She asks into the silence, “Where is the Frost King?”
For whatever reason, her suspicion prods my irritation to life. “You need not worry. He’s not here. I was granted permission to visit.”
“He let you go?” Shocked.
“For a brief time, yes. Where is Elora?”
A hesitation.
“Miss Millie,” I repeat, iron in my voice. “Where is my sister?”
The woman caves. “Come.” She gestures outside. “I’ll take you to her.”
We arrive at a sturdy cottage nearest to the edge of the encroaching forest. Smoke puffs from the crooked chimney, and the smell of burning wood takes me back to childhood, curled against Elora near the fire, my stomach cramping from hunger, and exhaustion blanketing every sight and sound.
Miss Millie knocks. My pulse surges from an emotion that is not unlike fear.
The door opens, and there she is. Lovely, soft, safe. Even after months away, Elora still rivals the sun.
Shock fractures her expression. Her arms hang slack at her sides, but she stumbles forward a step, lifts her hand as if to touch me, as if she questions whether I am an apparition. “Wren?” The hoarse sound of my name given shape is the best thing I’ve heard in months.
My throat swells. It’s difficult to swallow. “Elora.” I enfold her in my arms, this thinner, fading version of myself. She’s so slight—too slight. A sob cracks the air, and I’m not sure who breaks first. We’re together, for however short a time. I tell myself it’s enough.
“I thought—” Elora pulls away, strands of hair hanging like strips of sodden wool around her face. Moonlight gleams against the dampness coating her cheeks. “I thought you—”
“I know.” I tuck a lock of hair behind her ear. “I did, too.”
Elora denies me her face, gazing out at the frozen landscape with a troubled expression. Miss Millie has made herself scarce. I’m not sure if I’d prefer her presence, for the air is changing, shaping itself around Elora’s thoughts. Like armor.
“Why?” she whispers.
One word, spoken as a curse. She stares me straight in the face. Elora, sweet Elora, never allows those harder emotions to weigh her down. But her eyes glint like a blade, and I find myself retreating a step, lest I prick myself on its point.
“Why am I here?” I ask. “I wanted to visit you—”
“You left me,” she snarls, and I flinch. One of her hands curls around the doorframe, her dirt-encrusted fingernails bitten down to the quick. “You… you drugged me and left and when I woke, you were gone. I thought you haddied. I thought—”
“Elora.”
“No!” She smacks her palm against the wood. I fall silent, my spine rigid. Elora never raises her voice. Never. And suddenly, I am someplace I have never been.
Yes, I lied. Yes, I drugged Elora without her consent. I understand bitterness, how it lodges as a knot in one’s throat. I take accountability for my misstep. But to be cast in this villainous light, to be marked as the cause of my sister’s pain, fury, and resentment, to have the sacrifice I made on her behalf disregarded… that I did not expect.
WhatdidI expect? For Elora to welcome me back into my old life. For her to have remained familiar, unchanged. The way she looks at me now, as though she does not know me… Every day, I have thought of her. I never stopped trying to return.
“I’m sorry for the pain I caused you,” I whisper. “I’d like to explain.”
“It’s a little late for that, Wren. You should have told me what youwere planning. Do you know how it felt waking to an empty house, learning my only sister had left with the Frost King as his sacrifice?”
“There was no time,” I say. “I did what I thought was best.”
“For whom?”
What sort of a question is that? “Foryou. Do you think I would have let him take you?” I manage, my molars clenching so hard my jaw twinges.
“You did not give me a choice.”
“You’re saying you would have preferred I did nothing? You’re saying you would have preferred sacrifice, torture?”
