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.
“Let us in!” She pounded on the door. “You have to let us in!”
She paced up and down the front stairs. She leaned over the bridge railing, looking for another entrance, but the ravine plunged on both sides. The only way to reach the abbey was from the bridge. Somehow, she and Little Beau had to get inside. If she froze to death, where would the rest of the beasties be? Trapped forever in animal form. She forced her stiff fingers to hunt through her pockets until she found Rennar’s mirror, and she pulled it out, breathed on it, and cleaned it with her sleeve. In the faint light reflecting off the snow, she could just make out three cages. The cat. The wolf. The mouse. Rennar, that salaud! Why hadn’t he changed L
uc from a mouse as he’d promised? Surely Viggo and the Goblins had moved into their captive luxury at Castle Ides by now.
She shivered, and the mirror slipped from her hand into the snow, landing next to the jar of seeds. Anouk considered her situation. Her options were bleak. She’d sooner kiss a Snow Child than summon Rennar for help. There was no other way into the Cottage except the front door. There was a stained-glass window above it, but it had to be fifteen feet up.
She squinted into the door lock. Cricket had taught her a lock-picking spell, but it was finicky. Without knowing if the door was deadbolted, chain-locked, or barricaded, she might end up casting the wrong spell and seal her own mouth shut instead. Little Beau shook off his pelt of snow and went to the door, whining. He looked plaintively back at Anouk.
“I know. I know.”
She squinted up into the snow. The front of the abbey was made of massive stone bricks worn smooth from wind and rain. She tried to climb them, but her frostbitten fingers slipped right off. Still, that window was her only option.
She dropped to her knees, shoved the mirror back in her pocket, and grabbed the jar holding the seeds. They were flat and brown, each as big as her thumb. Mada Vittora used these seeds when she wanted to summon a vine strong enough to string up a Goblin by the ankles.
Clutching the jar, she crawled to the base of the abbey and dug through the snow until she hit frozen soil. She chipped away at it until her fingernails were torn and bloody and she had a hole just large enough for one of the seeds. She buried it beneath the ground. She placed another on her tongue along with the wilted mint and a few strands of hair from her own scalp. The sweet taste of mint took her back to summertime, to warmth and Luc’s garden, and she swallowed the life-essence with a handful of snow and whispered: “Jermis-s-s . . .”
Her teeth chattered so violently that she couldn’t get the whisper out. She cupped her hands over her lips, puffed warm air into them.
“Jermis!”
A spark of magic flared to life in her throat, spreading a ripple of warmth through her lips. The soil beneath her hands trembled and parted. A sprout rose so fast that Anouk had to jerk back to avoid being smacked in the face by a leaf. The vine rose two feet, then four, then six, and kept going. It was as thick around as her wrist and forked into alternate branches every foot or so, branches that found weaknesses in the grout and fastened themselves on. Anouk grabbed the hairy vine and tugged it as hard as she could to test its strength. It could have been hammered in with nails. It climbed all the way to the roof and might have kept going—she couldn’t see that far with the snowstorm.
She shrugged off her fur coat and twisted the sleeves into a makeshift sling that she slid around her shoulder. Beneath it she wore the Faustine jacket over a few layers of sweaters. Snow caught in the beautiful colored threads. “Come on, Little Beau. You’ll have to climb on my back.”
It wasn’t easy to get a hundred-pound dog on her back. After some shuffling, she hoisted his wet paws onto her shoulders and secured him there in the sling. His panting was strained. He was shivering uncontrollably.
She began to climb.
It was slow going, but she made it up inch by inch. Before, the only ladder she’d climbed had been the one that led from Mada Vittora’s attic to the rooftop. How long ago had she and Beau climbed to the roof and marveled at the beauty of Paris? The glittering lights of Paris were far away now.
Don’t look down, she told herself. The vine rose straight up the abbey face; if she slipped and the wind caught her, she might fall beyond the bridge into the ravine.
Little Beau hunkered down against her back, not moving a muscle, as though he knew how precariously he was tied to her. His nose was tucked into the fold of her jacket collar. How high up were they now? Ten feet? Warm, flickering light came from the other side of the window. She pictured herself and Beau curled up by a hearth, drinking hot tea. It gave her the strength to climb the rest of the way, and, muscles burning, she hauled them both onto the wide window ledge. She paused to catch her breath. Little Beau whined softly. From somewhere, she caught a whiff of fresh bread, and her stomach ached.
She twisted the window latch, but it didn’t give. Frozen shut. “Zut alors!”
