Frozen rain spackles the window by where she sits. The room is warm. You can smell the scented wood burning in the fireplace. Sitting in her chair, her hands busy with needles and yarn, she’s making a blanket for me. There’s a smile curling her lips. Just a soft one. She’s wearing blue.

Her cup is beside her, filled with something hot and brewed from beans. It steams beside her. At her feet is a kitten. To her side is a white bird with a noisy skwawk. It rests in its cage, now. Quiet for the moment. The door of the cage is always open.

Atop a bureau, filled with the things she’s woven, are a small box and a picture frame. The man in the picture frame has the same hair — wheat blond — and the same eyes. Not the same color exactly. But there’s a flash there, between them. Like chain lightning. In that small box is a silver crucifix on a chain. And every once in a while, she opens the box and looks inside. And remembers.

She is the Queen of the Winter. The Sun has sunk down below the horizon for its long sleep, and the world outside sleeps with it. The night lasts so long here… so long… so cold… so dark. But she is here, fair Queen, to remind me that the Winter does not last forever. Under the cold snow, under the frozen earth, seeds sleep, too. Despite all appearances, the world is not dead. Only sleeping. Waiting for the time when Spring returns and the world puts on its new clothes. She waits, too. With a cup of something hot and brewed from beans, a scented fire, and a new blanket.

She is the Queen of the West. The Fourth Queen in my Tarot. Once a young girl, she is now a woman, wise in the ways of the world. And she reminds me that her rules are my rules. And when she lets me drink from her cup, I am reminded of winters long gone. Winters that seemed to last forever, but made bearable by her warmth and comfort. And when I drink from her cup, I drink it with my eyes closed and my tongue awake, ready to sip the embrace it brings.

Queen of Azure, the unclouded winter sky, she is my Sister. She holds me, catches my tears, and begs me to tell stories by her fire. And for that, I bow before her and beg her mercy that I might pay her proper tribute. She smiles, and bids me to rise. Puts her cup in my hands, and lets me drink.

For when the winter comes, her fire is always warm, and she has a new blanket for me. And when the winter night is long and dark and cold, she holds me and whispers in my ear.

“Even this will pass,” she tells me. “Even this…”