But I’d shoved my feet into the pliable leather and yanked the laces enough to do it without feeling or seeing what I was doing. By the time I got the laces in a messy double knot, the skin on my fingertips had turned stark white. Next up would be black, and that led to amputation. I’d seen it plenty of times. Been near it myself at least twice.

I shoved to my feet. On my blades. And I faced the wind.

I no longer faced Winter but my own heart. Cold. Raging. Closed off and bitter. If I continued hardening myself against empathy, against feeling and caring and loving, I would become like this Trial. A vicious, unrelenting being with no warmth left for life.

It was like I battled my future self—what I would become if I continued down my current path.

But I’d seen new life. Examples of beauty that I wanted to experience and replicate. I wanted to be like Mutti. I wanted to be like Anouk. I wanted to understand the Well in the awed way Bastiaan did.

That was my new path.

And I was taking it.

I bowed my head and dug my skates in. The ice gasped beneath my blades, surprised by my resilience. Oh, this was only the beginning. With each shove forward my glide grew more established. I crept forward. Flew forward. Up the canal and against the wind that screamed profanities to get me to turn around. Icicles landed in the ice before me. I dodged them. Weaving like I used to around stones when practicing for races.

I fastened a new cloak around my shoulders: a cloak of memories. Racing along the canals. Skating with Anouk. Mutti teaching me to tie my laces. Pappje carving my skate guards. The freedom that came every winter once markt ended and I traveled Fairhoven without Oma on my heels. Mutti holding me through her final night.

This Winter Trial thought it could beat me down, but the actual season of winter had always made me feel alive.

As I picked up speed and surrendered my skin to the bite of rime, a neglected emotion peeked its head up through the snowdrifts around my heart.

Joy.

As sudden as a hiccup but subtle as a blink. Yet it was there. Unbidden and beautiful. I threw my arms wide and laughed. Laughed. In the face of Winter. In the face of my curse. In the face of death.

The bark of my laughter shattered the Trial’s will. Icicles fell to pieces. Wind was snuffed like a candle flame. The storm fell to the ground like spilled flour, leaving a giant cloud of snow dust.

I skidded to a stop, sending a spray of ice into the air. My chest heaved. The silence pressed upon my ears louder than Winter’s shriek. Through the settling snow mist I saw a silhouette. A person. Standing. Stunned.

Bastiaan.

Chapter 42
Myrthe