It was the wettest fall they'd had in years. Fickle showers stripped over the village as they pleased, drenching Chell in gray air and muddy bliss. The rain made it difficult for Hannah to maintain her usual chores – she couldn't wash clothes in the river, or get dry wood, and she hadn't seen any of the wandering peddlers in weeks.

Most of the time, she stayed inside and cleaned and cleaned until she got sick of it. Her brother would be at the Averys, her father would be asleep, so there was no one to talk to. She had run out of thread so she couldn't sew, and they had no more books to read. All she had was her mother's letters. Fetching the stack from their place in the kitchen, Hannah sat down to count – over forty letters in all, each piece small and white, one side ragged as if torn from a notebook. She tried to look for changes from the first letters to the last – her mother never said anything different, but the writing had become rushed and messy. It was as if she was having less and less time to write.

'Don't worry about me, it's a good family.'

There was no clue as to who they were, no names and no address. Hannah wouldn't have even known her mother was in Dalen if it wasn't for the messenger.

The messenger. He was late. It was past mid-month, he should have brought them another letter by now. She turned, peering out at the grumpy, swollen sky. Was he, like the peddlers, delayed because of the weather? How long would they have to wait then? Not that she cared about any of the words. She just needed to know a letter was on its way, that the pattern hadn't been broken.

Thunder heaved through the walls – a good storm was starting, it warned. She heard the noise of gale-brought rain, happily pounding the house like a thousand hands on drums.

The air only became silent after nightfall. Rio came in around then, breezily saying something about not needing dinner. Hannah listened to him shift through the house, wondering if she should ask him about the messenger. He wouldn't care, would he? Or at least he would pretend not to care. And she couldn't speak to her father because that would only worry him.

Maybe tomorrow, she told herself. The skies had emptied themselves today, tomorrow should be clear at least for a few hours. Enough time for the messenger to ride in and toss her the letter, maybe even sweep some sweet nothings to Melanie before rushing back.

When she woke in the morning, there was a bit of sun peeking out from behind thin white strips – a good sign. She prayed the day would stay fair and dry, but she should have known it was the wrong wish. Throughout the afternoon, the weather stayed, but the messenger never came. Even as the days bled, and Lady Fall sidled up to Sir Winter, there was no sound of hooves, no excited cries from the village girls at the sight of the handsome rider.

He wasn't to come. Something had happened, either to him or to her mother. She could be busy, she tried to reason. Perhaps she's putting off writing until next month. But she had little belief in it. Her mother had never been late before these past four years. How could she suddenly be weeks overdue?

Worried as she was though, it could be nothing to the effect on her father if he knew. She was careful to say little to him through the weeks, avoiding him for fear of what he might notice. But she couldn't elude him forever. He asked on it once while she was leaving his room, so close to being out the door: "Has it come?".

There was nothing to do then. Nothing to say. She shook her head, afraid to look at her father's face. For days after, her Da wouldn't speak a word. He'd lay awkward and still, not answering at all if she talked. Then it got worse. He refused to eat, even if she tried to feed him.

Hannah knew she had to do something. She couldn't leave her poor father to go on like this.

There was one thing she could try, even though she didn't like it.

After another lone dinner one night, she sat down with her mother's letters, trying to copy the writing in her own hand. Her mother had an easy, simple style, so that wasn't the problem. The trouble was Hannah didn't have the same paper for the letter. She did manage to find one piece that looked almost the same shade of white, but it was too big. She did her best to cut it down to size, then snip up one side for that torn look. She was in the middle of actually writing a message when Rio came in, too quickly for her to hide what she was doing.

Her little brother stooped over her, blinking. "What are you doing?"

"Nothing," she tried, but he came up, snatching her precious fake letter. He held it up to a candle, scanning the words. His eyes slowly grew wide in awe. "Did you write this?" he gasped.

"Why?"

"Hannah, tell me."

"It's for good reason. That's all that matters."

"Were you going to show this to Da?"

"So what if I was?"

"You were going to trick him?"

"Haven't you noticed there's been no letter this month?" she asked him.

"I noticed. What does that have to do with anything?"

"He's upset. He won't talk to me. He won't eat. He's going to fall sick if he keeps this up."

"So you made your own letter."

"At least I'm trying to help. What have you done?"

His face darkened at that. He stared down at her letter, rubbing the paper between his fingers. "She lied to us. And now … you want to do the same."

"What?"

"It's wrong, Hannah."

"Saving Da is wrong?"

Instead of answering, he ripped her letter in half, right before her.

"Rio!" She shot forward, but he kept tearing, raining white flickers, ink still wet on the pieces.

Slowly, Hannah drew back, silent with anger. This was just like her brother, wasn't it? To do something so stupid, something to deliberately test her patience. But no, this was it. She'd tolerated him long enough.

"Rio. I want you out of this house."

He blinked, incredulous. "What?"

"You heard me. Clearly, you don't care about this family. Why should we care about you?"

"Family? What family?"

"Why don't you see how you handle things on your own then, if you're so cocky?"

"You think I can't?"

"Go then. I don't need you."

"I don't need you either!"

"You're supposed to help me," she called as he broke from the kitchen. "Not make things worse!"

He headed for his room, a little figure of fury, making loud noises as he threw some things together. A minute later, his body blurred past, and then he was gone, seeping into the darkness.

Somehow, Hannah didn't feel much better.