“Fine.” Without the Frost King’s approval, I am barred from crossing the Shade into the Gray. And I need this. Like air.
He opens the stall and walks Phaethon into the open. I never noticed before, but the beast’s coal-dark coat is the exact shade of the king’s hair. “You will return by sundown.”
“I am spending the night.”
He opens his mouth to reply, but my hand flies up, cutting him off. “I stay the night,” I repeat, leaving no room for negotiation. “I haven’tseen my sister in months. I will return tomorrow morning.” Damn his controlling tendencies.
Boreas appears prepared to argue. However—“Tomorrow morning,” he relents.
He lifts me into the saddle, though I’m more than capable of mounting myself. He has already warned me of the consequences, should I overstay my welcome: Edgewood’s blood to feed the Shade. It’s a threat I take seriously.
Once the king leads Phaethon to the gates, he passes me the reins. “Tomorrow morning,” he repeats, gaze boring into mine.
I nod. “You have my word.”
The gate lurches into motion. As soon as the opening is wide enough, I dig my heels into the darkwalker’s sides.
We spring forward into wind and cold. As I push the creature harder, he rises to meet my challenge, tossing his head and weaving through the woodland, leaping over fallen trees and glinting creeks. Miles and miles into the deep stillness we go. When the river comes into view, I slow the beast to a walk, then dismount at the bank.
The boat is frozen where it was when I first arrived. Upon closer inspection, however, I notice hairline cracks interrupt the river’s unbroken flow, and in some places, murky patches mar the ice, signaling weaker areas that have begun to melt.
“You don’t have to wait for me,” I tell Phaethon.
His cavernous eyes lock onto mine. Then he tosses his head and vanishes into the trees.
Once I clamber into the vessel and settle on the bench, the ice melts and Mnemenos carries me downstream.
The journey takes the day. White foam froths over smooth stones, and water beats the curved hull as Mnemenos transforms into the Les. Ahead, the Shade looms, sliding coolly over my skin as I pass through. When I open my eyes, I have returned home at last.
As if guided by the Frost King’s power, the boat deposits me at a bend in the river, which freezes solid as soon as I disembark. With darkness approaching, I make haste. It feels as though my entire bodyleans forward, straining toward what awaits beyond the trees, and soon I’m running, crashing through dead brush, crossing the low stone wall enveloping the town.
Our cottage comes into view, perched atop its little knoll. “Elora!” I’m so overcome with glee I do not immediately notice the signs. “Elora, I’m home!”
Deep snow obstructs the walkway leading to the front door. Hand on the knob, I stumble across the threshold, expecting a robust fire, my sister’s sweet face as she knits one of her beloved woolen hats.
Instead, there is this: a vacant space, a cold hearth, and an overturned chair.
I move farther inside without bothering to shut the door. Dust tinges the air, as though the house has been locked up for many months.
“Elora?” Another tentative step on the creaking floorboards. My alarm grows as I move toward the bed. Bare mattress, no blankets. I pull open the bureau drawers: empty. The kitchen pantry: empty. The extra stores: empty.
I am no stranger to death; it has cloaked Edgewood for most of my life. A home only sits empty when there is no longer someone to occupy the space.
My legs weaken, knees slamming against the floor. Something snaps inside me, a clean, quiet break. Elora is my heart and my joy. She cannot be gone.
How long has it been? The elk meat I left should have lasted months. She would not have starved. Is it possible someone stole from her? It doesn’t happen often, but as the years pass, desperation grows. With no food and no means to hunt, she would have wasted away slowly.
“Wren?”
Dazed, I turn. Miss Millie stands in the doorway, her furred hood encrusted with ice. A haggard face, bones protruding beneath watery eyes. It’s as though I’ve been gone years, not months. She is thinner. A ghost.
“How long?” I whisper brokenly. “How long has she been gone?”
“Gone?” Miss Millie stares at me in bewilderment. “Elora isn’t gone. She’s married now. She and her husband live across town.”
“Married?” Which means… “She’s alive?”
“Of course she’s alive.” Cautiously, Miss Millie hobbles toward me. “We did not expect you to return. It’s wonderful to see you, Wren.” She smiles, but it is the kind of smile you offer out of politeness, nothing more. She doesn’t trust me. I was taken as the North Wind’s sacrifice, yet here I am, very much alive.
