I didn’t stop for hours. Not when the snow picked up. Not when my skate lace snapped against my ankles and the movement of foot in skate created blisters. Not when my left leg screamed for mercy. Not until my heart slowed could I allow my skates to do the same.

I skated until I reached the small offshoot canal marked on Sven’s map. Something about sliding onto a narrow canal overgrown with brambles and bushes and hanging tree limbs brought a semblance of safety.

I managed a handful of minutes skating along the fingerling canal before I finally crashed into a snow berm and sank into the powder that fell over me like a blanket. I could only hope—nay, pray—that I’d gotten far enough. My body could push no farther. My will, at this point, tucked itself away into a quilt of surrender.

There, in the snow, I let sleep win.

I’d pushed myself so hard. It would have to be enough to outdo my pursuer.

*  *  *

I woke to the snap of brambles.

Darkness.

Labored breathing interrupting the silent night. Someone clawing toward me. Though I’d hardly been moving, I stilled. Caught my breath in my throat and minimized it to nothing more than a brief exhale.

They were so close. I tried to become one with the snow. One with the silence. One with the darkness.

A flint struck stone. A spark flared to life, catching the wick of a candle in a trembling hand mere feet from me. The person tilted the candle toward the ice, searching for my tracks?

The light illuminated my face.

My hunter gasped. I leaped from the snow, throwing a handful of the powder toward where I thought their face was. I crashed to the ice but scrambled to my skates almost immediately. I took two strides, then was yanked back.

They’d caught my blade. I tugged, felt a little give, but not enough to get free. I shrieked, shoving my skate blade back and forth, hoping to cut the hand of whoever held it.

“Myrthe! Myrthe! Please.” A sob.

I stopped my thrashing, stunned to hear my name. I spun onto my back to get a better kick. The voice was female but not one I recognized. The candle illuminated a small form, but it sank to the ice, releasing my blade. I shoved away—out of arm’s reach. Ready to bolt.

“Look at me,” she rasped. “Please.” She held the candle up next to her face—so close it almost caught on her pale, ratted hair. But she held it firm.

Shadows covered half her face, but I still saw the angles. Saw the familiar cheekbones that looked as sickly as the last time I’d seen them.

I lifted a trembling gloved hand to my mouth, not daring to believe my eyes. “Mutti?”

Chapter 32
Myrthe

“You know me.” Mutti wiped hair from her face and lowered the candle.