I looked over my shoulder, and that’s when I saw the eyes peering through the snow.
A roar cut through the din of the storm like a blast, flinging me back.
I sank like a blade in butter through the snow. Down, down, down I went, the snow surrounding me, swallowing me.
And above me, snow and wind and ice...and those eyes.
This dream visited me often, an unwanted guest, outstaying its welcome each time, every time. Always the wink of sleek skin through snow. Always prismatic eyes, deep and dark as coal.
Always the storm.
Always coming for me.
18
Where It Ends
The final day
There was nothing to herald the day as anythingdifferent from the score that came before.
At the onset, it dawned cold and damp. I burrowed beneath the covers of my bed, lingering until I finally emerged to face another day of training alongside those who couldn’t see me, to hunt alone, the sound of my voice my only companion.
My father was already up and dressed for work in the smithy when I surfaced from my room. He absently bit into a crusty loaf of bread with a crunch, standing at the kitchen window, staring outside, where fresh snow fell in a light spray. He didn’t bother to butter or lather his bread with jam even though butter and jam sat in our larder. The widowed Mrs. Jameson brought him her famous raspberry jam at least every fortnight, the invitation bright in her gaze...letting him know he was welcome to more than her delicious jam. Da was oblivious to the enticement. Or he simply didn’t care.
Eating was an afterthought for him. He consumed just enough to survive. Long gone were the days when he sat at the table and broke his fast as we had all done together, family gathered, our voices overlapping as we shared our plans for the day.
At the end of the day he ate his stew or porridge straight from the pot out of the serving ladle. Fewer dishes. Less work. He was everindustrious with his time. I couldn’t blame him for such rudimentary living. He was alone, after all. Or at least he thought he was.
He hadn’t had a haircut in years. Not since Meya forced him to sit for a trim. He tied the gray-streaked black strands back with a leather strip. Nor did he bother with shaving. His beard was bushy and long and in dire need of a good brushing.
He wasn’t taking care of himself, but there was no one here to hold him accountable. I worried what the future held for him. Who would look after him in his dotage?
I knew from Henrik’s single visit years ago and his subsequent letters that he wanted Da to come live with them in the Borg. His family was thriving there now. As the most fortified city in the Borderlands, it was the safest place to be whilst Penterra waged war with itself. To say nothing of all the other dangers. Bandits within our borders. Raiders from the Crags. Pirates from the coast. Invading soldiers from Veturland. The threats were as ceaseless as the tides.
Nothing in Da’s deeds or words indicated that he was even considering picking up and moving to the Borg, and I couldn’t understand what was keeping him here. All his family was gone. As far as he knew,Iwas gone.
My gaze tracked him as he draped his thick fur cloak over his sharp, jutting shoulders and wrapped a wool scarf over his head and mouth several times in a practiced move before stomping out into the cold and making his way to the smithy.
I lingered a moment, contemplating the day ahead. Eventually, after I trained with the guard, I would end up in the woods. It was how I ended every day, but first, I decided I would call on Maretta.
I found her rocking leisurely in her chair, knitting needles working in a frenzy even though the old woman moved slower and slower these days. Her body did not possess the fleetness of her fingers.
Finally, at a hundred and eighteen, she took less to her feet, staying home more often and emerging less and less. As expected, I supposed. I’d never heard of a human living so long, which onlyseemed to corroborate that she had some witch blood in her, some vein of magic buried deep below, sustaining her.
People still came to see her for her many remedies and treatments. The need for her services was ever-present. The villagers took care of her, providing everything she needed.
I helped myself to the basket on the table that someone had brought her. It was overflowing with baked goods. I bit into a fluffy biscuit with a murmur of appreciation, enjoying the sound of Maretta’s clacking needles.
It was a market day, so after visiting with Maretta, I took myself to High Street and browsed the bounty of wares there, pausing when I spotted Isak’s mother, looking stern and cheerless as she haggled with the fishmonger.
I’d never seen her smile again after Ulrika’s funeral. Not that I felt much compassion for her after the way she treated my friend. She could have handled things differently. She did not even attend Linnea’s funeral, and the slight still stung when I saw her now.
Isak had left a few years ago for the bigger seaside town of Porthavn to the southeast. I was glad for the children...and Isak. They got away from here, from his wretched mother who would never honor Linnea’s memory, from this place where so much tragedy would always haunt them.
They would have a better life in Porthavn. A fresh start. This town was cursed. Over time I had convinced myself it was not only me, but also Isstad.
I turned away from the unsmiling woman and browsed a little longer, lunching on some roasted nuts and dried fruit as I went, knowing I stole nothing. That was something at least. Thanks to magic, I would never deplete anyone’s meager food stores.
