Then I hear it again, clear as glass, floating in from the balcony.
My name.
I throw back the heavy blankets, warmth from the hearth brushing over my skin. My nightgown is thin and sheer, clinging to one shoulder while the other lies bare. The fabric trails behind me as I rise, whispering against my legs with each step. My braid hangs loose and frayed down my back, strands of red catching the firelight and glowing as though they belong to the flames themselves.
I cross the room slowly, my toes curling into the thick, plush rug. Half-asleep, I rub my eyes, the world swimming in soft edges and shadows. Then I reach the balcony, fingers brushing aside the billowing, pearlescent curtains.
The cold hits me like a slap.
Whatever magic warms this chamber stops at the threshold. My skin chills instantly, goosebumps rising as I wrap my arms around myself and step onto the balcony.
Again, I hear it. My name.
Carried on the wind. Threaded through the falling snow. A whisper so soft it should vanish into the night, yet it fills my mind completely.
I move withoutthinking. My fingers touch the balcony rail, frost nibbling at the tips.
The sound comes from the lake. I know it. I feel it. A pull rolling across the frozen surface, curling toward me like a beckoning hand.
Neve. Neve. Come to me, Neve.
I take another step, and the railing stops me.
I gasp, jolting back to myself. What am I doing? I do not remember crossing the balcony. I do not remember leaning forward, as if I meant to climb or fall or obey the voice.
A chill deeper than the night settles over me.
What magic is this?
The whisper fades. The pull loosens. The presence recedes like a shadow slipping beneath the ice.
I turn to retreat inside, but movement in the garden below halts me.
Luceran.
His chest is bare beneath the fur coat, runes blazing bright blue across his pale skin. Ivory hair streams behind him like a banner as he stands motionless, his gaze fixed on the lake. He is no longer singing, no longer wandering the rose rows as he did before.
He watches.He waits.For what, I cannot imagine.
And I am not about to linger and find out.
I tiptoe back inside, wincing at every tiny creak. The moment I reach the bed, I leap into it, burrowing beneath the covers, curling tight. My breath comes fast, too loud, and I slap my hand over my mouth.
I do not want him to know I saw him.I do not want him to come to my room again.And though curiosity presses hard against my ribs, why he haunts the garden each night, why my name echoes through the valley in the dark, I will not dare ask.
This is no longer just a bargain.It is survival.
And right now, the only thing I care about is staying alive.
6
Iwake at dawn to a room still warm from the embers in the hearth. My sleep was thin, restless, broken by dreams I refuse to remember. But morning means work, and work means survival.
I dress quickly, pulling on thick, thigh-high tights and two scarves today, wrapping them snugly around my throat. My woolen gloves go on next, clumsy but warm. Only when I feel sufficiently layered against the rest of this cursed castle do I slip out into the corridor and make my way to the galley.
To my surprise, the place is better stocked than I expected.
Shelves overflow with jars and dried goods. Three different types of flour. Spices I have only ever read about. In the cellar below, I find pork and beef hanging in the cool air, preserved perfectly, though the icebox itself is pointless in this place. Everything stays cold whether stored or not.
