Curse of the Wolf King - Tessonja Odette Page 0,81

a heavy overcoat in a pastel pink, fraying at the hems. Today’s bonnet is white patterned with daisies. “How old are you, Ember?”

“Seventeen.”

So she’s a year younger than Imogen and a year older than Clara. “Why does your family treat you so poorly?”

“Well…” She hesitates, as if searching for words. Then a crash erupts behind us, and Ember surges forward, almost falling. I startle, pulling away from her. She whirls around and I do the same. But just as I do, a weight strikes the front of my cloak. Chunks of snow slide off the wool and fall to the ground at my feet.

I lift my eyes to find Micah, head thrown back with laughter. Two other heads, then a third, peek from behind the coach, a tree, and a hedge. “Attack!” shouts Micah.

All four children spring forward, grinning wildly while they hurl balls of white ice. With a shout, I scurry back, panic heating my cheeks. Ember, however, dives to the ground and gathers snow inside her gloved hands.

“What are you doing?” I ask her, barely dodging in time to avoid an icy missile thrown by one of the boys.

Ember hurls her makeshift ball of snow and strikes Micah in the chest. I expect him to react with anger, but he…laughs. Ember squeals as another child—the girl—hits her with a ball to the shoulder. “You’ve never had a snowball fight?”

“No.” I dodge another ball. “What in the name of the saints is it?”

Ember hurls another ball. Then another. “It’s fun, Miss Bellefleur. My parents and I always did this when we went on holiday here in the Winter Court when I was little. Try it!”

I glance from her, expertly shaping fluffy snow into a solid orb, to the children, unrestrained joy lighting their faces. With a grimace, I crouch down and try to mimic Ember’s motions in creating a ball, grateful I wore gloves today. I’m surprised to find it’s easier than it looks, requiring nothing more than pressure to get the snow to clump together. Ember and I rise to our feet at the same time. Her arms are loaded with several balls, and she laughs with every hit she both gives and receives. I throw my first ball, which lands at one of the boys’ feet. He sticks out his tongue in a teasing gesture, then throws a ball that barely misses my face.

I crouch back down, my lips spreading wide as I create more ammunition. Ember bends down to do the same, only to get struck in the head. She laughs as she falls to the side, then quickly returns to her efforts. When we stand, arms laden with snowballs, something unusual catches my eye. I glance at Ember, finding streams of long, lustrous, turquoise hair streaming around her face. Her bonnet appears to have been knocked away. When her eyes meet mine, I see their color for the first time. No longer shadowed by the bonnet, they too reveal the most striking shade of aqua.

I’m so surprised, I’m not able to dodge the next strike, and a snowball hits me in the neck, sending icy moisture dripping down my front. With a yelp, I return the attack, and soon we’re all dusted with snow and ice, our laughter ringing over the front lawn as we continue our battle.

“Ember!” A shocked voice comes from behind, startling me and my blue-haired friend. We turn to find Imogen, still clasping Elliot’s arm, eyes wide and furious as they shoot daggers at her stepsister.

Ember stops and holds Imogen’s gaze for a few moments, defiance flashing in her turquoise eyes. Then, with a sigh, she fetches her bonnet from the snow and replaces it on her head, tucking every strand of hair out of sight. The mood is clearly broken, and the children disperse, none daring to continue our battle.

Imogen gathers her composure, plastering a fresh smile over her lips. “Oh, Gemma, I must tell you the great news.”

“What is it?” I ask as they walk toward us.

She removes her grip from Elliot’s arm to clasp her hands excitedly at her chest. “Mr. Rochester has agreed to host a ball. Here at the manor!”

My eyes widen. “Is that so?”

“Apparently,” Elliot says through his teeth, lips stretched into a grin that doesn’t match his eyes.

“He’s so gracious,” Imogen says. “With the Verity Hotel’s ballroom still under construction, Vernon’s social season has yet to truly begin. But this—this—will be perfection. We mustn’t invite the whole town, of course, for I assume the