I have heard it all before. Still, I shuffle forward on leaden feet. “Tell me what to do. Tell me how to make amends.”
The Frost King considers me, unruffled and unmoved. “Kneel.”
My lips pinch. “Excuse me?”
“You ask for my forgiveness? Kneel. Demonstrate your remorse.”
I look to Elora. Strands of her hair dangle from the king’s gloved hand, like fragments of a torn spider web.
“Wren,” Elora whispers, tears wetting her cheeks.
Her plea causes an instantaneous reaction in me. The Frost King orders me to kneel, so I do. My knees hit the floor. Rage ignites my skin to a dull, spreading flush, warming me from belly to face. For Elora. No one else.
For a time, all is quiet. Then: “Go,” he snarls, shoving Elora toward the door, “and prepare your sister for the journey. We depart within the hour.”
We flee as if the gods themselves have lit a fire beneath our heels. A storm has rolled in, squatting over Edgewood as though in punishment.
Once inside our cottage, I drag Elora toward the fire, my fingers digging into her frozen flesh hard enough to bruise. “Elora.” I give her a shake. Shock has whitened her lips. “Look at me.” When there is no change in her expression, I slap her across the cheek.
“Wren.” Shock gives way to confusion and, lastly, horror. It’s terrible to watch.
Elora’s dark eyes stare straight through me. They are like shuttered windows, no flame to light them. Gently, I lower her onto a chair and grab the blanket, draping it across her shoulders.
Deep in my heart, I knew this would come to pass. Elora failed to contemplate the worst possible outcome, but I had considered every alternative. If the Frost King arrived and chose my sister as his captive, what would I do?
Anything. I would do anything.
I boil water and pull dried lavender from our pantry along with a fine powder called maniwort. Once the water boils, I steep the herb and open the jar of powder. A small dose will send someone to sleep for an hour, a large dose, half the day.
A large spoonful it is.
Whatever horrors await in the Deadlands, Elora will not witness them. She dreams of marrying a man she loves, tending a home, raising children. To snatch that opportunity would surely kill her.
But me? No one will care if I’m gone. Perhaps it’s better for everyone if I take her place. Elora, free of her sister’s addiction, of the woman whose days are marked by that sweet haze, whose breath is never clean, and whose usefulness seems to wane each passing year.
“Drink.” I place the mug in her trembling hands.
She takes a small sip, wrinkles her nose, and downs the rest. Beyond the cottage walls, the wind moans, thumping against the roof. There is not much time to set things right, but there is enough.
“I don’t want to go, Wren.” She shakes so severely the mug slips from her grip and shatters at her feet. “I should have listened to you. I’m so sorry.” Her face folds. “It’s too late now. It’s too late.”
My own eyes flood with a hot, stinging sensation. It’s been years since I’ve cried. Not since our parents passed. I grip her hand tightly in mine. Her skin is like ice.
She stares straight ahead, tears clinging to her eyelashes. “Did you see him? He was so callous at that dinner. His eyes were like… like pits.” Another sniffle. “He didn’t even thank Miss Millie for the food.” She sounds appalled.
“Horrible dinner guest,” I agree.
“I can’t believe you stabbed him.”
“The man is an absolute prick. He deserved it.”
Elora snorts, her eyelids beginning to droop. “You always were far more reckless than I.”
That stings. Maybe my actions were reckless, but it was only to protect her.
Clear fluid drips from her nose. Kneeling in front of her, I use an old cloth to wipe her face, as I did when we were children. In a hoarse voice, she whispers, “What’s going to happen to me?”
I do not want to lie to her, but I cannot reveal my intention. Elora must live, and live freely. “Nothing will happen to you,” I soothe as her chin dips toward her chest. “I swear it.”
