Father shrugs. “Just started walking. Straight into the snow.”
I stare at the white horizon, my thoughts spinning, my chest tightening.
Without a word. Without waking me. Without saying goodbye.
On foot, into the snow. That was how badly he needed distance from me.
I drop my foot from the fence and stand there, cold seeping through my boots, anger curling low in my belly.
Infuriating male.
But he will not consume my thoughts. Not today.
So I turn my back on the empty road, on the barn, on the unanswered questions that cling to me like frost, and I go to my father instead.
We spend the morning in the field together. I take the shovel from his hands more often than he likes, and he complains loudly each time, though he never stops me. I clear the snow from the plantings and show him what I learned in the agriculture section of the Frostwyn library, how to bank the earth so the roots will survive the worst of winter. He watches closely, nodding along.
Inside, I reorganize his pantry. I replace what’s gone stale, label jars, and tuck away the dried meats and bread I brought from Castle Frostwyn. Then I lay out the herbs and vials from my satchel and teach him how to brew the tonic if he ever runs low. How long to steep it, how much to take, what not to mix.
“This one,” I tell him, pressing a small bottle into his hand, “for when your chest tightens. Don’t wait until it’s unbearable.”
He grumbles, of course, insists he has managed just fine without Fae remedies or fancy bottles. But when I level him with a stern look, he closes his fingers around the bottle, leans in to kiss my cheek, and murmurs his thanks.
We make lunch together and eat it on the porch, sharing a blanket pulled tight around our shoulders as snow drifts lazily through the air. Later, we play cards at the table with the same battered deck we have owned since I was a girl. He cheats. Badly. I let him win anyway.
When the light begins to fade, I find myself at the window once more, watching the moon rise over the fields.
“Don’t go,” my father says behind me.
I turn, surprised by the weight in his voice.
“Don’t go back,” he continues, his hand gripping my shoulder. “We can run.”
I frown. “Run? I doubt I could even get a jog out of you.”
He huffs, offended, and I wrap my arms around him, pressing my cheek to his shoulder.
“I can’t run from this,” I say softly. “I have to finish it. Then we can truly be free.”
He nods, but I see it in his eyes. He knows the truth as well as I do.
I don’t justhaveto return.
I want to.
And that is the part that frightens me most.
When I am ready, I step onto the porch. I hold Father far longer than I should as the snowfall thickens, flakes clinging to our coats, the cold biting deeper with every passing minute. When I finally pull away, my chest aches.
The sprites lower the step to the carriage, shivering as they do, their wings dulled by the sharp cold. Even they feel it tonight.
I climb inside and turn back to the window, lifting a hand as the carriage pulls away. Father stands in the doorway, his figure growing smaller until the farm itself fades into the white.
I press my hand to the glass, breath fogging it, heart heavier than when I arrived.
The hours pass, the carriage rolling on as the night closes in.
It is so dark.
