Followed by Fros(6)

I pressed a hand to my mouth and sobbed. A single tear escaped the corner of my eye, but even that held no warmth. Trailing down my cheek, it slowed and hardened, becoming a droplet of salty ice. No. This wasn’t real. None of it was. A dream. A nightmare. I had to wake up.

I ran.

Forcing my rigid legs over tree roots, I ran through the willow-wacks and into my yard, where soft snow settled lazily on rooftop and road alike. My father and mother stood on the front porch, marveling at the swift storm, pointing to the rigid line in the sky where the snow clouds met clear blue—beyond the borders of Euwan but before the ground rose to meet the mountains.

“Pa!” I shouted, running toward him. “Pa!”

He turned and saw me with startled eyes. “Smitha! What on earth happened to you?”

Mother ran out to meet me. She looked at me in blanched horror. “You look frozen half to death! What—”

She reached forward to cradle my face, but her words cut off as soon as her skin made contact with mine. Her hand snapped back on reflex, her palm covered in frost. Both of us stared at it, gaping.

Father ran out to join us. “What’s going on?” he asked, taking my mother’s hand. He reached for mine as well, but the moment our fingers touched, he hissed and jerked away, his fingertips frozen to the first knuckle.

I pressed both my palms to my lips and sobbed, the chilling tears flowing freely now, turning hard on my cheeks and sticking to my eyelashes. Father sucked on his fingertips to warm them, his face flushed red.

“What happened?” he demanded, snow melting in the curls of his dark hair.

“Mordan!” I cried, shuddering, shivering. My voice came out in a cloud, too slow to dissipate. “He did this to me . . . He’s one of them! A wizard!”

My father reeled back as though struck, his eyes wide and red-rimmed. Mother swayed on her feet, her slender fingers touching her parted lips.

Shaking his head, my father muttered, “They’re . . . real? And . . . Mordan?”

“God save us,” my mother whispered.

Two slow heartbeats, and my father flew back into the house, throwing the door open as he went. It banged loudly against the wall behind it.

My mother had paled significantly, and with stiff movements guided me into the house, careful not to touch me again. Marrine, who had been standing by the window, ogled me.

I screamed again, clawing at my hair. Why was this happening to me? Why not Ashlen or some other girl in the town? I glared at my scrambling family and wailed. Why not them?

Father returned to the front room with his shotgun.

“Chard, no!” Mother cried.

But Father said nothing, only shook his head and rushed outside, not bothering to close the door behind him.

Mother’s lips pursed to a point. “Marrine, stoke the fire! Quickly!” Then, to me, “I’ll make you some tea, hmm? That will warm you right up.”

Even I could hear the doubt in her voice, but she darted into the kitchen to busy herself.

“You look dead,” Marrine whispered, rubbing her hands together. She shivered from the cold and quickly went to the hearth to build the fire. Or, perhaps, to get away from me.

Sobbing, I ran to my room and slammed the door, the knob frosting beneath my touch. Grabbing either end of my dresser, I stared into the mirror and screamed once more, the sound ripping painfully through my frozen throat.

My skin had gone pallid, and purple rings lined my eyes. My lips had turned nearly blue, and my hair, at the roots, had changed to a grandmotherly white. My sister was right; I looked like a corpse.

Another icy tear dropped from my chin and shattered against the floorboards.



My mother boiled water over the fire and made me a large cup of tea. I grasped it and drank deep, but the tea ran cold down my throat. I swallowed only twice before it froze within its cup. I sat by the fire, closer, closer, until I dared to thrust my frigid hands into the embers. Even with my hands among the flames, I could not feel the slightest sensation of warmth; the red-hot coals hissed from the chill. When I removed my hands, my skin remained pale and stiff and as glacial as it had been before.

My mother began crying in the kitchen, as though the torment were hers and not mine. Marrine merely watched me the way one watches a circus performer, her lips parted, her gaze unblinking. I stayed by the hearth, watching the angry flames dance. This cold was potent enough to have killed the strongest of men. An hour passed, and then two. I trembled with bitterness, my heart beating slow, lethargic beats within my wintry chest. Marrine stared out the window at the swirling storm, occasionally passing a glance my way. Only when I glared and threw a coal at her did she skitter back into the kitchen.

My father returned hours later, almost blue in the lips himself, his clothes wet from the snow. “He’s gone,” he said between panting breaths. “Mordan is gone, his house ransacked. There’s no sign of him. I have men searching, but . . .” He shook his head, eyes watery.

I stared at him, the words striking me like a hammer to a nail, each syllable piercing down to my frozen core. No Mordan. No hope of being restored.

Balling my hands into fists, I slammed them into the hearth’s coals.

“I hate you!” I screamed, tears freezing in the corners of my eyes, blurring my vision. I lifted my hands and smashed them into the coals again, sending embers and charcoal flying all around me. “I hate you, Mordan! Damn you! I hate you!” Ashy smoke assaulted my face, and I coughed and gasped for air, pounding the heatless fire until the heavy soot forced me back.