November.
October and December are festive months, but November is not.
November is all business and her business is dark.
Picture a tall, lean woman with skin like white snow and a severe black haircut. A Patrick Nagel illustration, all whites and blacks, come to dreadful life.
On the seasonal clock, November is equivalent to three in the morning. She is the midnight of the soul, that dreadful hour when people rise from nightmares only to discover loved ones have died.
November sits in a dark office, occupied by sleek furniture made of glass and steel. A gas fireplace burns blue at her back, not so much casting light as spawning shadows. The room is cold and full of sharp echoes.
There is a painting hanging above the fireplace, a famous Russian triptych depicting a sleigh racing through a dark night pursued by slavering wolves. A woman tosses an infant from the sleigh, to the wolves, in a futile hope that the babe will be enough to distract the predators and let the sleigh escape.
November is very fond of that painting.
It makes her smile because she knows the ploy will not work. The wolves will catch up to the sleigh and consume the travelers. Then, the wolves will turn on each other and all that will be left is the cold darkness.
Yes, November is very fond of that painting.
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