“It’s not important.”
“Another lie.”
Fine. He asked for it. “You could stand to compliment me just this once. I am yourwife, after all.”
He looks at me as if I’d suggested he strip naked. “Compliment?”
“Yes, compliment. You could say, ‘You look nice in that dress,’ or, ‘That color suits your skin tone.’?” I suppose a part of me yearns for kindness, even in the form of empty words.
Phaethon stamps its leg as the king finishes tightening the strap and straightens awkwardly. He looks painfully uncomfortable, which in turn makes me feel uncomfortable. Have I done something to offend him?
My cheeks warm from his lack of response. “Never mind.” Why do I even bother?
Despite his offer to help me into the saddle, I choose to mount myself. Once my skirts are situated, he settles behind me, his hips notched to mine, those muscled thighs compressing the outside of my legs. Every place we touch sears through my clothing. I feel as though I stand in the heart of a fire.
With a snap of the reins, we trot through the gates that boom shut at our backs. Then there is this: inked sky, white earth, blackened trees, the world.
My fur coat provides adequate warmth, though the Frost King’s body heat combats even the harshest chill. I lose track of how many trees we pass, each more skeletal than the last. I’m surprised we don’t make haste. The sooner we arrive, the sooner we can depart.
“Do your people celebrate Midwinter Eve?” he asks.
We’ve been traveling in silence for so long that the king’s voice startles me out of my half-doze. I tip sideways in the saddle, but he catches me around the waist. His arm rests heavily around my middle. It’s warm, so I let it be. “Sorry. What were you saying?”
“Your people, do they celebrate Midwinter Eve?”
“We do.” Gray and bleak are the days, but on this night there is fire, there is laughter, there is hope, dangerous and elusive. My earliestMidwinter memories involve my parents, blurred and faded as they are, and for that, I cherish them. “It is the day when—”
“—the veil between the mortal and immortal realms is at its thinnest.”
I frown in surprise. “Yes.” Overhead, a clear, star-dusted sky shimmers through the branched canopy. “How do you know that?”
Although I cannot see his expression, I sense his bemusement. “Our worlds may be different, but many of our beliefs overlap. Where I come from, we call it the Crossing.”
“Today is also when we appeal to the West Wind,” I say, “to bring abundance to our lands in the coming months.” To herald the arrival of spring.
The king broods in silence. Right. He abhors everything related to his brother.
“I’m surprised the people of Neumovos celebrate it,” I continue, desperate to press out the quiet, “considering it’s… well…”
“Something that celebrates my demise?”
“Yes,” I reply with an impertinent little grin, “though I was not going to put it so delicately.”
The Frost King snorts. His chin brushes the side of my head as he shifts in the saddle, tucking our hips closer. “They were alive once, too. They retain their beliefs, their methods of worship, even in death. Who am I to demand what they can and cannot believe?”
“How positively egalitarian of you.”
We continue in silence for a little longer, until Phaethon passes through the protective ring of rune-carved trees surrounding Neumovos. Tonight, the moon is but an icy crescent, a small vestige of light. From this distance, laughter reaches me, and music.
Taking the reins from the Frost King, I pull Phaethon to a halt and dismount smoothly, brushing the dirt from my skirts.
The king blinks down at me. “What are you doing?”
“We’ll walk from here. Otherwise, you’ll intimidate everyone by arriving on your fearsome darkwalker horse and ruin the celebrationbefore it’s even started.” I glance at Phaethon, and the spirit huffs as though irked. “No offense.”
The king looks as though I’ve asked him to cut off his arm. “They are not my equals.”
“They eat and sleep and dream and grieve, same as you.”
