The wind changed direction again. Snow swirled in heavier flakes, some as big as her palm. She could barely see across the clearing. The boy started to fade into the storm until she couldn’t tell which pieces of him were flesh and which were snow.
“Wait!” she called.
She was afraid the wind had stolen her voice, but the boy slowly reappeared on the far side of the fire. He still looked as insubstantial as a snowdrift, ready to blow away.
She blurted out, “What’s your name?”
“Jak.”
“Let me make you a different deal, Jak. Not a kiss. Something else.”
He lifted a snow-white eyebrow. “What do you have to offer?”
She thrust her hands into her coat pockets. What did she have to offer? What would a Snow Child want beside a kiss? Her fingers fumbled through the various objects she had stashed away, both mundane and magical things, jars of herbs and the hard cheese and—
Her thumb grazed something round. Rennar’s mirror. He had said she could summon him if she was in danger, but she wasn’t that desperate, was she?
She continued to rummage in her pockets. It was peculiar how the boy avoided coming close to the fire. And then it hit her: A boy made of snow would fear heat. He’d melt just like the flakes that fell in the embers.
“Wait a minute. You say you want to be warm, but you mean a different kind of warmth than the kind that comes from mittens and campfires. It’s a riddle, isn’t it?”
“Warmth without heat. You understand.”
She wrapped her hand around a flask in her pocket that she’s swiped from Mada Vittora’s bar cart. “I think I have what you need.”
It was a risk, she knew. A Snow Child might not consider gin to be as warm as a kiss, but this wasn’t just any gin. This was the Mada’s 1892 Plymouth English Gin. So potent that Viggo—normally more than capable of holding his liquor—had taken a single sip and gagged for days. Anouk had packed the flask as an afterthought, thinking the gin would make a good antiseptic for cuts.
She drew the flask from her pocket and waggled it temptingly. “If it’s warmth without heat you’re after, this will do the job.”
Jak took the flask from her with both caution and curiosity, uncorked it, held it to his nose, and recoiled. But he must have sensed something he liked, because he dared a sip. In the next second, he sputtered gin into the snow.
Anouk grinned. “Good, right?”
He coughed harder until it turned it a barking kind of laugh. “Different kind of warmth indeed.” He straightened and admired the flask with dancing eyes. “Very well, lovely. A deal is a deal. I’ll take you to the Cottage. I am curious what Duke Karolinge will make of you, whatever you are.”
He gave her back the flask, then extended his hand. She shook it. His skin was cold, as she’d imagined it would be, but soft as a child’s.
“Sooner or later,” he added before releasing her hand, “I’m going to get that kiss.”
She pulled her hand back sharply.
She kicked out the fire while he stood at a safe distance. Without the flames, the forest was once more plunged in the deep blues and blacks of night. She could barely make out Jak’s silhouette, just the streak of his long white hair, which she followed through the forest. It was impossible to tell how much time passed in a place where every direction looked the same—trees and snow, snow and trees—but eventually she spotted the glow of a light ahead. That one light became several as they trekked out of the forest and stomped their boots on a rocky path lit by flickering gas lamps that ran along the edge of a cliff.
Anouk filled her lungs with fresh air, relieved to be out of the thickest part of the woods.
“Mind your step,” Jak warned. “It’s a long way down.”
The path led to rocky stairs hewn straight into the mountain. Jak climbed them in small, quick movements, as graceful as the wind. His feet barely touched the ground. She and Little Beau huffed after him, trying hard not to look down, where the valley plunged dizzyingly far. The muscles of her legs burned. When Jak finally stopped at a switchback lit by a gas lantern, she collapsed against the stairs.
“We’re almost there. Look.” Jak pointed along the mountain ridge. Through the storm, Anouk could just make out a looming structure in the distance. A massive stone bridge spanned a gorge to reach it. Only a few lights blazed in the lonely windows.
“That’s the Cottage? I was picturing something small and cozy.”
“Don’t let the name fool you. It was a grand abbey once, founded by Pretty monks in the fifteenth century. They came here for the isolation.” He brushed back the white hair falling in his eyes. “They froze to death, of course. They didn’t know they had wandered into the wrong Black Forest. The abbey lay empty for many years. For the past few centuries, Duke Karolinge has used it as his academy.”
“Couldn’t he have found someplace less dreary?”
“The Duke prefers solitude. He doesn’t much care for his fellow Royals—they come only once a year to observe the Coal Baths. He’d rather be alone with his books. Most headmasters must be forced to take the post, but not the Duke. He volunteered.”
She massaged her calves, hoping to revive them. Had Mada Vittora come here? And Mada Zola? She couldn’t imagine either witch ever deigning to toil in such a miserable place.
Jak pointed to the bridge ahead. “This is where I leave you, lovely. For now.”
“For now?”
“I go where the snow goes. You’ll see more of me.”
The blizzard picked up and snow swirled around him. In the darkness she wasn’t able to tell where the storm began and where he ended, and by the time the wind settled, he was gone, leaving Anouk alone on the switchback with Little Beau.
The cold was savage. The dog looked up at her and gave a soft whine.
“I know. I’m almost frozen too.”
They made their way along the narrow steps toward the bridge. With no trees for windbreaks, the storm bit at her cheeks and lips, threatening to blow her off the mountain. Her boot slipped and she only just caught herself on the post of a gas lamp. Snow had collected an inch deep in Little Beau’s fur, making him look more like a polar bear than a dog.
The Cottage loomed as they approached. Gas lamps lit the way to the front door, though the lights were mostly obscured by the storm. Shivering, Anouk hurried across the bridge. She squinted up through the swirling snow at two enormous iron doors. A knocker in the shape of a falcon’s head peered back at her. With one last look at Little Beau, she drew in a deep breath and knocked.
Chapter 6
No one answered.
Anouk hugged herself against the wind. She tugged off her mitten so she could get a better grip on the knocker and pounded again. Her fingers felt like they belonged to a stranger. The skin around her nails was swollen and had a black sheen. Frostbite, she thought. She plunged her hand into her pocket and felt with numb fingers for dried cayenne, the best life-essence for warming spells. Her teeth wouldn’t stop chattering. At her side, Little Beau was so buried under snow that he was nearly indistinguishable from a snowdrift.
She couldn’t find any cayenne. She dragged out instead a wilted stem of mint and a jar of seeds. The wrong kind of life-essence for a warming spell. Frustrated, she chucked them into the snow.