Amber turned up the collar of his overcoat, cursing through his teeth as he felt an icy draft of wind slip down his neck. It was his first winter here, and he was discovering that this place was not kind to misplaced Southerners. His booted feet crunched through hardened layers of snow that had accumulated over many recent storms. It had snowed and frozen over so many times that he suspected it would take until June to melt completely away.

Although he was dressed in heavy wool garments like a native Northeasterner, it would have been clear to anyone that he hadn't lived here long. His skin was tanned with the permanent bronze of someone accustomed to the heat of Southern sun. He was 5'8 tall, which wasn't all that remarkable in ia. Here he towered over most of the slender, compact New Englanders, and he looked at them with a brown-eyed directness that seemed to make them uneasy. At home strangers greeted each other as they passed in the street; here, it seemed you weren't privileged to look someone in the eye unless you were kin, old friends, or business associates. He wondered why people in Massachusetts didn't realize how odd they were. There was no explaining they were so stiff and cold, and how they came by such a damned strange sense of humor. Maybe the weather had done it to them.

He smiled at his thoughts----a smile that had once set every female heart in Henrico County aflutter---and his gloved hand tightened around the ax  handle as he set out for more stove wood. He used up wood and coalfast, trying to keep the small house he had bought last spring warm enough. It was so chilly outside that it was hard to whistle, but as he walked he occupied himselfwith producing a passable rendition of "All Quiet Along the Potomac Tonight," one of the most popular tunes of the war. It had been composed by a Northerner, but a catchy tune was a catchy tune. Slowly his footsteps came to a halt and his whistling stopped as he became aware of a muffled noise from the direction of the river. He lived on high ground near the river, and the quiet sound floated up to him, borne on the steady breeze, dispersed by the trees until it was difficult to hear. But it almost sounded like a woman's voice.

It could not be possible that she would actually die now, in this way, in this place. Crossing the frozen river here instead of walking the extra quarter mile to the bridge had been reckless, but she did not deserve this----no one did. After the first shock of falling through the surface, Krystal had struggled violently among the chunks and shards of ice that floated around her, flailing her arms until she had grasped the edge of the hole. It had taken less than five seconds for the bite of the water to sink through her clothes into her flesh, down to her bones. All of it had happened so quickly, in less than a heartbeat. Her breath shuddered from deep in her lungs as she tried to pull herself out, but her cashmere mittens slipped on the ice, over and over again. Each time she slipped, she sank in the water almost up to .

"Someone help me! S-someone. . . " Her voice cracked as she looked toward the snow-blurred landscape of the riverbank, which was punctuated with the drifts of smoke from the chimneys of nearby houses. She could not help crying, even though she knew it was draining her strenght, and she called out in a wavering voice with words that intermingled with sobs. "I'm in . . . the w-water . . . someone . . . help . . ." Someone had to hear her. Someone would help.

None of this could be happening to her. Not to Krystal Jung, who had been safe and protected all her life. In a burst of panic, she managed to get her mittens off and scrabbled wildly at the ice, coughing on a mouthful of water. The weight of her skirts and petticoats dragged her down like lead, and for one terrifying moment she slipped completely under. Surrounded by chilling darkness, she fought the weight that tried to pull her deeper. Reaching for the surface, the air, she somehow rose back up again, and she was able to breathe. Weeping helplessly, she clutched at the edged of the ice and rested her cheek on it. Unable to move any longer, she would not let go.

Krystal closed her eyes, and dug the tips of her bare fingers into the frozen surface. No one knew she was here. Her father thought she was still in Connecticut with Aunt Liza and Uncle Josh . . . and she had not sent a message to Aiden about coming back early . . .because of their last argument...because she had forced him into the quarrel that she had been spoiling for. I'm so sorry, she thought, no longer able to feel the tears dripping down her cheeks. I always make you argue with me. . . Aiden. . . 

Slowly the coldness of the water turned into a dry burn, and she floated motionlessly, her fear fading into numbness. The river seemed to be talking to her, and its silent voice---insistent, lulling---penetrated her mind. A girl had drowned here once before, many years ago. Had the river taken her as easily, as gently as this? Had it seemed like a dream to her? Let it all disappear, the darkness urged. Sunlight, springtime, Aiden. . .love. . . all a dream. . .all nothing.

Suddenly one of her wrists was seized in a cruel grip hard enough to send pain piercing through her numbness. She stirred in protest and her eyes fluttered open. Through the wet strands of her hair, she saw that a man was lying on his stomach near her. His unearthly brown eyes moved to the pale mask of her face, and his relentless hold on her tightened as he begun to pull her out of the river. Her lips came together to form a word, but the only sound she could produce was a faint gasp.

