Steam rises up from the kettle as Cassandra stares at it on the stovetop. Something about the way the constant stream of it flows is beautiful to her. It pushes on a memory, something deep, perhaps repressed. It's February now, that time of year when things feel at its most dark for her. Yet staring at this little kettle warming up for tea gives her a little sense of comfort. Maybe it's just the want for the tea itself, but it feels like more.


Once the kettle begins to whistle, Cassandra carefully takes it off of the heater, setting it down on the granite countertop. Lemon and ginger tea was the choice for today, an unusual pairing for her, but something she enjoys from time to time. The sour and spicy nature of it always stirs something in her, more than comfort.


The Fairest makes her tea and then sits down in the living room, sheet music in one hand and the tea in the other. The piece she'll be working on is a folk tune, something she's been working on solo. Black is the Color of my True Love's hair. Sometimes, the piece reminds her of her love, John. But he hasn't been the only love of her life with black hair. No, something deeper stirs when she plays it. Something sweet that evokes an air of sorrow within her.


Black is the color of my true love's hair. Once there was a little girl in her life with such hair. So deep a brown, it nearly shone black. Her eyes were very much the same, aside from the little flecks of gold that reflected in the sunlight. One could say there is no deeper love than that of a mother and her child.


She sets the sheet music down and takes another sip of her tea. It's sour and spicy and gives her a little jolt. If she hadn't sweetened it a little, she might have coughed. Eliza loved lemon and ginger together. She practically ate lemons as if they were any other sweet fruit. A strange child, but a good one.


Small snippets of memories flit through her mind. Eliza at the kitchen table, a crayon in hand as she colored a picture of music notes. She'd just learned the notation symbols in class that day. Second grade and she still retained her sweetness. Eliza's attention turns and there is a giddy smile upon her face.


"Mommy, mommy! Look at my notes!" A small framed girl wearing a little blue sundress hops down from her chair and runs up to her mother. Looking at the paper, the note heads were backwards, but it was a colorful mess of rainbow. Perfect for her.


"They're beautiful, my little dot." Cassandra leans down and gives her a little peck on the cheek, "Why don't we put it on the fridge for daddy to see?" And the child nods excitedly.


The memory fades in her mind as another slips in. “Storytime?” Eliza gives her this precious look as if Cassandra might say no. How could she possibly say no to that face? Her father's charm had certainly rubbed off on her.


“Of course, my little dot,” She leans down and pokes her little nose, which makes her giggle.


Eliza runs over to the bookshelf, nearly tripping. Phillip’s voice from the other side of the kitchen says in a gentle scold, “Eliza, do we run in the house?”


She freezes, looking a little embarrassed, “No…” then she gives that smile again, this time with a hint of mischief. She skips over to the bookshelf instead, which makes Cassandra laugh.


“She’s too smart for her own good,” Phillip says, unable to keep a straight face.


Cassandra gazes back at him with an amused grin, “She gets it from you, you know.”


The little onyx haired girl walks up to her mother with a purple and pink decorated book in hand, “Can we read Punzel again?” She'd always called it Punzel, even when she learned how to pronounce it correctly.


"Yes, we can read Rapunzel." Cassandra takes the book from Eliza, smiling a little as she looks down at her daughter.


Then it's morning and Phillip is at the stove. The smell of fresh fruit and pancakes wafts through the air. The Draconic has a pensive look on his face as Cassandra approaches, wrapping her arms around him from behind and kissing his shoulder. "Morning, love." His mantle is always unbearably cold and yet the moment they touch it is as if everything has warmed.


"PANCAKES!" There is an excited near scream from Eliza, shattering the beginning of a moment.


Cassandra winces and lets go of her husband, giving her daughter a look. "Eliza, we don't scream in the house."


The little girl's face goes red from a kind of embarrassment, "Sorry, mommy."


Phillip turns from his spot to look at Eliza, a charming, yet mischievous grin on his face, "Screaming earns strawberry pancakes."


Eliza's face scrunches up and exasperatedly she says, "Eww, no! Strawberries are gross." The child has an unusual hatred for the fruit. No, her preference is blueberries. Always blueberries.


Memories like these make Cassandra's heart ache with a nearly unbearable pain. So many memories she's repressed. Ugly things that should never see the light of day, and yet these memories will always stay, untainted by the darkness within her own heart.


The childless Mother sniffles a little, tears beginning to come to her eyes and she takes another sip of her tea. February is when she made that decision, the one that changed their lives for good, for the better for Eliza. She's in the Fifth grade now. Sometimes it dawns on Cassandra just how much she's missing, how much she's had to miss for their own good. In just a few short months, Eliza will have her Elementary School graduation. What dress will she wear? What has she done up till then? Does she play an instrument now? How are her grades? So many things she'll never get to be a part of again.


And in her mind, all she can hear is a plunked out Twinkle Twinkle Little Star and a sweet giggle.


That part of her life is over now. The part of her that could pretend that being a Lost didn't mean she couldn't have a family. Hell, being a Winter Lost right now means she can't even have an openly known relationship. Regret. Sorrow. Fuel for her contracts and her sense of will.


Another sip of the tea and another face made to the taste. It's good and yet too much all at once. But maybe it's what she needs. Something to flood the senses and numb her to everything else. Tears stream down her face and she sets down her cup on the table in front of her. She stares down at her hands and sighs, little tingling shakes starting to consume her. John will be home any minute and she'll put on a mask again. He knows when she's been upset, but he always knows the right time to ask.


Some dreams we were meant to chase, others not. So many others are too dangerous for us. Winter is about that balance, knowing when to hide and stay away instead. Sacrifice for the sake of the safety of others. A burden she'll always have to carry.


Hushabye, my little dot.