Thread of Frost

Ch. 14: Lestia's Mark

Isolde sprinted.

Her gait was awkward and uneven, and pain shot up her leg. How long did they have? Two minutes? Three? She didn't bother glancing at her watch. The wind whipped blonde hair into her face, and she thought of how much faster the gas would spread. How royally and utterly screwed they were.

The third foghorn blew.

The magic came in a wave from the palace, just as it always did: thick, silvery gas, slithering through the sleeping city's streets. Bardan was choked, her buildings imprisoned in noxious clouds. The gas was a form of nightmare somnium, Isolde had learned, although she had no idea how it was made.

All she knew was that there was no resistance to it.

No surviving it.

She raced through the streets. Every part of her ached, every limb screaming at her to stop. To rest. She leapt over a wooden cart, her leg buckling on the other side. She pitched sideways, and the ground rushed up in a blur of colours. Somewhere, an animal was screeching. Or perhaps it was a human; both sounded remarkably similar when they died.

Isolde tried to stand.

Her leg collapsed.

A broken sob rose in her throat.

She was going to die. This child was going to die. She clutched Rosie to her chest, burrowing her face into her shoulder. She could see the silver gas rising over the buildings, rushing toward them in a tidal wave.

This was it.

Isolde closed her eyes.

Years of memories flooded her. She thought of the whispers that chased her at breakfast. She thought of young girls taunting her, thought of crumpled wads of paper striking her head during lessons, thought of wearing hats with wide brims so that nobody could see her strange eyes.

She thought of Sister Tria's face looming over her when she was six years old, her hands and legs strapped to a table. "We will remake you," Sister Tria had whispered, stroking her cheek. "We will drive the devil out of you." She recalled the sickening pain of the hammer striking her leg. The agony of lying there for hours.

A lump rose in her throat. She wished she'd left that godforsaken convent.

She wished she'd been stronger.

Isolde stroked Rosie's hair. The little girl was asleep, one meaty fist resting on her collarbone. She rocked her back and forth, humming a song under her breath. One of the only hymns she could stand.

I looked in a frost-covered pond, my dear

I looked in a frost-covered pond;

And there I saw you weeping, my dear

Next to the willows and fronds

The gas moved closer. Her voice shook.

I dreamt by a frost-covered pond, my dear

I dreamt by a frost-covered pond;

And there I held your hand, my dear

Next to the willows and fronds

The gas rushed up in a wave.

We dove into the water together, my dear

And forged that unbreakable bond;

In a frost-covered pond, my dear

In a frost-covered pond

Isolde braced herself.