I stumbled out of the barn in my haste to get away from the monster. I did not want to think about my father facing such a beast, nor did I want to think about the wounds in the horse’s flank, or where Avery’s father and older brother had gone.

Back inside, my father thawed slowly. Juniper sponged the blood from his face and beard while Aspen held his hand. I kept the fire going and the broth hot, dreading the words that would inevitably spill like the broth from his blue lips.

“Rowan,” he said at last, struggling to raise his head. “I have a gift for you.”

My heart pounded in anticipation and in fear. Of all the things I had expected him to say, that was the least likely. He pointed at his coat. In the large front pocket I saw a leather packet. Frost glittered on the hide.

I opened it with my back to my sisters, unwrapping the bloody sinew that he had used to seal it shut. Inside, nestled in a bed of snow, lay a single white rose. The petals felt soft and lush beneath my finger, the delicate leaves a green so dark they looked almost black in the light of the fire. I picked it up. Snow clung to the stem, and as I turned to face my father one of the curving thorns bit into the palm of my hand. I stared at the bead of blood, red against the white.

The rose stirred. I almost dropped it in shock, and another thorn nipped at me, this time piercing my forefinger. At the base of the rose where my father’s knife had severed the flower from the bush, a thin tendril of root crept out, moving like frost across my palm. It was cold against my skin, and I stared, fascinated, as the root tendrils soaked up the blood like it was water, taking root in the wound.

“Rowan?” Aspen’s voice broke the spell.

I blinked, and the rose was just a rose, and I was standing in the kitchen of my father’s house with ice melting down my wrist.

“Where did you find this?” I asked him, turning to face the fire.

His face looked haunted.

Aspen held out her hand to take the rose from me, curiosity alight in her eyes. My fingers closed around the stem involuntarily and I stifled a gasp of pain as the thorns bit deeper. I did not look this time to see if my hand was covered in hoarfrost. I could feel it like ice in my veins.

Aspen recoiled from the expression on my face, looking younger than her sixteen years.

“Rowan,” my father said, his eyes fluttering shut. “I am so cold, Rowan.”