Millie shuddered against the bitter wind and pulled her wool peacoat tighter. She wished she had thought to bring a scarf like Petra had, but it was too late for that. Petra was impatient and wouldn't let her turn back now.

"What a lovely day!" Petra grumbled, dipping her chin into the safe folds of the red scarf that was wrapped close around her neck.

"Are you sure you still want a tour?" Millie asked. She hoped Petra would say no, and they could head back inside, where it may be boring, but at least it was warm.

Instead, Petra nodded. "Of course. What else are we supposed to do?"

Millie fought a sigh. "If you say so."

The grounds before them were half-hidden by fog, and Millie wasn't sure why Petra was so insistent on continuing. There was much to see out here, either. In this season, the grounds were just depressing. The garden beds were barren, their contents tucked under burlap sheets, waiting to awaken at the first sign of spring that was still months away. The long man-made pond that ran the length of the garden was murky and iced over. The gravel path that wove through the landscape was lined with towering, leafless trees. It would be a long while before things were pretty again.

"These are the gardens," Millie announced, though Petra was already far ahead of her.

"I can see that," Petra said, teasing as she glanced across the grim scene of grey and brown. She scampered over the gravel, her feet sliding around in her hurry.

"Where are you going at such a pace?" Millie asked, panting as she half-jogged to keep up. "It's like you have somewhere to be."

"I just want to get this over with," Petra said. Her teeth chattered at the last word, and she burrowed further into her scarf. "God, it's cold out here."

"Then let's go inside."

"Not yet," Petra said, rounding the corner of the house.

Millie, breathless, followed after. As she rounded the corner, she nearly ran into Petra, who had stopped just beyond. Petra's eyes were fixed on the distance. A spire rose out of the mist, sharp and dark like a warning.

"That's the..." Millie began.

"The chapel, I know."

"You do?" Millie wondered how Petra had learned of the chapel. The chapel was tucked into a remote corner of the grounds, far from the drive.

"Lots of old country houses have private chapels. Ours does," Petra continued with a disinterested tilt of her head. "I figured a place full of nuns would have one, too."

Millie bit her lip, not knowing what to say. Petra may be friendly, but Millie couldn't let herself forget that their social classes were worlds apart. She wondered if, once the war was over, Petra would keep in touch or happily forget her and return to her gilded world of country estates and private chapels.

"If they have a proper chapel," Petra asked, ignorant of Millie's discomfort, "why do we take service inside?"

"I don't know," Millie said with a shrug. "Maybe it's in poor condition."

"I guess that's a blessing. I'd hate to trudge out there every Sunday, especially in this weather," Petra sighed, shivering. "Does it have a graveyard?"

Millie tried to peer through the fog to see. She didn't spend much time thinking of the chapel. It was an eerie place, ever cloaked in low-lying clouds, like a watchful spectre forced to keep its distance.

"It must," she said. "Though I can't say for certain. I haven't been out there. We're not allowed to go that far from the house."

Petra clicked her tongue against her teeth. "That's kind of sad, isn't it? All the dead must be lonely with no one to visit."

"I think the nuns go out there," Millie offered. She didn't know what else to say, and she didn't like the direction of this conversation. Petra seemed to enjoy morbid subjects.

"Do they?" Petra said, raising her eyebrows. "Do you think they stop for a visit?"

In her head, Millie pictured the rigid nuns praying over each forgotten grave. She had to laugh at the image. "Probably not."

"That's sad," Petra said again and then went quiet, her gaze returning to the chapel in the distance. "How would you want to die?"

Millie jolted. "What? Why would you ask that?"

"Just thinking of all the sorry souls out there, of all the horrible ways they probably went. Disease. Infection. Starvation. Gruesome ends, for sure. Not the way I'd want to go." She shuddered before turning back to Millie. "So? What would you choose?"

Before she could stop it, the roar of the bomb echoed inside Millie's head. She tried to shake it off. "I don't know. Something quick, I guess, so I wouldn't feel anything."

Petra nodded slowly as if she was considering it. "That's a good way to go. I think I'd like to go quiet. Like this, in the cold." She swung her arm wide, gesturing to the whole frost-covered landscape.

The chill in the air sank into her skin like a knife, making Millie shiver. "That sounds awful!"

"Not really. Apparently freezing to death is peaceful. You just lie down and go to sleep."

Millie shook her head. "Let's stop talking about this," she said, taking hold of Petra's arm, "and move on before we freeze."

"Alright, alright," Petra conceded. "I'm bored, anyway."

Relieved, Millie turned to drag Petra back towards the house. She didn't get far before she staggered to a stop. Mere feet away, there was a silhouette, a tall figure in the fog headed their way.

Millie gasped. Behind her, Petra gave a startled cry and tightened her grip on Millie's arm. They pulled close together.

The thick fog parted, and a man emerged, pushing a wheelbarrow full of gravel. As Millie looked him over, her brow furrowed. She had never seen him before. He was young, tall, with a cap pulled low over his dark, deep-set eyes. He stared them down as he passed.

"Who is that?" Millie breathed to Petra.

"Shouldn't you know?" Petra whispered back. "You've been here longer than me."

Millie racked her brain for an answer but came up short.

Then another figure appeared, following behind, a portly older fellow, with a formidable grey moustache and creased eyes. He had a rake leaning on his shoulder—the groundskeeper. This man Millie did recognize, though she did not know his name.

"Sorry ladies!" the man said as he passed, tipping his hat. His moustache bristled as he smiled. "We didn't mean to startle you."

"No trouble at all," Petra replied. Millie noticed her grip on her had loosened. "We just got ourselves worked up in all this fog."

"Best to head inside," the gardener continued. "It's no day for a walk. It's due to get even colder."

The older man tipped his hat again, and two men marched off towards the gardens. Just before they were lost to the fog, the younger one turned and looked back at them, his gaze lingering on Millie. Millie stared back until he was gone.

"Guess that mystery is solved," Petra chirped. She nudged Millie to move.

Millie blinked, coming back to reality. Though she was sure she'd never seen him before, the young man seemed... familiar, somehow. "I wonder who he is."

Petra studied her with a raised eyebrow. "The groundskeeper, obviously."

"No, I mean the other one. He was so... young."

"So he was. Is that strange?"

"No, I guess not. I just thought all the young ones had gone off to war."

Petra shifted next to her. She was bothered. "Maybe he's a coward, or unfit for service. Either way, a groundskeeper is a groundskeeper, so no use wondering. Come on. I want to go back inside."

It was her turn to tug on Millie's arm, and she pulled hard—harder than was necessary. Millie winced but went with her. She stared off into the fog, in the direction the men had gone, wondering about the stranger.