She was right about the winter, Reinette soon discovered. Though she took little pleasure in it. The season was especially vicious, and ultimately she knew it was only a matter of time before she fell ill.

Reinette pushed herself too hard, she knew that. She did not ask, rather demanded too much of a body that had ultimately failed her since the first time she fell ill at school at the age of seven. But if illness was inevitable the at the very least she could exhibit fierce control over the time she was not.

It was sudden. Sometime after her birthday and when the weather was its most bitter. It brought with it the familiar fever and migraines, Louis' concerned but distant presence and the familiar parade of doctors and their bleedings. It was two months before she was fully recovered. Two months before she could stare down the court and their whispers and remind them she was not yet gone.

At least, she reminded herself, spring would soon come.

She still thought of Jack, more than she might have thought so many months removed. Reinette was practical, and knew that while time did little to heal most wounds it was capable of diluting them. It was how she filled the space between the Doctor. How, when she told Louis their liaison must end she could speak confidently to him that he would be all right. That soon he would not even recall the force of his reaction now.

Thus it hurt less to consider now where he might be, and what he might be doing.