|The winter here’s cold, and bitter. It's chilled us to the bone,
I haven’t seen the sun for weeks, to long too far from home.|

It was grey today.  Just like yesterday, and the day before, and 
probably the day after.  Grey clouds and fog hung over the buildings 
like cotton in a cheesy child’s diorama.  It was similar being locked 
in a white closet with an tiny little penlight.  As busy and 
interesting as Chicago was, winter was not it’s strong suit.

Inspector Margaret Thatcher sighed heavily and turned her back on the 
depressing picture.  The grey was the only thing predictable about 
winters in Illinois.  Despite the ominous skies, the temperature was 
approaching fifty degrees, while the day before, a negative twenty 
wind-chill had stalked Christmas shoppers.  For a bit there, it had 
almost felt like Ottawa.  Only not.

In Ottawa, blue skies interrupted the monotony, and crisp, cold days.  
Snow, though not too bad, was a regular occurrence, and the 
occasional case of glare wasn’t surprising.  Not here.   Flipping 
through her desk-planner, she confirmed it.  Nineteen days since the 
sun had made an appearance.  <God, I miss home.>

Meg shook her head, trying to dispel her wayward thoughts.  
Homesickness had no place.  This was work.  <I am a highly 
prestigious liaison officer to the Canadian consulate.>  She 
straightened her spine and  turned, briskly, in her office chair. <I 
have pressing work to be finished, and documents that need my 
complete attention.> Firmly putting cloud contemplations, literally, 
behind her,  Meg scooped up her Mont Blanc, removed the first file 
precariously balanced on her ‘In’ box, and settled in to finish her 
caseload.  <The needs of Canada’s visiting citizens cannot be shoved 
aside for petty reflections.>

Twenty minutes later, she gave up.  She’d memorized the first two 
lines of Mr. and Mrs. Baker’s complaint against Chicago’s excessive 
‘unsanitaryness’ and had gone on to nervously click her pen cap for 
the past ten minutes.  There were just some days not suited to 
listening to other people whine.  Even if they weren’t here.

Disgustedly, she shut the slim manila folder and tossed it aside.  It 
landed four inches from the edge of her desk, accidentally crashing 
into a box of paperclips.  Said paperclips skidded the last few 
inches, scattered a few odd clips on the blotter, and careened off 
the edge into the waiting trash can.  Meg flopped her chin on her 
hand and morosely surveyed the damage.  Most of the clips had made it 
into the basket, but a few had cleared the can’s rim and winked up at 
her from the beige carpet.  

<I’m going to have to dig all those out of there,> Meg thought 
absently.  <Only in the RCMP do we have to account for every 
paperclip.>  It was then she remembered the oily pizza she’d thrown 
away earlier.  Constable Turnbull had come up with the brilliant idea 
of ordering Tonio’s for lunch.  Halfway through her first piece, 
she’d discovered that Tonio’s ‘secret’ ingredient was nothing more 
than common grease.   The three other pieces she’d been allotted had 
ended up in can next to her desk.  No doubt, the way her day had been 
going, all the steel clips had been immediately drawn to the oozing 
mass.

<I’ll just buy another box and be done with it.>

On a normal day, the very idea would have scandalized her.  RCMP 
materials were not to be wasted or trifled with.  Officers needed to 
take meticulous care of that which they were given.  Not even the 
lowly paper clip could be missed.  Today though...  <It just doesn’t 
seem to matter.>  

Meg frowned and tugged gently on the collar of her shirt.  She’d 
shucked the woollen suit jacket shortly after lunch, but her matching 
skirt still stretched over her stalking-clad legs.  The scratchy 
cloth gave just enough for tolerability, but was no where near enough 
for comfortable.  If there was one thing she hated worse than the 
RCMP’s outdated, far-reaching beauracracy, it was its formality.  On 
days like today, she’d gladly sacrifice Turnbull to be able to come 
to work in a pair of jeans and cotton shirt.  <Not that I wouldn’t 
happily sacrifice that poor man on a *good* day.  Although..  
formality *does* have it’s perks...>

For all of three point four seconds, happy (and quite illegal) 
thoughts of her subordinate officer, Constable Benton Fraser, 
frolicked in the gutter of her mind.  Just as quickly, the iron doors 
labelled ‘Sexual Harrasment’ slammed into place.  <So it’s going to 
one of those days, is it?>

Meg turned her chair slowly around and went back to cloud watching.  
<Somehow, I get the feeling this is the most productive thing I’m 
going to accomplish the rest of this afternoon.  Might as well give 
up with the knowledge I won’t destroy anything.>  She figuratively 
kicked her mental blocks, glaring at them to stay in place.

