Winter Glass (Spindle Fire #2)(48)
And yet. It would also explain some things. What if Wren only felt close to Aurora because she was unconsciously bound to her by the curse?
“Will you help, then?” Binks asks, cutting into her thoughts. “Will you do it?”
She looks into his eyes, their unsettling flatness, as though there is no soul at all behind them. For a long time she says nothing.
And then at last, she says, “Yes.”
PART
IV
AMONG ALL MEN AND ACROSS ALL FAE
20
Isabelle
She remains belowdecks for the journey north, curled in a pile of furs, holding the slipper of ice in her hands, letting the delirious sway of the ship rock her. She thinks of Aurora—her steady and calming presence, the intimacy of her finger taps against Isbe’s palms. When she closes her eyes and breathes slowly, she can almost imagine that she is lying next to her half sister the way they used to when they were little, especially during vicious storms, telling each other stories until Aurora’s hands and Isbe’s voice grew tired and they fell asleep like that, folded around each other protectively, like two halves of a whole.
Tell me a story. Maybe if she wishes it hard enough, Aurora will appear beside her. Tell me a story about two sisters. But instead she recalls what Aurora told her about her journey to Sommeil, about the irreconcilable rift between Belcoeur and Malfleur. If even the special bond of twins can be broken, nothing is safe, Isbe thinks with a shudder. Nothing at all.
She clutches the slipper tighter to her chest and slips into a dreamless lull.
The journey across the North Sea to the ?les de Glace is shorter than the journey to the palace of Aubin, but once she and Byrne arrive, they must travel several miles over the glaciers to the ice palace.
In a small seaside village, they are equipped with a sled pulled by large dogs that Byrne says look like snowdrifts come to life, with black noses and fluffy tails. The yipping and howling stir Isbe; the animals are excited and eager to move, and so is she. They settle into their seat, and the sled driver stacks blankets over their legs, asking if they’re here to take in the northern lights. Isbe has not heard of these, but explains that she cannot see, and that they are here for the king himself. She must speak to him.
The driver seems not to care in the end, so long as they’re willing to pay what he’s charging. The sled flies forward with a jolt, spraying snow up the sides and into Isbe’s face. She almost laughs from the delight of it. The icy landscape refracts the sun and she can feel the glare of the islands, like massive white mirrors, warming the air, even as her breath crystalizes at her lips.
They pass through the seaside villages first, which smell of fish and damp wood and harsh sea air, then travel deeper inland, where the brine and salt give way to brisk icy winds, whisking across gaping swaths of uninhabitable frozen terrain. In the distance, huge glaciers rise up to meet the sky, making it look, according to Byrne, as though they are racing toward an endless white wall, a kind of blinding nothingness. “Almost heavenlike, Miss Isabelle,” Byrne says, and it feels like how she’s always imagined heaven: bright and impossible.
By the time they arrive at the palace gates many hours later, Isbe is no longer elated but freezing, her teeth chattering, her eyes nearly crusted shut with frost that has gathered on her eyelashes and brows. She imagines snowflakes crystalizing along her bones. The gates open onto an ice labyrinth; the palace sits in the middle. The driver refuses to take them any farther. They will have to find their way in by foot.
The dogs pant, exhausted from the day’s run, and paw the snow anxiously, awaiting their driver’s next instructions. He unseals a bucket full of sardines, and the dogs begin to whine as he tosses some in the snow. They gather immediately, snarling and snuffling.
“Buck up, Byrne,” Isbe says as they dismount the sled, turning her chin down to block a blast of icy wind from hitting her neck. She pulls up her hood and shivers. “We’ve made it this far, haven’t we?”
But she can sense Byrne’s nervousness—after all, they are now winding through a labyrinth carved into hard, icy snow, and Isbe’s of no use. There is no guide, no butler, no one to greet them. It’s up to Byrne to lead her safely to the maze’s center, and the palace doors.
When they hit the first dead end, Byrne’s discomfort increases. He is fidgeting, causing his arms to shake as he ushers her forward, then tells her they must turn around and try a different route. “Wish we could see o’er the top a’ these walls, miss,” he says desperately, hoarse, the words almost immediately snatched away by the wind.
“Nothing ever came of wishing, Byrne,” she replies automatically, trying to quell her own nerves. Her hands ache with cold, fingers clenched stiff even in her woolly gloves.
“What do you do when you’re lost, then, miss?”
She thinks for a moment. “I reach out a hand, and try to feel what the world is telling me to feel. I suppose I always find something.” So she reaches out now and steps forward until she touches one of the labyrinth walls through her glove. It makes a rough, scratchy sound, snow flaking off against leather. His question has given her an idea. “Let’s not think about the path to the castle. Instead, let’s think only of this wall, and what we can learn from it.”
“How so, miss?” There’s a rise of hope in his voice.