Clenching her jaw and wiping her mouth, she shook herself. This wouldn’t do. This was exactly why she needed the dream milk, to stop her moping like this. If a goblin had attacked in the last few minutes, it would have decapitated her before she’d even realized it was there. Then she’d never find Seven. With difficulty, she forced her attention back to the sled tracks.

The landscape around them was changing and the trail was leading them ever higher. They were above the tree line now and in every direction the jagged vista was blindingly white. The peaks were much closer and twisted fingers of ice and rock beckoned to the blazing sky. Despite a bright morning sun, it was bitingly cold. Frost crystals hung about them in the air, glittering like diamonds. Above Twelve’s eyebrows the fur of her hat was frozen solid and there were frost flakes on her eyelashes, haloing the edges of her vision into a rainbowed blur. Even with her muffler pulled tight, each breath tingled unpleasantly, and, on the rare occasion she opened her mouth to speak, the freezing air made her teeth ache. Widge returned to her furs, only his head poking out of her bearskin to take in their surroundings.

It was more beautiful than anything she’d ever seen: a raw, brutal, unforgiving sort of beauty, and one that seemed to be tolerating their presence for now. Twelve wasn’t fooled though; she knew the mountains were mercurial. She checked the sky and sniffed the wind every few minutes, searching for a sign of change in the weather, forcing herself to concentrate.

Constant vigilance.

The thought of Victory made Twelve sit taller. The weaponsmaster would never allow herself to be distracted like this.

Behind her, the boys were talking quietly, their words indistinguishable. Their snagglefeet matched each other’s strides perfectly so the boys could lean in to speak. Twelve scowled—they were probably talking about her. She turned to glare at them, but something else caught her eye in the distance. It was difficult to see clearly—the ice in the air caused a kind of haze farther away—but in the glittering mist, just for an instant, something shifted. Furrowing her brow, she stared harder.

“What’s up, Twelve?” Six asked, urging Surefoot closer to Dog. His pale features were fixed on her face, his expression concerned, but underneath was a kind of eagerness that Twelve instinctively flinched from.

“Nothing,” she said, glaring. “But if you think there’s something to see, you should look yourself. I’m not the only one with eyes here.”

For an infuriating moment, Twelve was sure she saw a flash of amusement on Six’s face. How did he stay upbeat even when she snarled at him? She shook her head, determined not to acknowledge the flicker of warmth she felt toward him.