Every Glistening Night

Chapter Twenty-Seven

My hands tremble with anticipation... and from the cold. Definitely the cold. As I slide the frosty segments of moonlight from my bag, I feel my hands turning to ice. I only have to put them all together, then I'll be done. This had better be the last task the Earthwatcher plans to torment me with. If I have to collect any more light beams, I fear I won't be able to handle it.

The silvery beams contrast the darkness, lighting up the darkened earth. Frigid air bites any skin exposed to it, my nose and fingers in particular. I shrivel into my outer robe, drawing my hands underneath the warm fabric. The few sunlight threads I wove inside help insulate heat. I could still use the sunlight robe right about now.

Whoever is wearing it right now must be very grateful for my handiwork. It isn't even winter — a few leaves cling to the trees, unwilling to succumb to the next season — yet the temperature is low enough to make me wish to curl up under a blanket in my cave, instead of sitting out here in the open.

Pale light twinkles up at me. I stare back, building up the courage to expose my hands again to the cold. Finally, my fingers emerge from their cocoon. Ice settles into my veins almost instantly. My movements are stiff, lacking in precision, as I place the moonlight on the loom. Sensation dulls in my hands. They're numb from the combined chill of light and mountain air.

I try to work quickly while attaching the segments. A needle with one of the last moonlight strands dips through the fabric. Dry soreness settles in my hands. I grow accustomed to the air, but I can tell they are frozen. My stitches are clunky and zig-zag in an intoxicated, uneven line. In the faint light, I can see that my knuckles are sickly blue.

The bottom half of the robe is complete. It radiates the most cutting form of frost, stone on a mountain peak. My lungs breathe in minty air, and not in a sweet, refreshing way. A shiver racks my shoulders, then another. As my fingers flex the barest amount, just enough to shove the needle through the tight weave, I feel the skin on my knuckles split. Blood oozes through the crack, dark and life-filled in contrast to my blue skin. Another twinge of pain breaks on my index finger, and I spot a second dot of pooling blood.

Water plinks on my head. It doesn't register at first, not until a second one lands on my fingers.

Rain. As if this night couldn't get any worse.

Just finish the robe, I tell myself. That's much easier said than done. Rain drizzles overhead. The chill penetrates the sunlight robe, lodging along my spine. The little spasms in my shoulders increase their frequency. I grit my teeth. My fingers are so cold, I can barely keep them moving. Exhaustion tugs at my brain. I just want to draw myself inside my robe, curl into a ball of wool and sunlight.

White begins to flutter around me. It lands on my hands, my lap, my face, the ground. I stare at it for a long time, barely able to pay attention to my work while considering the substance. It collects in a fine layer of fluffy dust. Another shiver runs through me.

It's snow.

Just my luck. Of course I'd get caught in the first snowstorm of the season. I hurry my stitches, even though it makes them wider and less sturdy. In my haste, the needle pricks my finger pad. Red crystals form along the robe's seam. I tie the end, then shuffle around for the next section. My eyes stray to the forest, and I freeze in place, rather literally. Dirt and leaves coat the forest floor, not snow. I glance down at where I'm seated, then back at the surrounding darkness. A sphere of white is around me, but is only several inches thick.

It doesn't make any sense. Snow isn't a selective element; it falls where it will without partiality. But it's as if I'm on my own snowy island in the middle of the forest.