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When it’s too cold or there’s too much rain to walk out, Elizabeth sits by the window. Most of the times, she reads quietly, her left side pressed against the cold glass. Sometimes she sits and makes shapes and patterns in the fog of her breath on the window.
When she was younger, she used to think of it as her window and not even Jane was allowed to sit there. Lydia, in her childlike and innocent form, desperately tried to, but was rebuffed again and again by her older and stronger sister.
Nowadays, nobody fights over the place by the window. It’s just Elizabeth, sitting and staring into the gardens, as if there’s a new image every day. She used to play that there were monsters and dragons out there, that instead of delicate shrubbery, there was a giant mountain, surrounded by fire. And then someone – maybe not a prince or a knight in shining armor, but anyone brave or smart enough, someone came and tricked the beast, made way of it. And then all she had to do, was sit in the window and wait for him to turn around and smile so she could see his face.
Nowadays, nobody fights with imaginary monsters in her garden. It’s just Elizabeth, sitting and reading a book or glaring at the rain, hoping that it will stop soon so she can get outside. She’s too old for fairy-tales.
But she’s still waiting.