Snow

Henry looked at her. "Strange," he said slowly, his smile fading away. "Quiet. Lost. Like something out of a story."

"A story."

"Like those told in another country."

Judith sucked in a breath. "One we know?"

"Yes."

"An ally?"

He nodded. "A new and dangerous one, even."

"Go on."

You've heard the rumors," Henry said. "There was a third child in the cold land past the mountains, born of the old king."

"A child who disappeared after birth, who the king never mentioned."

"Like he'd never been. All we heard were stories about how beautiful he supposedly was."

"And cursed," she said carefully.

"Yes," he said, and his voice was angry now. "You might have told me about that."

She took a deep breath. This was not at all what she had expected and she was almost dizzy with it. The possibilities…"It's true, then."

"As to whether he's the old King's son or not? That I couldn't say. But he's cursed for sure." He leaned toward her, head bowed, and even in the dim light of the tavern she could see that a patch of hair on his scalp was gone, the skin the strange mottled color only winter's strongest kiss could bring.

"Froze it," he said. "My hair--it broke right off in his hands. And the room we were in--" He took a deep breath. "Coated in ice, Judith. I saw it form, watched it spread. And he did it. He--"

"And how did you manage to provoke--" she asked and then broke off, shook her head. "Idiot,"

she said, but her voice was almost fond.

"He really is beautiful," Henry said. "I couldn't help myself."

"I'm sure."

He grinned at her, gave a lazy shrug of his shoulders. He knew the news he'd given her held worth. "The miner he's with--are the rumors true?"

She gave him a look and he grinned again, took a sip of his drink. "Just asking."

"Is he still with the miner?"

Henry nodded. "Comes and goes during the day some, but always back at night. Doesn't seem to want to leave."

"He's in hiding, afraid--"

Henry shrugged again and she stood up, not bothering to finish her sentence. She knew all she needed to.

"Be careful," he said as she was drawing on her gloves and she watched him run a hand across his scalp, wincing. "He's--there's something in him. Something--" He broke off and the expression in his eyes made her pause. She'd never seen Henry afraid before.

"I'm always careful," she said, and placed a pouch of coins on the counter. Henry picked it up, weighed it in his hand. He slid it into his cloak.

He didn't speak again till she was at the tavern door. "He's in love with the miner."

She looked back at him impatiently. "What does that matter?"

"Nothing to you or I," he said. "But I think it might to him."

***

David came back from the square late one afternoon, Gladys coughing next to him as they walked up the stairs. She'd needed to buy a length of fabric and David had gone with her, the two of them wandering through a maze of gleaming cloth toward a section of smaller stalls, where everything for sale held no color and was thinly woven, rough to the touch. Gladys had sighed at one point, said, "Sad stuff, this," and looked back at the stalls they'd passed. Then she'd turned to him, a gleam in her eyes.

"Come on," she'd said and grabbed his hand, steering both of them back into the very heart of the square, to a stall where the counters were piled high with cloth of every color. She'd run her fingers longingly over a piece of rose cloth, motioned for David to feel it too. It was soft under his fingers. They'd stayed and looked at it until a stall worker moved toward them, a frown puckering her face. When she'd reached them she tried to pluck the fabric out of Gladys' hands, hissed at her to go away. "Don't want your kind near our customers," she'd said. Gladys had shrugged and let go of the cloth.

"I'm sorry," the assistant had said and her features rearranged themselves into a fawning smile as she turned to David. "I promise you we sell only the finest cloth to only the finest citizens. And clearly you--" she'd blushed a little. "Well. You must be newly arrived. Need a suit for Court, perhaps?" She'd moved the cloth Gladys had been holding toward him and said, "Look how fine the weave is on this," draping it across his arm. He'd looked at her and what she saw in his eyes must have startled her because she'd taken a step back, mouth opening in shock. David pushed the fabric off himself and it fell stiffly to the counter, making a heavy cracking sound, little pieces of it flying up around them.

"Saints," Gladys had said and tugged him back into the crowd, pulling them both all the way across to the other end of the square and then into a tavern where she'd sat them both down and ordered two mugs of ale, frowning when they came and the bar girl named their price. "Wait here," she'd told him and disappeared for a short while, returning with her mouth swollen and a handful of small change. She'd sat down and slapped the coins on the table, drank her ale in one long swallow and then, seeing his untouched glass, drank his.