“They do, but the gloves are for my own peace of mind. I do not like to be reminded of what I am becoming. I would rather not see the marks upon my skin.”
I understand the sentiment. It is why I avoid mirrors, reflective surfaces. “What of your scent? Shouldn’t you smell like the darkwalkers do, like metal and burning wood?”
“My very being is twined with winter. I cannot separate myself from that essence so easily.”
I suppose that makes sense. “How long have you been this way?”
“The change began after the death of my wife and son. It’s worsened over the last few decades.” His throat works. “You cannot imagine the state I was in following their deaths. Rage, despair, grief—it changed me, like a blemish on my soul.”
On the contrary, I understand what death can do to a person. The way one drifts through life, never again whole.
“I fell into a pit so vast I could not hope to see the light. That is where I have remained ever since, fighting my basest instincts.”
My attention returns to the shadows beneath his skin. Occasionally, a blemish seeps somewhere near his neck, then disappears.
“Are you afraid of me?”
My eyes lock onto his, and hold. I see it now—a window pried open, that soft, vulnerable interior on display. And I say, with complete honesty, “No more than I was before.”
He nods after a time, sinking back into the chair. Beads of sweat dot his upper lip.
“Did you plant everything in this greenhouse?”
“Yes.”
“It comforts you, being here. Planting things.”
He glances down at his hands, the plate of food forgotten. “I’ve always been envious of Zephyrus’ power. To bring life to something rather than death. This”—he touches the waxy leaf of a nearby plant—“does not come easily to me.”
“If you enjoy it, then why do you insist on prolonging winter? You could have plants everywhere, not just in the greenhouse.”
“Why did you insist on returning home when it is clear your sister has never appreciated anything you’ve done for her?”
They sting, his words. That must mean they hold some truth. “But husband,” I growl, “we’re talking aboutyou.”
“We were,” he corrects.
“It’s not that I believe she is unappreciative.”
“Has she ever thanked you?” he demands. “Has she ever offered to help lighten your load?”
No matter how far I search my memories, I can’t remember a time when she had done either of these things. Those were the roles we fell into. “It wasn’t her responsibility.”
He slams a palm down on the table, startling me. “No. Her responsibility was to care for you as you cared for her. I can understand her willingness to let you shoulder that burden as children, but that is no excuse now. Your sister is an adult. She made the conscious choice to let you sacrifice your wellbeing.”
My eyes well. Tears, again? This is becoming a terrible habit. “I’m slowly coming to realize that, but she’s the only family I have left.”
The king pushes the plate aside, setting his elbows on the table. “And you still want to return to Edgewood?” he asks carefully.
“I don’t know.” That is also the truth. Elora treated me so poorly. Unforgivably poorly. Some nights, I lie awake and wonder what it would be like to hurt her the way she hurt me.
Boreas says, “We hold fast to what is familiar. Fear often prevents us from stepping beyond that boundary.”
The tips of my fingers brush the plate of food. I grab a huckleberry before courage fails me. “What can a god fear?” I ask him.
“Many things, as it turns out.”
“Death?”
