when she fell in the snow, knocked unconscious. Vicky was eight years old and the twins only ten. It had taken Marmaran more than an hour to reach her, in driving winds with snow a metre deep.
She held the picture up and stared into her mother’s eyes. ‘I wish you were still alive, Mama. You would tell me what to do. And you would know how to still father and the boys.’ Just for an instant, Vicky thought the picture of her mother smiled at her. It was the briefest of flashes, and the tiniest of smiles. Just a little raising of the corners of her mouth, and a twinkle in the eyes. Vicky stared closely but it was gone. The picture was as it had been every day. She kissed her mother’s cheek and replaced the frame on the small table.
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