“Thank you,” I murmur. My brow furrows. “I don’t even know your names.”
The sprite on my left coughs delicately, as if clearing its throat.
“Mink.”
I jerk in surprise just as the other tugs my earlobe sharply to get my attention.
“Fitz,” it says, the word shaped awkwardly but unmistakable.
“Mink and Fitz,” I repeat.
They nod again, satisfied.
“Alright then,” I whisper, giving the mare’s mane a gentle tug. “Let’s go home.”
But after everything, after all this time, the words don’t taste as sweet as I once imagined they would.
27
Iride through the night and into the thin gray of morning.
I stop at the Wayside, not for food or drink, but to scrub the blood from my hands and rinse the taste of vomit from my mouth after I’d keeled over on the road, retching until my ribs ached. I don’t linger. I avoid the forest, lengthening the journey on purpose, because I cannot bear shadows right now, or trees that remember too much.
Along the road, the stories have already taken root.
They pass from mouth to mouth like a virus, whispered first, then spoken louder, embroidered with every retelling. Castle Frostwyn. Slaughter. Cold blood. Once again, Lord Luceran Frostwyn has butchered his court. The Winter Beast, they call him. As if a name can carry the weight of a lie until it becomes truth.
I do not listen.I do not correct them.I do not give them details they are already too eager to invent.
I just keep going, toward the farm. Toward the only place left that might still be mine.
By the time we reach the gate, I am barely upright in the saddle. I’m half draped over the mare’s neck, lips cracked and burning, skin raw and flaking from cold and wind. My head swims. My limbs feel filled with lead.
Mink and Fitz zip ahead, darting through the front door.
I expect to hear my father’s voice shouting at the strange little creatures to get out of his house.
Instead, I hear a man I don’t recognize.
My spine goes rigid.
I force myself upright, vision sharpening as the world snaps into focus.
Two wagons stand in the yard.
Big, sturdy horses are hitched to them, steam curling from their flared nostrils. One wagon is already loaded down with our belongings. Our best chair, and the second-best beside it. The small table we eat at. Crates packed tight with kitchenware and items from my father’s room.
Then I look to the second wagon.
Strapped down at the back with thick rope is my mother’s wardrobe.
My breath leaves me in a soundless rush.
Mink and Fitz burst back out of the house shrieking with laughter as a man charges after them, broom raised high.
“Get out of here, you dirty little critters!” he bellows.
They zig and zag effortlessly, evading his clumsy swipes, and dart straight back to me.
