Thread of Frost

Ch. 12: Isolde

Isolde swept her blonde hair forward. "Or you can wait here. Prayer will end in..." She glanced at the clock. "Three hours?"

The man sighed. "There's really nobody else here?"

"No."

"Just you?"

Or the cat, Isolde thought. "Just me."

The man shrugged off his sac, plucking a scroll from the top of it. He hesitated, pulling it close to his chest.

"This is very important." His voice was a warning. "By law, the document must be delivered directly into safe hands. I cannot stress that enough."

"Noted," Isolde said.

She took the document. The man held it for a beat too long before releasing it, hoisting his sac back over his shoulder. She watched as the stranger picked his way back down the snow-covered slope, disappearing among the skeleton trees.

She shut the door.

"What's that?" a voice called.

Isolde stilled.

Tilda and Sendra rushed through the corridor, their white skirts whispering over the tile floor. Both girls had braided their hair into crowns, and their cheeks were flushed pink. From the cold? The ceremonial wine? The prospect of a new target? It was, Isolde reflected, always difficult to say.

She stuffed the note into her pocket. "Aren't you meant to be in morning prayer?"

Tilda shrugged. "Didn't fancy it."

"So boring," Sendra said. "Not even the fun hymns today."

Tilda plucked the note from her pocket. Isolde made a swipe for it, but the other girl was faster, darting up several stairs. She strode forward, and her wooden peg buckled. A rush of humiliation filled her.

"Give it back," Isolde said.

Tilda raised an eyebrow. "Or what?"

Tilda looked pointedly at her wooden leg. Blood rushed to Isolde's cheeks, and she took a wobbly step forward.

"Tilda." Isolde held out a hand. "I'm serious."

The other girl smiled. "Say that you'll do my washing for a month."

"What?" Isolde blinked. "No."

Tilda shrugged. "Then I guess it's not that important to you. In fact..."

Tilda crossed to the fireplace, dangling the letter above the fire. The flames climbed higher, licking at the parchment with eager tongues, and a rush of fear filled her. If Isolde lost an important letter... if the nuns discovered that she'd lost the letter...

No.

She couldn't risk it.

Tilda's wrist dropped an inch. A spike of panic filled her.

"Don't!"

"Touchy, touchy." Tilda tutted. "Two months."

"No," Isolde said.

"Three."

Her throat was raw. "Stop it."

"Do my washing for four months," Tilda said, "or the letter turns to ash."

She lowered her hand again, and Sendra gave a gleeful clap. Isolde clasped her hands to stop them from shaking. A pulse beat in her throat. Even if she managed to lunge for the letter... even if her leg miraculously didn't give out...

There was no chance.

None.

"Fine," Isolde said. "Fine!" She stuck out a hand. "Now give it here."