Thread of Frost

Ch. 24: Empress of Glass

Slowly, Isolde turned.

Bo was leaning on a cane. He was dressed in a brown linen jacket, which hung open at the chest; deep red gouges scored his skin. He must have gone into the city, Isolde realized, nausea rising in her throat. When she didn't show up last week, Bo must have run through Bardan to warn people about the gas. She stared at the gouges. Had someone else done that to him? Or had Bo...? Had he...?

Blood roared in her ears.

That was the thing with nightmare magic, Isolde thought; even the strongest person would rip out his own heart just to stop the pain.

"I'm sorry." Her throat felt tight. "You're mistaken."

Don't. Isolde tried to say it with her eyes. Please don't tell them who I am. Don't tell them what I've done. Beside her, Julian's hand strayed to his bow, which was slung across his back. Bo leaned forward on his cane.

"Your Holiness." Bo bowed his head. "My apologies. I didn't recognize you. My eyesight isn't as good as it once was."

Isolde swallowed. "Are you in charge of this place?"

It was a genuine question. She had no idea, Isolde realized, what Bo did when he wasn't driving her into Bardan on his carriage. It seemed impossible to imagine the older man in another context; it was like trying to imagine one of the nuns outside the convent, enjoying a scone and a spot of Sunday shopping.

"My wife and I look after the basics," Bo said. "Food deliveries, blankets, clothes..." His throat bobbed. "It's an honour to have you visit us, Your Holiness."

"The pleasure is mine," Isolde said.

"It's you!" a voice cried.

Something collided with her stomach, knocking the wind from her. A young girl, Isolde realized, taking in the matted brown curls. Rosie. The girl that she'd cradled in an overturned barrel just a few weeks ago. Panic fluttered in her chest like a trapped bird.

Bo caught her eye.

"You'll have to forgive Rosie." Bo placed a gentle hand on the girl's shoulder. "She's very spirited."

Rosie tugged at her cloak. "Will you sing me another song?"

Warmth flooded her cheeks. She could feel Julian watching her, his blue eyes dark and steady. Had he caught that word? Another?

"Oh," Isolde said. "I don't know about that."

Rosie bounced on her toes. "Please."

"My throat's a bit sore," Isolde lied.

"I'll sing it with you," Rosie said.

The young girl's cheeks were flushed. There was a small brown stick tangled in her hair, Isolde noted; why had nobody untangled that yet? But perhaps there was nobody to untangle it. Perhaps Rosie had only herself.

"Alright," Isolde said.

She sat on the window bench. Rosie clambered on to her lap, nestling her head into the crook of her neck. She could feel Julian watching her as she stroked Rosie's back, feeling the hard, prominent ridges of her spine.

Isolde took a deep breath.

I looked in a frost-covered pond, my dear

I looked in a frost-covered pond;

And there I saw you weeping, my dear

Next to the willows and fronds

Her voice reverberated off the walls. Bo had once said that it sounded like crackling flames, low and rough and breaking in all the right places. People were turning toward her, warming their hands on the sound.