Winterwood

I fell asleep when I promised I’d stay awake. And now, the wolf follows me down the stairs, my mind skipping back to earlier—to Nora’s rose-shaped lips pressed to mine, the smell of her hair on my neck, like jasmine and vanilla. I don’t think she knows how much she upends me. How for the briefest moment, the dark of the forest felt very far away. How her fingertips blotted out the cold of the trees that’s always writhing along my joints, twisting around my kneecaps and shoulder blades and down my spine. When she’s close, my memory of that place falls away.

She keeps it at bay.

She’s the only thing that makes me believe maybe I’m not the villain after all. But the hero. Or the one to be saved, rescued from the dark wood.

My part in this tale may not be what I think. A character whose role has not yet been determined.

Downstairs, I find the kitchen dark with no sign of Nora. The fire is out in the woodstove. And then I see it: the dead bolt on the front door slid open.

I yank the door wide and spot the tracks in the snow, leading down to the lake. I run down to the shore and the trees moan and stir, as if sensing the urgency in my steps, the thunder of my lungs sucking in air.

I know something’s wrong before I’ve even reached the lake, before I see Nora standing out on the ice. I call out to her and she looks back, her hair a firestorm—the wind churning up around her, making her look as if she is made of magic. A real witch. A girl with fury at her fingertips—who could command mountains and rivers and time itself.

She turns, glancing over her shoulder, and I can see the look in her eyes—something isn’t right. She seems afraid—really afraid for the first time.

And then the ice gives way beneath her. A shudder and a crack and she disappears into the lake.

I run, my heart flattening against my ribs, my feet slipping on the ice.

I drop to my knees at the edge of a vast hole, black water peering back. And beneath the surface, her hair swirls and eddies like reeds, like kelp in an ocean. A gentle, almost tranquil sight. She’s staring past me—eyes blurred over—as if she is looking lazily up at the midnight sky and the stars beyond. A quiet evening swim. But I plunge my arms into the ice-cold water, grabbing for her hand floating just above her head.

And I pull her up, dragging her onto the ice and into my arms.

NORA

I feel weightless, drifting among dark stars.

Arms fold around me, and I press my face against the hard warmth of a shoulder. His neck smells like the forest, like a winter that goes on and on and on. Endless like the bottom of the lake.

I hear the water dripping from my hair, or maybe I only imagine it. Drops that turn to ice before they hit the ground.

The trees bob and shiver above me, and I peer up at deep-green limbs—at stars that look like silver coins dropped into a black pool. My head spins, the circulation gone from my skin, but I don’t mind. I like the weightlessness and the scent of Oliver and the forest revolving above me. We reach the house, and Oliver kicks the door closed behind us, then releases me gently onto the couch.

He’s saying something, words that slip and slide together. Maybe he’s saying my name. Nora, Nora, Nora. But I can’t be sure. I like the way his voice sounds, bouncing along the walls of the house.

Fin pushes his nose against my palm, warm and wet, a lick to the ear. I try to speak, to open my eyes, but they are too heavy. I squint and at the end of the couch, Oliver is shoving more logs into the woodstove, filling it quickly. He cusses, slams his hand in the door maybe, then stands up and crosses the room again. Waves of heat surge into the cabin. But I don’t sweat—I shiver.

“Nora!” he says again, I’m certain of it this time. “Stay awake,” he tells me. I nod, or I think I do. My mouth opens to tell him I’m fine, but I feel my jaw hang there, no words escaping past my lips. My mouth too numb, my tongue worthless.

He drapes blankets over me—heavy, heavy blankets made of wool—so heavy they push me into sleep. They push me down into the fibers of the old dusty couch, between the cushions. Where lost paper clips and rose petals and M&M’s hide.

But I’m convulsing now, the cold shot through my lungs, severing my skin down to bone, and everything starts to blur over. Water pressing against my eyes, sinking, everything turning not black but white. Bone white. Moon white. Ash white.

“Why did you go out there?” Oliver’s voice says from somewhere far away, from up in the rafters of the house. I feel his hands against my feet, rubbing them, sending spikes of pain up my calves. It hurts! I want to tell him, to scream. But my mouth still won’t move, or he just doesn’t listen. My blood is too hot, scalding, as it surges back through cold veins.