“Where did you acquire this herb?” I ask, returning the clipping to its place among the bunch. “And the others?” Because I’ve never seen these plants before. Having spent the majority of my time hunting or foraging, I’m well versed in what plants can endure the frost. The answer is: very few.
The shopkeeper smiles, but the lines around her mouth reveal its strain. “They are traded from distant towns, those that exist beyond the Deadlands.” She waters one of the potted plants with the can she holds. “Do you seek a particular remedy?”
“I do, actually. Specifically, a tonic made from the poppy flower. To aid with sleep.”
“If you’re having trouble sleeping, my lady, I can put chamomile in your evening tea,” Orla offers in concern.
“That’s not necessary,” I say quickly. “But thank you.”
“Poppy.” The woman frowns. “Yes, we sell such a tonic, but it is not in stock at the moment.”
Voice lowered, I say, “I ask because I have a friend who has a talent with plants. Zephyrus, Bringer of Spring.”
Orla stiffens at my side. As I suspected, she disapproves of my developing relationship with the West Wind. Hopefully she will keep her opinion to herself.
The woman’s fingers twitch around her watering can. “I apologize,” she says. “It seems I was mistaken. We do not sell a tonic made from the poppy flower.” She glances out the window where people have begun to gather. “Please let me know if there is anything else you need.” She is perfectly polite. Kind, even.
And she lies.
Lowering my hood, I reveal my face, the flush in my cheeks where blood thrums hot beneath my chilled skin. Her eyes widen as she realizes I am mortal. The North Wind’s wife, a visitor in this shop.
“Zephyrus is my friend,” I say. “He would be displeased to learn of your attempt to keep this from me.”
The shopkeeper opens her mouth. I lift a hand before she can reply.
“The Frost King will not hear of this exchange,” I add with a glance in Orla’s direction. “You have my word.”
Her mouth twitches, but eventually, she relents. “Zephyrus is due to return on the Day of Harvest.”
The Day of Harvest is two weeks away. I’d hoped for an earlier reunion, but I can wait. With a gracious thank you, Orla and I exit the shop and descend the stairs to the road below.
Before we entered the shop, the main thoroughfare had been almost empty. Now, the area is crammed wall to wall, bursting with people. The back of my neck pricks as many eyes track my movement. My hood shields my face, but I suppose word has spread of my arrival. I step quickly, hastening toward the forest as the bodies press in.
“Orla.” I reach for her hand. “Something doesn’t feel right.”
“We’re almost to the end of the road.” She tugs her hood further over her hair, keeping her head down. She senses it too.
Someone jostles me from behind. I push forward, dragging Orla by strength alone. I’ve felt like prey far too many times in life to ignore the signs.
When a man snags my elbow, I plant my hands on his chest and shove him back. “Keep your distance,” I snarl. He sneers, then spits at my feet before the horde swallows him.
I press forward. Ahead, the crowd parts long enough to reveal the tree line. Nearly there.
“… king’s wife…”
Orla knocks against me. My fingers tighten around hers in silent comfort. I imagine many of those sentenced to Neumovos believe themselves to have been judged unfairly by the Frost King. And I am the king’s wife, mortal and powerless.
The only opening in the crowd, the one revealing our means of escape, stitches up like a seam. As though the townsfolk share one mind, they halt in the middle of the road and turn toward me.
All goes still for a heartbeat.
I’m squeezing Orla’s fingers so tightly I feel her bones creak. “My lady,” she whispers in horror.
The crowd surges, reaching claw-like hands toward me. I lash out, trying to pull free long enough to grab my dagger. “Down with her!” they cry. “Down with the queen!”
Orla’s hand slips from mine, and she vanishes, swallowed by the ravenous crowd.
“Stop!” A blow to my stomach punches a long, hissing breath from my lungs. “It’s not… what you think.”
