“To get more snow to melt for the water barrel.”
He gave her a long, skeptical look but eventually pointed her towards the snow bank outside the door.
“Pack it tight,” he said. “The fuller you make it, the less trips you’ll need.”
She nodded like packing snow into a bucket was something she’d done a thousand times. In reality, she’d never touched snow that wasn’t decorating a winter party or being served as shaved ice at a summer gala.
The bucket filled easily enough. The snow was light and fluffy, deceptively simple to gather. She packed it down the way hesuggested, adding layer after layer until the bucket was nearly overflowing with white.
Then she tried to lift it.
Her arms trembled. Her shoulders screamed. The bucket rose perhaps six inches before the weight became too much and she set it down with a thump, breathing hard.
Pathetic,she thought.One bucket of snow.
She tried again. She got it almost to her waist before her grip failed and she dropped it entirely. Snow scattered across the ground, half her work undone in an instant. She stared at the mess, chest heaving, as something dangerously close to tears prickled behind her eyes.
Stop it. Stop feeling sorry for yourself.
She repacked the bucket with snow and tried a different approach. This time she dragged the bucket with both hands gripping the handle, and her feet sliding on the icy ground as she hauled it towards the door one painful inch at a time. She was perhaps halfway there when her boot hit a patch of ice and her feet went out from under her.
The impact drove the breath from her lungs. She lay on her back in the snow, staring at the grey sky, the bucket overturned beside her, and wondered if it was possible to die of humiliation.
“Taking a rest?”
She turned her head to find Rykan leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
“I fell.”
“I noticed.”
He took a half step towards her, and she waited for him to help her up. But then he settled back against the doorframe.
Fine.She’d do it herself.
Getting upright was its own battle. Her muscles had gone watery, her hands numb from the cold, and her back aching from the fall. But she managed eventually, swaying slightly as she found her feet.
The bucket lay on its side, mocking her. Empty again.
“Inside,” he ordered. “Before you freeze.”
“The bucket?—”
“I’ll get it.”
“I can?—”
“Inside.”
His tone brooked no argument. She wanted to argue anyway and insist that she could finish what she’d started, but her body was shaking and her teeth were chattering and the warmth bleeding from the open doorway was too tempting to resist.
She stumbled past him into the cabin and collapsed onto the bench by the fire, feeling small and useless and utterly defeated.
“You don’t need to strain yourself, little spark.”
Her father’s voice echoed in her memory, gentle and worried and so familiar it made her chest ache. He’d called herlittle sparksince she was a child. Since she’d been born too small, too fragile, and too likely to flicker out before she’d truly begun to burn.
“Let someone else do that. You’re too delicate.”
