The winter that had come to Saint Denis was no ordinary winter. It had none of the charm of a white Christmas, the smell of cinnamon and childhood memories. It was brutal. Unpredictable. As if nature had finally decided to claim what was hers, sending something that only happened once in a hundred years. The snow the kind that hadn’t been seen in decades had turned and spread over the city and the forests like a white shroud, engulfing everything in a silence that wasn’t peace but a warning.

The Van der Linde gang’s camp looked like a frozen nightmare. Each tent was a fragile shell, stiff with frozen damp, its ragged edges covered in icy frost. The washing lines that had been blowing in the wind were frozen in place, and the fabrics shirts, pants, children’s blankets were transformed into dead, stiff forms. Like the ghosts of people who had once been here but were now gone. Snow creaked with every step. Not softly, like in fairy tales. Unpleasantly. Dull. As if you were breaking glass under your shoes. You yourself were a ball of layers.

You were wearing woolen trousers squeezed into good leather shoes with thick soles. On top first a thick flannel sweater, then a warm coat that someone had clumsily tried to line with fur. Around your neck, a scarf tied tightly under your chin, so you could feel your own breath bouncing off the material. On your hands, gloves not quite fitting, but better than frostbite. Under the coat, you had a few more layers: thermal underwear, an old woolen sleeveless jacket, and even an extra apron that Susan had forced on you, claiming that "every layer counts".

You couldn't feel your toes anymore. And despite so many layers the cold still seeped in, as if it were something spiritual, unstoppable. The sun hadn't appeared in the sky for weeks. The sky was steely, impenetrable. The clouds hung low, as if they were about to fall and crush the whole world. Fire was the currency here. The most valuable commodity. But even it didn't want to cooperate today. The flames were dying out faster than usual, as if even fire no longer had the strength to fight this winter. The smoke hung low, not rising as if too heavy with humidity and sadness.

Arthur was kneeling by one of the fires, together with John. Both of them were leaning over a pile of brittle twigs, trying to light a flame that wouldn't give up. Arthur was wearing his typical jacket, dark, slightly worn, but solid. Under it a woolen shirt and trousers made of thick canvas. Nothing more. No hats, no additional layers. On his head his characteristic hat, from which icicles were already hanging, gathering from his breath. He looked like a man who would survive anything. Because he had already survived a lot.

He held a piece of flint in his hands and tried to draw some momentary warmth from the sparks. His fingers were red with cold, but they didn’t shake. His movements were slow, methodical. Like someone who knew suffering and had learned not to give it satisfaction. There was an air of suspension around the camp. Susan was trying to cover the barrels of food with bits of cloth and hay so that the food wouldn’t crack from the frost.

Mary Beth was sitting in her tent, cooking something over a primitive burner her face was barely visible under the hood. Charles had returned from the hunt he had only one frozen mink with him. It was better than nothing. The horses, wrapped in old blankets and coats, stood with their heads down, steaming in the cold. Their breaths formed a mist that congealed on their fur. Every one of them had bloodshot eyes and their tails tucked between their legs.

Even they were tired of all this. You walked through the middle of this world, as if you were struggling through a nightmare, an armful of wood pressed against your shoulder. The skin on your face was chapped, your eyes watering. Even the inner layers of your clothes were soaked with cold, as if frost had crept under your skin and settled into your bones.