He seemed to be saying something to her, but to her ears his voice was indistinct. She felt him pull harder on her arm, and then she sank swiftly into darkness. She was being carried through woods. Her head rested on a wool-covered shoulder. Her forehead was nestled intimately in the crook of a man's neck. Her legs swung gently, bumping against the stranger's side. The man who carried her trudged through the gathering drifts of snow with the steady, dependable stride of a workhorse, his feet moving in an unbroken rhythm.

Sensing that she was conscious, he spoke softly, in a pronounced Southern accent. "I was going out for stove wood when I heard you. I don't know what you were doing out there, honey, but you should've had better sense than to set foot on that river. Couldn't you tell it wasn't frozen all the way?" Opening was like prying apart rusted iron. Krystal tried to say something and heard a funny shuddering sound. She was too cold to talk, too cold even to think. "Don't worry. You're going to be fine," he said lightly, and in her misery and shock, his voice sounded immeasurably callous. Her clothes were heavy and icy, clinging to her body and making her limbs ache. All of her life, her cuts and scrapes and miseries had been attended to quickly, and with plenty of sympathy. She had never felt pain like this before, all-consuming, enveloping, unrelenting. This was suffering, and she found that she had no tolerance for it. She began to cry weakly, and with a soft oath, Health lifted her higher in his arms until her head was settled more firmly on his shoulder. His lips were right by her ear, and he murmured to her quietly. "Such a cold little ear. Listen to me, honey. It won't be long and you're going to be all better. I'm taking you to a nice, warm room with a hot fire. We're almost there. Don't cry. Hold on for just another minute, and we'll see what we can do about thawing you out."

He was talking to her as if she was a little girl, and although he sounded outrageously patronizing, she was comforted by his soothing. Despite his assurances that they were "almost there," it seemed to take hours before they reached a small, well-lit house, and Krystal was nearly panicked by the realization that she couldn't feel anything from the neck down. Wild fears ran through her mind. Was she paralyzed? Had she lost any fingers or toes? Fear kept her quiet as the stranger carried her into the house. After closing the door and shutting out the billowing gusts of snow, he deposited her carefully on a sofa. He seemed heedless of the way her water soaked clothes and hair dampened the furniture. The room was lit by the cheerful blaze of an open-grate woodstove.

Krystal could see its warmth but could not feel it. Her teeth chattered audibly, complementing the animated crackle of the flames. "You'll warm up in a minute," Amber said, fueling the blaze with more wood. "N-n-never," she managed to say, shaking violently. He smiled slightly, dropping an armload of quilts into a nearby chair. "Yes, you will. I'll have you so warm in a little while that you'll be asking for a fan and a glass of iced tea."

"I c-can't f-feel anything." Fresh tears welled up in her eyes, and he knelt by the sofa, pulling the sodden tresses of hair off her face. "I told you not to cry... Miss Krystal Jung. That's your name, isn't it?" She nodded, shivering fitfully. "I've seen you working at your father's store." he continued, unwinding the limp, dripping cashmere scarf from around her neck. "My name is Amber Joseph Liu. . .and you should know Krystal, that for a long time I've planned on meeting you. The circumstances are not of my choosing, but we'll just have to make the best of them." He ed her cloak with quick, impersonal efficiency, while her eyes rounded and her teeth chattered harder. "Krystal. You're all curled up like a little snail. I need you to help me. Let me turn you onto your back."

"N-no---"

"I won't hurt you. I'm going to help. Make this easier for me Krys, and turn over. Yes, just like that. . ." Quickly his fingers moved to the basque of her drenched walking dress, unfastening the garment and spreading it open. She cringed away from him as she realized what he was doing. No man had ever undressed her before. But it had to be done, and she couldn't do it herself. With an effort, she tamped down the instinct to struggle against him. "It's a good thing the river had such a weak current," he remarked matter-of-factly. "If it didn't, this bunch of petticoats and all these. . .ruffles. . .would have dragged you down fast."

Krystal closed her eyes, unaware that tears were still rolling down her temples until he dried them with the corner of a quilt. Deftly her dress, the fashionable bustle, the collapsible crinoline, and all of her petticoats were removed. Several buttons popped off her boots, making Amber swear under his breath as they rattled across the floor. The laces of her stays were soaked  and impossible to untie. Grimacing, he drew a bowie knife with a clipped point from his vest and cut the cords. The boned material gave way and the corset expanded, causing Krystal to gasp feebly as knifelike pains seemed to slide through her ribs. Amber paused only a split second before hooking his fingers underneath the straps of her dripping camisole. Her body went even more rigid, which hardly seemed possible. This had to be a nightmare. That was the only explanation for what was happening to her.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, stripping her of the flimsy camisole and pantalets. She thought she heard a soft intake of breath, but the sound might have been the rustle of the quilts that he proceeded to wrap her in. he cocooned her in them tightly, so that nothing except her head was vivible. The cold was settling in at her joints, causing her to groan in agony and harden her knees and elbows against it. Picking up her swaddled form easily, Amber sat down in a chair by the fire, cradling her in a solid grip. Even through the blankets she could feel that his arms were rock-hard.

