Someone passes me an arrow and gestures to the target hanging from a nearby tree. The swaying bull’s-eye glares at me. There has never been a mark I couldn’t hit; not for many seasons, at least. I want these people to understand I am on their side. I don’t want them to fear me because of my association with the king.
“Shall we have a bet?” I shout with sudden inspiration.
A great cry breaks over me. The men wave their fists and stamp their feet. The women join in, shoving aside their husbands and brothers and sons for a closer look.
“What’ll it be? Behind my back? One-handed?” I’ve done all those things and more. Following my parents’ deaths, I would practice in the clearing behind our cottage. Long hours standing in knee-deep snow, the bowstring blistering my fingers. Every painful failure pushed me closer to the perfect shot, another day with food in my stomach.
“Switch hands!” an old woman cries.
“Upside-down!” calls another.
I’m laughing. For the first time in many months, I feel free. “Tell me, and I will do it!”
“Eyes closed.”
My head snaps sideways at the low command, even as my pulse escalates. No sign of him. Did my addled mind imagine his voice? Then the crowd parts and the Frost King materializes at my side as though having peeled away from the shadows.
“Unless,” he whispers for my ears alone, “that lies beyond your capabilities?”
My blood sings, catching fire in my veins. This must be how a god feels, I think, knowing he cannot fail.
I take in the immortal who is my husband. He searches my face, seeking what, I cannot say. Every so often, the wind tosses his pine-sharp scent to me. I step closer, toe to toe, and he emits a soft sound of surprise.
“You’re in my way,” I tell him.
His lips thin. With a brief nod, he steps aside, allowing me a view of the target, though I’m continually aware of his presence at my back. I focus on my task: eyes closed. I’ve never attempted it before, but I’m ready. My heart slows, eyelids fluttering shut.
Drawing back the arrow, I sink into pure sensation. Wind gusts from the west, strong enough to push my arrow further east. I compensate by angling slightly to the left. There is the bow, cool wood beneath my hand. There is the arrow, its carved stone head, and the goose-feather fletching. There is the target somewhere beyond sight. And me. There is me.
Exhale and—release.
A cheer splits the quiet.
I’m smiling as I open my eyes. The arrow quivers in the center of the target.
“Well?” I quip, turning toward the king. “Speak.” If he is to inform me of my shortcomings, I will have words with him.
“You’re a decent shot,” he admits as the crowd disperses.
I return the bow to its owner with heartfelt thanks, then pick up my wine. “And that surprises you.”
“It may have, once.”
“But not anymore.”
“No.” His voice softens. “Not anymore.”
The tension radiating from the Frost King’s body feels palpable. A taste in my mouth. Breath on my face. A long, unbroken stretch of time passes, during which I focus on the dancing couples. At some point, Boreas speaks, but I’m too distracted to hear what it is he says. “Sorry?”
“I asked if you would like a glass of water?”
I squint down at my glass of wine—empty now. The king glares at me as though this awkward exchange is my fault.
“Yes,” I say, slowly and with curiosity. “I would like another drink. Not water though. Wine.” Then I add, because it seems like the right thing to say, “Thank you.”
His expression hardens, yet he moves off to search for drinks while I retreat to the edge of the square to observe the celebration from a distance. The low, sonorous drumbeat thuds through the soles of my boots. A push and a pull. A quickening tempo. The townsfolk, their ghostly forms, gyrate and shimmy around the square.
But one cloaked figure moves separately from the rest. Something about the fluid movement draws my eye. As the figure’s back is to me, I’m unable to see a face, but it is obviously a man, for he wears breeches and his back stretches the fabric of his cloak. I’m positive I’ve seen him before.
