Winter, White and Wicked - Shannon Dittemore Page 0,2
waited. And she planned. And when the time was right, Winter struck a bargain that buried Shiv Island in snow.”
I’VE SOMETHING TO SHOW YOU, Winter whispers, her voice skating inside.
In the window’s reflection, I see Leni and Mystra tucked in comfortably, the fire wrapping them in warmth.
Will they notice if I slip away?
NOT IF YOU’RE FAST, Winter says. QUICK! QUICK!
A giggle grows in my belly and I flip the latch, flinging myself out the window. The snow is knee deep and I have to fight my way toward the corner of the tavern. I chance a peek over my shoulder just as Lenore’s braids swing into view above the sill.
“Sylvi!” she calls. “You promised Grandfather you wouldn’t!”
But Old Man Drypp isn’t much for discipline. I flatten myself against the wall and Winter laughs, a rumble that sets the icicles ringing overhead.
“Foolish child,” Mystra grumbles.
“She’ll be back,” Leni tells her. “She always comes back.”
“My dear girl,” Mystra says, the window squealing on its hinges. “I’m not entirely sure she was ever here.”
CHAPTER 1
Seven Years Later
Winter doesn’t like the smuggler who’s come to Whistletop. She doesn’t trust him, doesn’t want me to take this job.
HE’S A LIAR, she says.
“Then you should have stopped him. Should have kept him away from Lenore,” I mutter.
But she’s not listening to me just now. She’s too busy blustering.
I swipe a gloved hand over my face, wiping away the sleet. Across the lot sits Drypp’s tavern, alive with light and noise. It’s a two-level structure, part waste rock, part timber, snow piled high on the roof, wood smoke rising from the chimney. There’s a diverse assortment of rigs parked outside tonight. Big trucks and small ones. Some with studded snow tires. Some with chains. A few have trailers still hitched, but most have dumped their hauls and are settling in for a hibernation of sorts that will take them clean through the wet season.
Our rooms are above the kitchen, Lenore’s and mine. Her windows are bright, a flame flickering somewhere inside. A curtain shifts and, for a moment, I swear she’s there behind the glass.
But they’re frauds, those windows. Lenore’s gone. And if I can’t get her back quickly, we’ll lose everything we have.
We’re not sisters, but we well could be. Raised, both of us, by Lenore’s grandfather, Old Man Drypp. The tavern was his and the garage behind me too. He’d kept up his taxable relations with the Majority, so when he died two Rymes back, they allowed the property to pass to us. A small victory for mountain folk. But there are rules. And we have to be here. One of us has to be here.
The storm bucks and, like that, the village vanishes in a swirl of snow and ice. I tuck my white braid into my stocking cap and sink deeper into my hood.
Whistletop is a depot of sorts—a last-chance stop for a hot meal and an engine check before the trucking turns hazardous. Winter’s only given us the two seasons here: the freezing months of Ryme, and the miserable wet months of Blys. Rig driving in the Kol Mountains is difficult in either season, but we’re entering the Flux, the melting weeks where the ice and snow give way to rain. The frozen roads that have formed across lakes and rivers will thaw. Snow slips from its rocky ledges in great wide sheets, blanketing towns and roads, making trade—and trucking, in particular—a hazardous way to earn coin until Ryme returns and our island freezes solid once again.
I wouldn’t take this job unless I had to.
Winter knows I wouldn’t. And still she rages.
Her words are everywhere. Above me, below me, seeping into the soles of my boots and climbing up my calves. She’s cold on my skin and blistering as a stove fire in my chest. That’s how it always is when Winter speaks to me.
HE’S COMING, she says. CAREFUL NOW.
Mars Dresden’s early. It’s not yet midnight when he emerges from the tavern and crosses toward the garage. Several feet of snow have fallen in the last day and a half, but beneath his boots, the ground is dry; the storm that blows the rest of us sideways is nothing but a soft breeze on his uncovered head.
No wonder Winter hates him.
Beyond him, swamped in snow and wind, I see the outline of two or three others. I could wait out here for them, but I don’t. I retreat into the garage, hollering at the guys finishing up repairs, and take my place