“But I cannot die.”
“Not by mortal means, no.”
His gaze sharpens on mine. Have I given too much away? “Just for tonight,” I snap in exasperation, “can you pretend we are not the vermin you make us out to be?”
“I do not think you are vermin.”
“Then what do you think?”
He does not respond as he dismounts and nudges the beast to wander. I’ve always believed his aloofness stemmed from stubbornness, a purposeful choice. Now I wonder if I’ve been wrong and he’s unused to people asking his opinion. Maybe he doesn’t know how to communicate his thoughts.
If he refuses to respond, I have no obligation to stay. Without a backwards glance, I march toward the torch-lined square, in desperate need of a drink, and possibly cake, but only if the boning of this strangulating corset will allow me to ingest anything. The Frost King follows at my heels. If I didn’t know better, I’d guess that large crowds make him uneasy.
As soon as we’re spotted, the jovial atmosphere dissipates like smoke on the wind.
Suspicion, wariness, mistrust—all potent and thick in the air. There must be a few hundred people present. The women wear long dresses and boots, the men stitched coats and trousers, forms blurred in the flickering light. Young children cling to their mothers’ skirts.
The Frost King crowds against my side. “Say something,” he mutters.
I consider the request for less than a heartbeat. “No, I don’t think I will.” I pat his arm with absolutely no sympathy. “Good luck.”
He stands stiff as a pole. Oh, how I love the taste of petty revenge.
“People of Neumovos,” he says, far more somberly than anyone should speak at a celebration. “Where I come from, Midwinter Evemarks the day my brothers and I allied with the new gods to overthrow our ancestors, who rained flame upon us all. It is a night of dissent, a night of betrayal, a night of death.”
My teeth grind together as a murmur disperses through the crowd. He’s scaring them. Sadly, he isn’t doing it on purpose, he’s just completely clueless as to his effect on others.
“Is this a celebration,” I hiss, grabbing his arm, “or a funeral?” Behind me, the audience shifts, plainly uncomfortable with all this talk of death. “I’ll finish this. And put that away,” I snap, gesturing to the spear.
He seems more grateful than irritated. The weapon vanishes as I call out, “I will keep this brief, as I know you’re eager to return to the festivities. First, my husband and I”—I don’t even choke on the term—“thank you for inviting us to share this evening with you. It is my hope that tonight marks the start of a new partnership between us.”
The Frost King utters an oath under his breath. I ignore him.
“Eat, drink, and be merry.” I raise my arms and cry, “Happy Midwinter Eve!”
The crowd echoes, “Happy Midwinter Eve!”
The tension breaks, the drumming begins, and all is jubilant. The townsfolk congregate in the center of the square, their semi-transparent bodies beginning to sway. Someone whoops, and it’s as though lightning strikes, sparking currents of energy through the shifting mass.
I spot the ceremonial fire almost immediately. At some point this evening, people will begin leaping over the flames, symbolizing the cold season’s end. Strange, to watch the same people who attempted to kill me give themselves over to joy, hope for the future. I hold no resentment toward them, there is only understanding and a vague sadness in my heart. Boreas observes the festivities with an expression bordering on loathing, though he always appears repulsed, so I can’t say there’s a difference.
With his attention focused on the dancers, I move to the opposite side of the square where the musicians gather. In addition to the drums there is a violin that warbles slightly flat, a flute carved from wood, and another stringed instrument that produces an obnoxious twang when plucked.
Despite attempting to engage a group of specters nearby, they turn from me, and the pleasure dims, a familiar dryness tightening my throat. I am here, but I am not truly part of their world. I am Wren of Edgewood, a mortal woman and the North Wind’s bride, someone who does not belong.
Where is the wine?
After a bit of meandering, I discover a man wearing a particularly endearing top hat filling cups of wine from a barrel. I accept a drink with thanks and stumble across a small gathering surrounding an older man holding a bow. Its deep curves and mesmerizing length showcase the full range of carving expertise. “It’s a lovely bow,” I say. “Do you hunt?”
The man glances over my shoulder. Searching for the Frost King, I assume. “Not for many years now,” he replies warily.
“May I?”
The man hesitates, his hands shaking with nerves. “Of course.” Once I set down my wine, he passes me the bow. It’s practically weightless, yet the wood is strong and supple, as it should be.
“You hunt, my lady?”
“I do.”
