They lean casually against the railings, their blond hair falling over their unadorned white mask. “You go ahead. I’m more than happy to cheer you on from the sidelines.”
Astrid pats them on the back and heads for the kiosk where an elderly woman, eyes crinkled with delight, is handing out boots and mittens. Astrid gives her shoe size and is handed a pair of gleaming skates in exchange for her own silver slippers. She tugs them on, then glides onto the ice, a hoot ringing out from Fionn as she does so. She bobs a curtsy before racing across the ice, reveling in the sensation ofthe biting wind on her face. She holds her arms out and laughs, wondering how they’ve created this world of winter.
It’s more than Blooded magic, she knows, because she can hear the generators at the edge of the rink. The amount of Vitalas they must be using to power this place, this whole ball, it’ll be astronomical. Which doesn’t add up with what she read in the baroness’s note. If there’s something wrong with the Heart, then how is it still yielding Vitalas? Unless whatever’s wrong with it only impacts its ambient magic.
She slows as reality presses in once more. Perhaps she’ll have another moonflower. Allow herself to forget for one night. She seeks out Fionn, but instead her gaze clashes with the prince’s standing next to them; and she stumbles as one skate catches on the other. The ice rushes up to meet her, but before she can hit the deck, a current skitters over her skin and a pair of arms wrap around her.
“You falling for me, Dimples?” Zryan looks down at her, that quirk playing around his full lips.
Astrid huffs and hopes he doesn’t notice the way her breath catches. “Stars above, your lines get worse.” She shuffles out of his grip and gets back to her feet. “At least you caught me this time before I knocked myself out.”
“I’ll take that as a thank-you,” he says. “And you’re welcome.”
She elbows him in the arm, then skates off, leaving him standing amid his flailing countrymen, exiting the rink and changing back into her slippers. She makes her way to Fionn, only to find Zryan there waiting for her.
“Why do you keep running from me this evening?”
Fionn raises their brows at the prince, then at Astrid.
“Why are you following me?” she retorts. She waves over one of the waiters and grabs a glass of water, gulps it down. “Apparently, you’re unable to take a hint.”
Zryan slaps a hand to his heart, drawing attention to his glorious chest. “You wound me, Astrid.”
A shiver runs through her. Her name is so beautiful on his tongue; she could listen to him say it all day.
“Fionn, is it?” Zryan turns to them, switching to Arturean. “Would you give us a moment?”
Fionn looks as if Zryan just spat on their familiar and turns to Astrid with awho the fuck does this guy think he islook on their face, but Astrid smiles at them. “It’s okay. I’m safe with him.”
“On my life, no harm will ever come to her when she’s in my care,” Zryan assures Fionn. On the one hand, him describing Astrid as being “in his care” makes her want to peel the skin from his bones, but on the other, swearing on his own life to protect her makes her want to peel the clothes from his skin. Not that he’s wearing any.
“Honestly, I’ll be fine. I’ll come find you soon.”
Fionn levels a withering look at her. “There’ll be no need to find me: I’m not letting you out of my sight. I’ll wait right over there.” They point to another ice sculpture, this one of a silver-bellied bear.
“Sure you will.” Zryan flashes a grin at them, then snatches Astrid’s hand and Teleports. The last thing she sees is Fionn lunging for her as she folds into nothing.
They land in snow and Astrid gasps, fighting the usual dizziness that comes with Teleporting.
“Can you stop doing that! Ever thought of asking me first?”
“But I so love to hear you scream.” He steadies her. Astrid hates the blush she can feel blooming, and by the grin spreading across his face, she knows he’s noticed. “And it’s not as if you couldn’t stop me.”
She shoves him off, and she’s about to ask what the Hel he’s talking about when the smell hits her. Woodsmoke and nutmeg and cedar. And she understands, then, where they are.
The forest in Isfjell.
She can’t believe it. She turns to Zryan and for once his face is soft. “You did this?”
“With Jessa’s help.”
Astrid almost chokes. “Words I never thought I’d hear coming out of your mouth.”
“She was a little hostile at first”—a smile tugs at his lips—“but when I told her what I wanted, she agreed to give me some details to help. I asked the Illusionists and other Blooded working on this section if they could create Isfjell, with the help of some of your witches, of course, and to keep it secret so only those who know where to look can find it.”
“And who knows where to look?”
“Just me,” he says. “And now you.”
