expectantly as Donia tried not to show her impatience.
Giving in, Donia asked, “Do you have a reason for visiting?”
“I have a reason for everything.” Beira came to stand beside her; she rested her hand on the small of Donia’s back.
Donia didn’t bother asking Beira to move her hand; doing so would only encourage her to put it there more often in the future. “Are you going to tell me what it is?”
“Tsk, tsk, you’re worse than my son. Not as temperamental, though.” Beira moved closer, sliding her hand around Donia’s waist, digging her fingers into Donia’s hip. “You’d be so much prettier if you dressed better. Maybe do something more flattering with your hair.”
Donia stepped away, ostensibly to prop open the back door, letting the growing cold out. She wished she were as “temperamental” as Keenan—but that was the nature of the Summer King. He was as volatile as summer storms, moody and unpredictable, as likely to laugh as he was to rage. But it wasn’t his power that flooded her; it was Beira’s cold power that had filled Donia when she’d lifted the staff so long ago. If it hadn’t, if she’d been immune to the Winter Queen’s chill, she would’ve joined Keenan, had eternity with him. But the chill that rested inside the Winter Queen’s staff had filled her—consumed her until she was little more than a breathing extension of the Winter Queen’s staff. Donia still wasn’t sure whom she resented more: Keenan, for convincing her he loved her, or Beira, for killing that dream. If he’d truly loved her enough, wouldn’t she be the one? Wouldn’t she be his queen?
Donia stepped outside. The trees were reaching toward the gray sky, gnarled limbs seeking the last bit of sun. Somewhere in the distance she heard the huffing of the deer that wandered through the small nature preserve that abutted her yard. Familiar sights. Comforting sounds. It should’ve been idyllic, but it wasn’t. Nothing was peaceful when the game began.
In the shadows she saw a score of Keenan’s lackeys. Rowan-men, fox-faeries, and other court soldiers—even those that looked almost mortal were still somehow strange to her after decades of their presence. They were always there, watching her, carrying word of her every move back to him. No matter that she told him innumerable times that she wanted them gone. No matter that she felt trapped by their watching and waiting.
“It’s the order of things, Don. The Winter Girl is my responsibility. It’s always been so.” He tried to take her hand, to wrap those now-painful fingers around hers.
She walked away. “Not anymore. I mean it, Keenan. Get rid of them, or I will.”
He hadn’t stayed to see her weep, but she knew he’d heard. Everyone had.
He didn’t listen, though. He’d been too used to Rika’s cooperation, too used to everyone kowtowing to him. So Donia had frozen a number of the guards during the first decade. If they came too close to her, she let a thick rime cover them until they couldn’t move. Most had recovered, but not all.
Keenan merely sent more. He didn’t even complain. No matter how awful she was to him, he insisted on sending more of his guards to keep watch over her. And she kept lashing out, freezing them until eventually he told the next round of guards to stand in the safety of the furthest trees or perch in the boughs of the yew and oak. It was progress of a sort.
Beira stepped up to stand shoulder to shoulder with her. “They still watch. Obedient little pawns he sends to watch over you.”
“They saw you arrive. Keenan will know.” She didn’t look at Beira, staring instead at a young rowan-man who never kept his distance as well as the others.
He winked. In the past decades he’d rarely left his post outside her house. The others rotated in and out, staying constant in number, but not in face. The rowan-man was different. Although they never spoke more than a handful of words, she almost regarded him as a friend.
“Undoubtedly. But not now”—Beira laughed, an awful sound like ravens squabbling over carrion—“poor dear’s out cold.”
Pretending she wasn’t worried never worked; showing concern never worked, so Donia looked toward the thicket, trying to change the topic before she asked how badly it had gone for Keenan. “And where are your lackeys tonight?”
Beira made a “come here” motion in the direction of the copse of trees.
They came then: a trio of enormous shaggy black goats rounded the corner with three of Beira’s faithful hags astride them. Though they were withered things—looking like the mere husks of women—the hags were eerily strong, able to rend the limbs from even the eldest mountain trolls. They terrified Donia as they cackled like mad hens and paraded around the yard—as if they dared Keenan’s waiting guards to come closer.
Donia stepped up to the porch rail, away from Beira, closer to the wretched women who served the Winter Queen. “Looking lovely, Agatha.”
Agatha spat at her.
It was foolish to taunt them, but Donia did it every time they came around. She had to prove, to herself and to them, that she wasn’t intimidated. “You do realize that it’s not you who keep the guards at bay?”
Of course, it wasn’t her threat either that made the guards keep their distance. If Keenan said they should approach, they would. Her desires be damned. Their injuries and deaths be damned. Keenan’s will was all that mattered to them.
The hags scowled at her, but they didn’t answer. Like Keenan’s guards, Beira’s lackeys kept their distance from her. No one wanted to anger Beira, except Keenan.
Talk about dysfunctional families. Both Keenan and Beira protected her, as if the other one were a worse threat.
When the hags refused to say anything, Donia turned back to Beira. “I’m tired. What do you want?”
For a moment Donia thought she’d been too blunt, that Beira would lash out at her. The Winter Queen was usually as calculating as Keenan was capricious, but her temper was a truly horrifying thing when she did release it.
Beira only smiled, a characteristically frightening smile, but less dangerous than anger. “There are those who’d see Keenan happy, those who want him to find the girl who’ll share the throne with him. I do not.”
She let the full weight of her chill roll off of her; it slammed into Donia, leaving her feeling like she was being absorbed into the heart of a glacier. If she were still mortal, it would kill her.
Beira lifted Donia’s almost-limp hand and wrapped it around the staff, under her own frigid hand. It didn’t react, didn’t change anything, but the mere touch of it brought back the memories of those first few years when the pain was still raw.
While Donia was struggling to breathe, Beira continued, “Keep this one from taking the staff, and I’ll withdraw my cold from you—free you. He can’t offer you that freedom. I can. Or”—Beira traced a fingernail down the center of Donia’s chest in a perverse mockery of a caress—“if you’d rather, we can see how much cold I can push through you before it uses you up.”
Donia might be able to direct the chill, but she couldn’t contain it. The cold poured out, answering Beira’s touch, making quite clear who had the power.
In a ragged voice Donia said, “I know my place. I convince her not to trust him. I agreed to that when I took up the staff.”
