“Far.” I didn’t have the energy to say more. We stared into the flames, too exhausted to sleep, and let feeling creep back into our fingers and toes.

“Why?” Juniper said just as I was nodding off.

“Why what?”

“Why did you wait so long to come home?”

“I was a prisoner, remember?”

“Aspen said you told father you belonged there.”

I watched the fire, trying not to relive the memory of the Huntress turning away from me, the sweep of her shoulders hunched and broken. “You should sleep, Juniper.”

She curled up against me, and I waited for her shivers to subside before I let myself drift off, checking and double-checking that the fire stayed lit.

I dreamed of a high mountain meadow, where a cool, earthy breeze swept up from the lowlands and meltwater trickled down from the peaks. In the center of the meadow stood a white horse. There was something vaguely familiar about it, and as I stared, dazzled by the sunlight, I saw the body at its hooves. I knew, with the certainty of dreams, that I had to get to that body, but my feet were tangled in a snarl of thorns, and they bit deeper with each step I took, ensnaring me further in the briars.

I woke in a cold sweat to add more branches to the fire. The wind had picked up in the night, and the flames guttered low even in the sheltered bowl I had scooped out for us from the drifts. Above, the stars burned with the peculiar brightness of early morning. I thought of how much brighter they would be from the top of the mountain, with the sweep of the lake beneath me and no fire to dim them, and bit back a sob.

The second day was harder than the first. The slopes were steeper here and the snow higher. Last night’s wind had swept the drifts back into the trail broken by the Locklands, and we had to force our way through with none of the comparative ease of the day before. Each excruciatingly slow step heightened the growing sense of panic that had haunted me since last night’s dream. We were not gaining on the Locklands. If anything, we were falling behind, and the roses straggling through the snow had a wilted, damaged look to them that suited my mood. I formed ice balls in half-frozen hands to throw at adventurous squirrels but missed each and every shot I took. Juniper’s harsh, rasping breath pressed too loudly on my ears.

“Breathe through your nose,” I told her, straining to hear anything beyond the sound.

“I can’t. It’s clogged.”

I tried to bury my irritation and missed another shot at a squirrel. I did, however, find his cache of acorns, which looked like the worst of the tannins had been leeched out of them. Roasted nuts would give us strength.