It wasn’t as if it had been an incredibly bad day.  No major, or 
minor, disasters had occurred.  Constable Ovitz had participated in 
West Aurora Elementary’s ‘International Day’, and had taken the 
remainder of the afternoon off to recover.  Aside from the Tonio’s 
incident, Turnbull had done a few loads of laundry and was currently 
making sure no one stole the front door.  Lance-constable Witherspoon 
was at a training convention in Alberta, and Constable Fraser was 
catching up on *his* paperwork, wolf in tow.  Overall, it had been 
rather uneventful.

That was the odd part.

Normally, the consulate was abuzz with some new development or 
international incident waiting to happen.  Fraser and his friend Ray 
Veccio would be dashing off on some new case, invariably breaking or 
bending some kind of law.   It was rare that there were more than two 
days where quiet reigned.   Nine had currently passed.

Meg scowled.  <Not that I want something major to happen.  When those 
things occur, I am usually sucked into a situation that works itself 
out in comically strange ways.>  Visions of eggs danced in her mind’s 
eye, right next to flashes of blue so bright Ottawa’s sky would be 
jealous.  Meg quickly slammed that line of thought shut.  <Different 
topic... Turnbull!  He’s *very* different...>

She shifted in her chair, moving so she could get a better view of 
Turnbull’s silent vigil. Even she had to admit that when he shut up, 
Turnbull could be somewhat presentable.  It was only when he opened 
his mouth the illusion of competent officer was shattered.  Just the 
previous week, he’d spent forty-five minutes explaining the 
difference between pemmican and pumice to a Japanese tourist.  Who 
spoke no English.  Or the time before that when he’d spent an entire 
day wandering around the Museum of Science and Industry looking for 
the -- how had he put it?-- Men In Crime exhibit.  Apparently, he’d 
heard Detective Veccio’s mumble something about a ‘killer exhibit.’  
OR, the time he’d bleached her favourite beige cup because he’d 
believed her tea had left a stain.  The mug still wasn’t the same.

A smile skittered across her lips.  It had been sweet though.  No 
matter what Turnbull did, it was usually an attempt to please or to 
duplicate the behaviour of she or Fraser.  Meg’s lips took a down 
turn.  <Not that you couldn’t be a little less harsh, huh, Meg?  You 
don’t have to be super-bitch all the time do you?  He’s trying his 
best.>  Meg glowered at a few more clouds.

<I just miss Canada.>  What the heck, it was a day for giving in.  
Might as well add homesickness to the list of sins.

It was December twelfth.  At home, she would be out shopping, or 
going to lunch with Mirry and Lynn.  At home, she would be welcoming 
friends and neighbors to visit her festively decorated home, and be 
invited to countless parties.  There, she would spend Christmas with 
her father and sister.  At home, she would wake Christmas day to the 
sounds of her niece and nephew ripping into the many gifts under the 
tree.  

Here in Chicago, the shopping was done.  It had to be.  As horrid as 
the Chicago Postal Office was, not to mention the undependability of 
international deliveries around this busy holiday, gifts had to be 
purchased and mailed by December first.  Restlessly kicking off her 
shoes, Meg propped her feet on her sill and moved deeper into her 
melancholy.  Here, there was only Maggie, and she was busy with 
preparations for her upcoming wedding.  At least that event would 
distract Meg from her lonely Christmas.  

Reginald Thatcher had crisply informed his daughter that he could not 
afford to leave the country just then, and though he couldn’t be 
sure, next year didn’t look any better.  Add to that the fact Amy’s 
kids had come down with two, not series but highly contagious, cases 
of the chicken pox.  No, it looked like the spirits of Christmas had 
it in for Margaret Thatcher.  Badly.

Meg blinked back the unexpected mist of tears.  Even though Chicago 
had a population of several million, it sometimes seemed the 
loneliest place in the world.

|I feel just like I’m sinking and I claw for solid ground.
I’m pulled down by the undertow, 
I never thought I could feel so low
Through all the darkness, I feel like letting go.|

<Damn.>  Snuffling quietly, Meg dashed at the tears, trying to catch 
them as they fell.  <Today couldn’t get any worse, could it?>  As 
soon as the thought had even formed, the small woman started in on 
the mental castigation.  <Of *course* it could get worse!  I’m an 
idiot!>

Shooting an almost panicked glance (Mounties never panic!) around the 
quiet office, Meg made a quick shift with her chair in relation to 
the windows.  They were the only thing in the room that hadn’t been 
broken, shot up or replaced in the last year and were, statistically, 
the most likely threat of immediate danger.  Sitting deathly still 
exactly four feet from each of the grand picture windows, Meg waited 
a good five minutes before allowing herself to move.

Slumping slightly, Meg relaxed onto the surface of her desk and 
started to chuckle.  She’d been living here too long if just a casual 
thought caused her such tension.  She took a few deep breathes, 
allowing her body to unclench and her muscles to relax.

She really didn’t mean to shriek when her door rattled.

|I follow the strength and all of the courage, 
come and lift me from the is place.|