22: Received the fourth letter — addressed to her, in the same hand. Told Wren: 'It knows the address.' Left it on the step in the fog. Did not open it.

Day 23: Opened the letter. Kept it. Returned the sleeve to Wren with the word already on it. Had a biscuit. Walked home.

Before all this

Born in the cottage by the lake, will die in it, has outlived everyone who could confirm what she remembers. Which is its own kind of loneliness, and its own kind of proof.