She gritted her teeth and shoved again. Something squeaked. Then groaned. Without warning, the latch gave way and the window swung inward. Before she knew it, she was falling forward. No! She tried to grab the vine, but it slipped out of her grasp. With Beau still strapped to her back, she plunged down into the abbey. A fifteen-foot fall. She glimpsed church-style lanterns hanging from the ceiling. A cavernous room. A fire roaring in an enormous fireplace at the far end. And then—
“Ow!” She smacked into the floor hard enough to rattle her bones. Little Beau scrambled, his limbs tangled in the makeshift fur-coat sling. His paw collided with her head. She clamped a hand over her temple. Every one of her muscles screamed. If she hadn’t broken anything, it would be a miracle.
She cursed and rubbed her backside.
Little Beau managed to get himself onto all fours. She hoped he hadn’t broken anything either.
Slowly, she became aware of their company.
They’d fallen into what appeared to be a great hall, though, judging by the stained-glass window and high ceilings, it could once have been the nave of a church. There were no pews or altars or pulpits now. There was only the massive fire roaring at the far end and two long wooden tables flanking it.
A few girls sat at either table, each curled over a bowl of something steaming, a glass of water, and a small hunk of bread. All their eyes were on her. The girls seemed just as surprised to see Anouk falling through their window as Anouk was to see them.
“I’ve . . . come to . . . study under . . . Duke Karolinge.” Her teeth were chattering so hard, she wasn’t sure they could understand her. “I’m sorry about . . . the window. The . . . door was locked.”
A girl who looked to be around twenty years old, with black skin and hair cropped close to her scalp, stood from the bench. Like all of the girls, she was wearing a plain gray muslin dress with a white smock apron and a rope belt.
“That’s because we locked it.” She had a British accent. Her tone was blunt but not without kindness. “We didn’t let you in for a reason. The Duke isn’t taking new acolytes.” Well, merde.
Anouk’s muscles gave out. She fell back to the floor and stared at the ceiling. She’d come all this way. Her friends were depending on her. “He’ll make an exception for me.”
One of the other girls snorted. “Not likely.”
Anouk took a deep breath.
Then she sat up and prepared to do whatever it took to remain within those four walls.
Chapter 7
Anouk pushed up to her feet, wincing as her joints popped, and attempted to disentangle herself from the makeshift sling she’d fashioned out of Mada Vittora’s fur coat. Her pants were torn. Her hair was undone and snarled. Her legs were soaked in snow up to her knees. The only thing about her that seemed in one piece was the Faustine jacket. She made an attempt to brush snow and dirt off herself, but as usual, it was useless.
Now that her eyes had adjusted, she saw that behind the grand fireplace were three sets of curving staircases, two that led to an upper level and one that plunged downward into darkness. The stone floor was slick as ice, polished smooth from centuries of footsteps, and there were uneven marks where she assumed pews had once stood.
There were five girls in all. The tall black girl with the British accent, who looked like the oldest. At her table there was a girl with a storm cloud of black hair down to her waist and eyebrows in desperate need of tweezing, and a pretty girl with glasses who peered at Anouk curiously. At the other table were two girls who looked to be at least five years apart in age, but, judging by their stocky frames and their identical shade of red hair pulled back into the same severe bun, they must have been sisters.
Anouk gazed at the fire longingly. What she wouldn’t give to s
trip out of her soaked clothes, kick off her frozen boots, wrap herself in a blanket, and warm herself and Little Beau by the flames.
The girl with the storm cloud of black hair stood, circled Anouk with a suspicious scowl, and then peered up at the stained-glass window. The other girls didn’t move.
The older of the sisters grinned and said in a German accent, “You’d better turn around and leave, whoever you are.”
The younger sister frowned at the puddle of melting ice beneath Anouk’s feet. “You’ll have a better chance with the cold things out there than the warm things in here.”
The dark-haired girl loomed close to Anouk, like a shadow come to life. She reeked of sweat and onions. She narrowed her eyes and grunted.
Anouk moved a few feet away from the girl. “We’ll freeze if we go back out there.”
“Heida is right—you’d better leave,” the British girl said regretfully. “I don’t know what you’ve heard about this place, but it isn’t some school for magic. It’s a graveyard for the soon-to-be departed.”
The storm-cloud girl dropped to her hands and knees and began inspecting Anouk’s fur coat, which was crumpled on the floor. She ran the strands between her fingers. Little Beau let out a low growl, and the girl bared her teeth and growled back. She picked up a piece of vine and sniffed the leaf.
“Magic!” She pointed an accusing finger at Anouk.
All the girls became quiet. Their eyes went from Anouk to the piece of vine and back.
“Jermis,” the girl with glasses said quietly, and hearing a spell on a Pretty’s lips jolted Anouk for a second. Pretties, like these girls, couldn’t cast magic, but that didn’t mean they didn’t know the wording of spells. “She used the jermis spell. Growing.” She sniffed the air. “With mint as the life-essence.”
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