Ashes of Snow

Chapter 26

LORGEN'S THRONE ROOM fades, the blackness disintegrating into a city. No, not just any city—the Jannuari from my patched-together memories.

AND IT'S SNOWING.

I turn, the cobblestones slick with ice, and the cold that shoots through my bare feet infuses me with euphoria. The earthy aroma of coal and refining minerals coats the air, turning everything a hazy gray. I belong here, in Jannuari. How could I have ever been anywhere else?

The skirt of my pale gray dress is tattered, stained with use and poverty. The thin cotton lets more cold rays wrap around my body as I stand in the street, smiling at a figure running toward me through the snow. Nesta.

"Aerin, supper's ready! Your mother sent me to fetch you."

My mother. Something pushes at my mind... I don't think I have a mother.

No, of course I do. I've always had a mother.

"Aerin, come on!" Nesta grabs my hand and pulls me up the street. She's so happy, so healthy, filled with a life of love and safety, her eyes gleaming as snowflakes stick in her hair.

I lift my skirt in one hand and together we run up the street, passing Winterians tidying up displays in shop windows or hammering horseshoes in a blacksmith's shop. Jobs they should be doing, not like— They're wrong too. Wrong like my mother. Nesta is even a little wrong, and this city is wrong, though I know it exists.

"He's coming to dinner tonight," Nesta whispers, her tone seasoned with joy and gossip.

"Who?"

Nesta laughs, the sound making the air glitter even more. She pulls me up a path to a small two-story cottage and throws open the door, warm firelight falling out into the snow-filled path. Yellow mixes with the gray of Jannuari, warmth meeting snow. It's not a bad warmth, though—it's perfect.

"There she is!" a voice cries as I step across the threshold. The fire pit on the left holds a bowl of orange coals that heat a cauldron of stew. Cressen sits at a wooden table with a small bundle cooing from his arms, a woman behind him resting her hands on his shoulders. His wife? She must be. Troy crouches in front of his wife too, along with two little boys who stare in awe while he relates some story that involves mock-stabbing an enemy.

Behind the table, a small, graceful woman emerges from a back room, locks of white hair curling around a face smudged with flour. "Aerin, come! He's almost here," she says. Doreah.

Nesta falls into a chair at the table. "Your mother's been cooking all day."

My mother. Doreah is my ...

"Hurry, everyone! His carriage is pulling up."

A booming voice rolls out behind me. I turn as a man stomps in, dusting snow from his hair. The loose flakes melt into my skin, raising shivers that tingle along my arms. I know him. His dark-blue eyes and gray-speckled beard and white hair pulled back in a tight knot...

Doreah is my mother—which means Sir is my father.

Joy chokes me, hot tears pool in my eyes. He's my father. Of course he is—I've always wanted him to be my father.

A swell of pain breaks through my joy and I fall forward, knees cracking onto the wooden floor as thoughts pound against my mind, determined and loud.

I called him Father once and yes, Sir, no, Sir. You are not my father and I am not your daughter and all I ever wanted was for you to look at me...