“And it has to have a very long tail,” said Eleanor Queen.
“And breathe fire!” said Tycho.
“No fire; the snow will melt.”
“Oh yeah.” Tycho never minded when his sister corrected him; he just laughed, realizing his goofy mistake.
They chattered about all the things their dragon would need—scales and teeth and ridges and wings. Orla pushed her hat up on her forehead, squinting, refreshed by the presence of the sun. On the branch of a nearby tree she spotted a cardinal, postcard-perfect, its red a merry greeting in the snowy landscape.
At some point they started using the dragon’s spine as a wall and Tycho claimed one side of it and Eleanor Queen the other. They tossed loosely formed snowballs at each other. Orla excused herself then; her pants were wet, and even the children had lost interest in their sculptural task.
“I’ll just be right in the living room, okay? Unpacking the books.” They shouted okay without bothering to look at her. Orla slipped off her glove and snapped a quick picture to text to her parents, show them how well the kids were doing. When she reached the door, she stopped; she’d never just left them outside before. For the first time she appreciated the safety, the impossibility that anyone could drive up and snatch one of her children while she had her back turned. She didn’t have to worry about them falling and encountering concrete or broken glass. And no aggressive kids were going to push them away as they played.
She let herself in and took off her boots, brushed the snow off her jeans. They stuck to her legs, cold, and all she wanted were her soft, warm pajama bottoms. She threw off her coat and flung it onto a box, then hurried upstairs to change.
In her room, she stood in front of the window, peering down at the kids as she stripped out of her pants. They were fine. Not going anywhere. Twenty feet from the front door. She told herself to relax. It was new, the children playing alone and out of her presence. But that’s how she’d played when she was growing up. Roaming the neighborhood with gaggles of kids, staying for hours in someone else’s backyard. She’d loved being independent, trusted by her parents to return at their designated time. She knew she could count on Eleanor Queen to stay within view of the house and not let her little brother wander off. It was part of growing up, being entrusted with incremental responsibilities. So Orla assured herself. Still, she quickly slipped into her pajama pants and slippers and headed back downstairs.
They were planning to get a bigger table, but for now they were still using the folding card table they’d had in the apartment. Orla pushed the remaining kitchen boxes past the threshold, then hoisted one onto the table and another onto the counter. The living room was more manageable then, with more space to maneuver in and fewer boxes to focus on. She poked her head into Shaw’s studio before settling down with the boxes of books. He’d been up late, and the room looked completely finished.
It was all coming together.
She caught herself feeling more optimistic than she had in months. The craziness and stress of being perpetually between places was finally all behind them. It was time to unwind. Get settled. Embrace their fresh start—and the magic Shaw wanted them all to experience.
Orla bent over and pressed her forehead into her knees as she held her wrists loosely behind her heels. It felt so good, the stretch along the backs of her legs. She could’ve stayed there forever—or at least another five minutes. But then her children started screaming. Spears of high-pitched terror. She bolted upright.
7
Orla clambered for the front door, not bothering with her boots or coat. Outside…
White.
Nothing but white.
Blue sky and sunshine gone. The force of the wind made her stumble as she headed down the nearly invisible porch stairs.
“Tycho! Eleanor Queen!”
“Mama! Mama!” The children were yelling, but she couldn’t see them.
The wind tore at her flimsy clothing and she clutched her arms against her chest. She slipped down the last two steps, falling onto her knees as one bare hand sank into the snow. The children were out there, and not far, by the sound of their voices, but the whipping snow obliterated her field of vision; she struggled to even keep her eyes open.
“Tycho! Eleanor Queen!” she screamed. “Keep shouting so I can find you!”
“Mama!”
Orla staggered toward their voices, her skin prickling with goose bumps and her heart knocking against the thin bones in her chest. She stretched a hand out in front of her and groped blindly, expecting to grasp the downy padding of one of the children’s coats. They sounded so close. Except when the wind seemed to carry their voices away. Once, Orla twisted her head and looked up toward the sky, convinced she’d heard her daughter being sucked away into the atmosphere. “Eleanor Queen!”
“Here, Mama! We’re here!”
Orla tripped over something. The dragon. Finally, she saw color in the whiteout. She grabbed for it. The red of Eleanor Queen’s snow pants. She tugged at the red with one hand and grabbed at her son’s blue coat with the other. The children scrambled for her, pressing their faces against her collarbones. She held them with all her strength, grateful to have them in her arms—and grateful for the warmth they provided. They couldn’t stay out there much longer—Orla would be the first of them to freeze to death. She made herself stand, even though her cold muscles resisted such exertion, and dragged the children up to their feet.
The wind pushed, pulled, as the snow slammed in her face—where was the house? She took her best guess, lifted the kids, one in each arm, and plunged forward.
After a few steps…
Everything went still. The roaring wind died so suddenly that at first Orla thought she’d gone deaf. Then she realized there simply wasn’t anything to hear. As the snow settled, falling gently back into place, the clarity of their surroundings emerged. The house. The garage. The trees. The blue sky—free of clouds. The sun, undiminished.
Orla took a moment to catch her breath. She let the children slip off her body and onto their feet. All three gazed around them, stunned by the ferocity of the weather, and shocked by its sudden departure. It was only when Eleanor Queen began whimpering that Orla regained her urgency. She clutched them to her sides and half dragged them back toward the house. Tycho struggled through the deep snow, so Orla hoisted him up and carried him like a baby in her arms.
Eleanor Queen dashed across the porch and held the door open for her mother. Once they were all past the threshold, they collapsed—Orla and Eleanor Queen in tears.
“What happened, Mama?” Tycho asked, his face pink and amazed.
“Blizzard—snow squall.” Her hands were frozen almost stiff. And her slippers were soaked all the way through; her toes sizzled with pain. Her exposed skin felt like it had been whipped. With clumsy hands, she helped Tycho out of his boots and gear.
“It came out of nowhere.” Eleanor Queen’s eyes were wide and hopeless.
“Come on, everyone out of your wet things and we’ll get warmed up.” Though in truth, only Orla was chilled to the bone. “Mama can’t stop shaking.”
She didn’t want her children to know her terror; better to pass it off as cold. Whatever had happened…what had happened? A freak weather burst? She’d seen bouts of wind like that tear through the five boroughs like a formless tornado, leaving strewn garbage and shattered tree limbs in their wake. In all their preparations, Shaw hadn’t mentioned anything about dangerous snow squalls or the weather being so volatile and unpredictable. The flush of anger that he’d kept things from her brought warmth to her freezing limbs.