I woke in a room with a curving outer wall and a feel of old wealth clinging to the stones. The fire had burned low during the night, and the chill forced me out from under the furs to add some wood from the stack beside the grate. In its smoky light, I saw old tapestries shot through with silver and gold threads, the colors muted with age and the tapestries’ occupants faceless and faded. A heavy curtain hung over the only window. I dragged a few of the larger furs off the bed and wrapped myself in them, pausing to stroke the velvet of the drapes before I exposed a forearm to the cold and unlatched the shutter.

Snow and mountain after mountain spilled out before me, the entire eastern range marching away into the sunrise like the craggy backs of grazing cattle. Below, the frozen lake shone like a polished mirror in the brightness of the sun, the snow blinding. Clouds floated past the window, or maybe it was freezing fog; this high up it was hard to tell. Somewhere down there lay the valley where my father and sisters and I had lived, and beyond the mountains, out of sight, lay the sea.

Somewhere, but so far beyond my reach it might as well have been the moon.

Wind gusted past the window and into the room. It cut through the furs, stripping away the warmth that still clung to my sleep-soft skin. It took several breaths before I realized the rattling sound in my ears was not the shutter, but my teeth.

All that snow. All that ice. There was no way on this once-green earth that I could find my way home, even if I managed to escape. I shut the window slowly, the dark wood eclipsing the harsh light, and with it, hope.

Time passed.

I did not check the progress of the wintry sun, but the wood burned in the grate and I added more, staring at the flames until they flickered, low and blue, and I was forced to move my hand to fetch another log. Rough pine, burning hot, and the occasional hardwood. If I had been raised in the mountains, I would have known their names. If I had been raised in the mountains, I might have stood a chance.

A knock on the door set my heart to pounding. I stared at the thick, wooden boards. There was no lock from the inside. All she had to do was open it, and she would find me huddled on the rug by the fire, unarmed, my face streaked with ash and tears.

Silence stretched.

I heard the soft clatter of wood on stone, and then nothing. She walked so quietly that it was impossible to tell if she had left, or if she stood, as poised as a mountain lion, waiting.