It felt like hours that she wandered in the dark, alternately stumbling and clawing her way forward when it took too much effort to keep upright. Ice slipped into the nailbeds of her ungloved hand. Her eyes and nose streamed from the bitter air, which froze the water on her skin in seconds. And with every step, she sank deeper and deeper into the drifts until she feared she’d be entombed.

Everything that lay behind her was as white and featureless as what lay ahead. The world was insubstantial, little but wind and cold water slipping through the gaps in her bone-white fingers. No matter how she looked at it, it was hopeless. It would be so easy to lie down.

Wren sank to her knees. Everything hurt, every part of her fragile. Ice wound its way through her blood until she couldn’t even remember her own name, much less what she had set out to do in the first place.

No rush, then, she decided. She deserved to rest.

And then she felt a tug at the center of her chest, like a rope gone taut. Somewhere over the wind, a voice called to her.

“Wren.”

Right. That was her name. She imagined responding, but her whole body was so heavy. Her lungs would not expand. Her mouth would not open.

“Wren!”

I’m here, she thought. Right here.

In the distance, a shadow emerged from the solid white of the blizzard, blooming like ink dripped onto parchment. It came closer, morphing until it became a man blink by blink. He crouched beside her, and Wren squinted up at him. Raven-dark hair and eyes the color of a lightless lake. Snow dusted the sharp lines of his jacket, clung to his eyelashes. He looked star-scattered. Beautiful.

Wren wanted to touch his face. She wanted to knot her hands in his hair and kiss him, even though she knew she shouldn’t for reasons she couldn’t exactly recall.

His arm slipped around her waist and he hoisted her to her feet. Her thoughts twinkled like ice crystals catching the sunlight, and she let herself lay her palm flat against his cheek. No warmth radiated from his skin, and he recoiled with a look of singular concern.

“I know you,” she said.

“Yes. It’s me.” His voice was rough as he pulled her to his side. “Can you walk?”

“Mm-hm.”

The world was still spinning. At the center of it was him.

“Hal,” she found herself saying. His name unlocked something in her. Tears burned her dry eyes. “Oh, Hal. I messed up.”

“We’ll discuss it later.” Discomfort clipped each word short. “Walk.”