Charlotte checked the window one more time, watching the fluffy puffs of snow fall to the ground. It had been snowing for the better part of the day so she’d been stuck inside. Most people loved this time of year but she most certainly didn’t. Christmas just meant that her house was full of relatives who she barely knew, and barely liked and of course she was in charge of entertaining everyone of her age. Of all of her cousins there was only one other girl, who was five, and the rest were strapping young men who really wanted nothing to do with her save one who despite his shyness would always make the effort to talk with her. 

When Charlotte was five, her Auntie Cecilia and Uncle Richard had moved to America in the hopes that her uncle would be able to find the job of his dreams. He had in fact been successful in his work, but they had been unsuccessful in trying to have a baby. After years of living abroad they decided to adopt an older child. They thought it was too late to be raising a baby, and that there was a child out there waiting for them to take them home. The entire family had suggested that maybe they come back to England before doing anything of the sort because why would they want a child of American blood? Despite the fact that it had been a century since the revolutionary war, her parents and grandparents still had the mindset that all Americans were traitors to the crown, which, essentially, they were, but it was no longer the popular opinion. Cecilia and Richard ignored the peanut gallery, writing them angry letters from England and went forward with their plans, adopting an eight-year-old American boy named Nickolas or Nick as they called him at the orphanage. They couldn’t have been happier and pictures of the new family arrived just months after his arrival in the house. Charlotte’s parents were certain that Richard, who was often quite cheap, must have been excited about their new charge since he was willing to pay for a photo portrait.  

The first time she ever met Nick was Christmas when she was nine years old and she’d seen him every Christmas since then. A tall, lanky blond boy, he was quiet, he kept to himself, and Charlotte couldn’t say she was upset when he left on the three-week journey back to America every year. There was just something about him that rubbed her the wrong way. Maybe it was because he was so quiet, and she never knew what he was thinking. Though he was probably one of the only cousins to speak to her during the holidays, she didn’t always enjoy the conversation.

There were times, especially since she found out what Nick’s plans for college were, when she dreamed that their boat sank on their way back home, and she never felt guilty. She often thought that Nick might enjoy that. Not the sinking boat, but that she had a dream with him in it. He spent most Christmases present and past sitting in front of the fire and writing in his journal or reading books in strange languages. She could never quite understand him. 

“If you look at that window any harder you might just break it.”

Now he was speaking to her, “I’m sorry?” she turned, facing Nick who had walked up behind her, trusty book in hand.

“I said you might just break that window with your stare,” he repeated.

“I was just thinking how I wouldn’t be sad if you died,” Charlotte admitted, straightening the skirt of her dress out as she changed her sitting position.

He did the unexpected and smiled at her, sitting down in the chair next to the window bench she was on, “I’m sorry you feel that way.”

“Why do you have to come here?” she asked, looking at him curiously. 

“It’s Christmas,” Nick answered with a shrug, putting the small book he was holding in his pocket, “We always come for Christmas.”

“I don’t mean for Christmas. Do they not have schools in America?”

“No,” Nick deadpanned, holding back his laughter as Charlottes eyes widened with shock, “Of course they have schools in America, I’m pulling your leg,” he chuckled.

“Then why don’t you go to one? Why do you have to go to Cambridge?”

“My father went there, so I decided to go there too,” he answered.

“Your father didn’t go there, he probably didn’t even go to school, he’s probably dead or working in a mine somewhere in America,” Charlotte said testily, not guilty when she saw the expression on Nick’s face sour. 

“You’re just jealous that I got accepted to the school that you only wish you could go to,” Nick said, shaking his head at the annoying girl. Every time he’d ever seen her she always used the fact that he was adopted against him, despite his belief that the two people in the other room (who had essentially raised him from eight on) were his parents. 

“I’m not jealous,” she replied, not daring to look at him.

“You are,” he stressed, “I imagine though that if you apply to one of those women’s colleges you might just get in.”

Charlotte angrily looked up with a huff, “I don’t want to go to a mediocre women’s college to learn a few meaningless things to fill the time before I’m married. I want to go to Cambridge!” 

“What do you want to take?” Nick wondered curiously, “I’m guessing that you’ve seen the course listings.”

Charlotte blushed, not sure if she wanted to admit her lifelong goals, “Natural sciences, I want to take natural sciences.”

“That’s an interesting choice; I wouldn’t have figured you for a scientist. What about it interests you?”

Charlotte looked back out the window; feeling Nick’s eyes on her neck as she thought about her answer “See that snow outside? I want to know why it falls and how it falls and what it’s made out of. I have so many questions that learning about cooking and sewing just won’t answer. What are you learning?” she asked, turning back to face him.

“History and Classics,” he answered, “I hope to someday travel around the world and work as an archaeologist. Uncovering hidden treasures and translating lost scriptures...”

“Ugh. You were right,” Charlotte said with a sigh, “I am jealous. You have the whole world in front of you and nothing in your way.”

“You can have that too,” Nick shrugged, “No one is forcing you to cook and sew until you die.”

“Society is, and my parents,” she countered, reaching over to pull the small book from Nick’s pocket. She thumbed through the pages, not understanding a word of it, “You read Latin?”

“Among other things,” he nodded, “Cambridge has very high requirements for prospective students. I was on a waiting list for a year before they would even consider me. I wrote a letter to the Dean of Admissions explaining all the work I’d done preparing for this school, and that given it is my father’s alma mater I didn’t have anywhere else I wanted to go. That part was a lie, I had two other schools lined up but they didn’t need to know that,” he rambled, running a hand through his unruly blonde hair, “The fact that I’m American was a big setback, if it wasn’t for Father I would have never gotten in.”

“You know you have to wear robes all the time and you can’t leave the University after dark, this is a proper English school. No horseplay,” Charlotte informed him and Nick merely chuckled.

“I know... I’m not worried about it. There’s nowhere I need to go after dark,” he shrugged. He could tell that Charlotte was trying to put the place down and make him not want to go, so she could keep her school all to herself, “Look Charlotte, like I said before you don’t have to let anything stand in your way, you can be your own master.”

She rolled her eyes, obviously sceptical, “Right. And how would I do that exactly? Just run away from my home?”

“Yes,” Nick simply answered with a nod, “You could leave, just take all your things and go wherever in the world you wanted to go. You could be a nomad.”

Charlotte sighed and played with her small fingers, wishing that everything he said was really possible, “You’re a dreamer Nick, it’ll never happen. I don’t have any practical skills that would help me be a drifter. I’d end up robbed or killed within the first day.”

He nodded and rubbed his chin, “Okay, that’s fair enough. How about you hop on the train and come visit me at Cambridge some time? At least then you’ll be getting out of the house for a while.”

“I’ve never been on the train,” Charlotte admitted, “I’ve always wanted to but my parents aren’t big on them, they prefer to go by carriage.”

“Well then, going on the train will definitely be an adventure!” he boasted, reaching back for his book to slip into his pocket once again, “Just tell your parents you’re bringing me a care package and I’m sure they’ll be fine with you going to visit your dear old cousin.”

“When do you start school?” Charlotte wondered.

“January,” Nick answered, standing up from his chair, “I was allowed a mid-term entrance because I’m an international student and they didn’t get back to me until it was too late to begin in October.”

“I’ll come visit you in the spring then, when it’s warmer,” she told him now grinning from ear to ear and hoping he would stay alive at least until she got a tour of the school, “We can picnic!” 

Nick smiled back, “I’m looking forward to it.”