"Aiden. I want Aiden," she said as icicle tears rolled down her face. She was forgetting that he didn't know who Aiden was. "Let me help you." A huge, warm hand moved over her forehead, pushing the tangled hair away, sliding down to soothe her prickling cheeks with a gentle palm.

"My l-legs hurt. My knees are aching---"

"I know. I've been through the same thing before."

"Not like th-this---"

"I sure as hell have." He smiled down at her. "And lived to tell about it. So there's hope for you yet."

"W-when. . .?"

"In sixty-four, during the siege on Richmond. I was ducking some sharpshooters and landed myself in an ice-over pond. Hell isn't a hot place at all, honey. It's very, very cold."

"You fought against. . . us."

As she lifted her eyelashes, she saw that he was staring at her intently, his startlingly brown eyes filled with pity and something that she didn't understand. "Yes. I'm from ia." 

"Why are you. . .here?"

He didn't say anything, just looked away from her and into the fire. His arms tightened around her quivering body, holding her still. Krystal thought that if her circumstances had been a little less dire, she would have died of shock. She had never been touched by a Southerner before, much less been wrapped in one's arms. But no matter who or what he was, it felt good to be held so tightly, anchored, and protected from the cold.

"Better yet?" he asked eventually.

"No. I'm. . . frozen on the inside. . .in my bones."

Amber shifted her slightly and reached inside his vest for a battered silver flask, which gleamed dully in the firelight. "Some of this will help."

"What is it?"

He twisted the top off the flask, and instantly she could smell the pungent fumes of strong liquor. "Ever heard of forty rod?"

"I can't!" Her eyes rounded with horror. She had been raised strictly on the doctrine that drinking was evil and led to all kinds of immoral behavior, especially in women. Her father and the reverend of the First Parish Church, Grindall Reynolds, had always said so.

"This is going to sink right down to your bones, Krystal. Open your mouth."

"No, don't!" She would have struggled away from him had the quilts not been wrapped around her so well. Easily he wedged the neck of the flask between her lips and tilted it upwards, filling with a noxious flood of whiskey. She swallowed and choked, then swallowed again, until the pit of her stomach was burning with the fire of it. He took the flask away. Coughing, Krystal glared up at him and fought to catch her breath. As soon as she had recovered, she opened to say something and found the flask pushed between her lips again. This time the liquor went down easier, and she drank helplessly, her head caught in the hard crook of his arm. With a discomfited sound, she turned her face into his shoulder as soon as he took the flask away. No one had ever treated her so rudely before. She was going to tell her father about this, just as soon as she was able. Amber must have had a good idea of what her thoughts were, because he grinned suddenly. As he looked down at her cheek and saw the trace of whiskey on it, he removed the droplets with the tip of a long finger.

"For shame, sweet. . . turning your nose up at good Southern corn liquor. A sight better than what they drink up here---"

"Don't," she said, shrinking away from his touch. to her surprise, he was not put off or disconcerted by her rebuff. He only laughed softly.

"To ease your mind--no, I'm not going to take advantage of your helpless condition, despite the fact that you're as cute as a bug's ear."

"I am not," she contradicted groggily. "I look like something you. . . dragged from the river. . .which is exactly. . .what I am."

"You're the most adorable thing I've ever held in my arms. I can see you don't believe me. Can't you bring yourself to trust me?"

"You're a Southerner," Krystal said thickly, her head spinning from the whiskey. Its warmth was burning deep inside her.

"Before the war started I was a Unionist," he offered in a conciliatory manner. "I'm sure that makes me a little more appealing, doesn't it?"

"No."

He smiled at her tipsiness and at the returning color in her cheeks. "You are adorable," he said huskily. "Poor little Yankee."

She was both irritated and fascinated by the way he spoke to her in that soft drawl, as if she were someone to be coddled and cherished. She had never been babied so outrageously by a man, not even by Aiden. Closing her eyes against the dancing firelight that filled the room, she sighed tiredly into Amber's neck. The dull ache was bearable now, and it was slipping away bit by bit.

"Take me home soon," she whispered, slumping against him.

"Go to sleep, honey. I'll take care of you."