Jackson Pearce - Cold Spell

Brigit conducts the ceremony, speaking in Shelta, asking Flannery to repeat after her. She’s misty-eyed, happy, as if she doesn’t notice that her daughter appears to be dying a slow, chiffon-induced death. They exchange simple silver rings, and then Brigit binds Flannery’s and Callum’s hands with bits of scarf and declares their hearts and minds tied together like their wrists. And then it comes time to kiss, and Callum leans toward Flannery—

She flinches, pulls back, and a ripple of dissatisfaction goes through the crowd. Callum watches Flannery for a moment, then leans forward and whispers something to her—not something sweet or poetic, I can tell by the lines of his face. He pulls back and I see him tap her hand with his thumb, counting down. One. Two.

They kiss on “three,” short and quick, but it’s enough that the crowd cheers, stomps their feet, and throws artificial flower petals in the air. Brigit instructs the couple to sit back down and urges the musicians—a handful of guitar players—to play something snappy. Couples dance, liquor drinks are poured, and the revelry begins. I hang toward the back of the crowd, by Ardan and Declan, who are placing bets on how long it’ll be before Flannery gives Callum a black eye. I consider getting in on the wager.

If it weren’t for the fact that the bride and groom look utterly miserable, the wedding would be pretty amazing—the sort of homegrown thing that those brides on the reality shows my classmates watched are always trying to emulate. The guests look happy and well-fed, the music hardly stops, and the sky above is clear and diamond-studded. A few hours in and the liquor is still flowing, encouraging the frenzy. Callum waves for someone to bring him a large cup of beer. Flannery eyes him, shakes her head, then slumps down in her chair. Her eyes narrow, as if she’s thinking very hard. She exhales, looks at me as if she wants to say something, and then—

“Hey, boys?” she calls across the fire to the musicians. “How about ‘Winter’s Keep’?”

I see Callum’s eyebrows shoot up. He looks at me and, for a moment, I think he’s going to call out for them to stop. But the Flannery somehow pulls his eyes to her, and there’s a silent conversation between them. Callum sits back in his chair as the musicians begin to play.

Come along, my brothers,

stay your drink and calm your words.

It’s comin’ on the season,

bring the ice and go the birds.

And with it comes a lady,

from the great wood, strong and bright.

She tames the fangs and fur and claw,

we honor her, tonight.

She lives among the selchs and snow,

she knows her magic well.

She’ll call the very best to her,

The rest she’ll send to hell.

So climb into your beds, my friends,

But think before you sleep, of

the beauty and the terror

of the Lady Winter’s Keep.

I inhale, close my eyes, and replay the words in my head over and over until they’re memorized.

It’s late—three or four in the morning, and my breath forms bright white clouds as a group of Travellers escort Flannery and Callum back to his RV. It’s covered in Christmas lights, and someone has painted flowers on the door frame. Flannery looks pale, and I want to follow her, but Brigit is watching me carefully. I swallow, turn my back on Flannery, and head back toward Brigit’s RV. I hear Brigit finish her conversation; I glance over my shoulder casually, looking just far enough to know she’s following me. When I reach the trailer I walk immediately to Flannery’s bedroom, pull on one of her hoodies to fight the temperature, and get in the bed on the floor. Brigit opens the trailer’s main door, and a series of sounds tell me she’s taking jewelry off, opening cabinets and drawers. I jump when she suddenly flings open the door to Flannery’s bedroom, her shape illuminated by the lamp in the kitchen.

“You can sleep in her bed, you know. She lives with Callum now,” Brigit says, then shuts the door. The brusqueness of her words fully ignites the feelings that have been smoldering in me all day. I jump up and follow her out into the kitchen, letting Flannery’s door bang into the wall behind me. Brigit is steeping a cup of tea, rubbing her temples. When she sees my expression, she scowls.

“Gonna come in here and go all buffer on me?” she says, motioning to me. She sounds as if she’s prepared for this argument. “Call me a monster, a bad mother? Save it—I see your news programs. I know what you think of traditions that aren’t like your own.”

“She didn’t want to marry him,” I say, shaking my head. “That has nothing to do with tradition. She doesn’t want him; it’s simple.”

“She loves him,” Brigit says. “You know how lucky she is, that she loves the man she’s marrying?”

“But she didn’t want —”

“Don’t think for a second you understand us after a few days,” Brigit snaps, sloshing the tea from her cup. “Most of these Traveller girls, they’re not going to be professors or lawyers or surgeons. They’re going to be housewives. Except for Flannery. She’s the one with a real future—she’s going to be queen. But there’s not a man in this camp that wouldn’t take it from her. They see a single woman as weak, while a married woman as strengthened by her husband. Trust me”—she points to herself—“I know. Flannery deserves better than the reign I’ve had. Isn’t that what every mother wants for her daughter—a better future than her own?”

I stay quiet; if Flannery herself can’t convince Brigit that she’s strong enough to rule anything on her own, from bears to deer to a clan of Travellers, then I doubt I can. I swallow as Brigit sits down at the kitchen table.

“What’s going to happen to me?” I ask.

Brigit lifts an eyebrow, then shakes her head pityingly. “You haven’t already decided? That’s the problem with buffers, Ginny Andersen. You let the world determine your fate.”

I firm my jaw. “So I’m a blessing, then?”

Brigit shrugs. “You’re a curse. I wanted to leave you in the woods, let the Fenris have you, but Flannery made a bargain. She marries Callum without pitching a fit to the clan, and you stay here.”

I nod faintly and walk back to the bedroom, shutting the door behind me. I lie down in bed—the one on the floor, not Flannery’s—and stare at the ceiling. I hear Brigit finish her tea, put the cup in the sink, and then pause at my door for a moment, listening. I lie still, and Brigit eventually goes to her own bedroom. The trailer falls silent, though I can’t tell if she’s actually asleep or not. Any minute now, threads of gold and violet will appear in the sky. There’s not much time.

I sit up in bed.

I don’t know if Brigit’s right—if I’m a curse, or a blessing, or neither. But she was definitely wrong about one thing: I’m not letting the world—or anyone in it—determine my fate. Not anymore, at least.

I pull Flannery’s window open; the cold air rushes in, biting my arms and neck. I can see the forest from here—are the Fenris there, waiting? I have to move either way; there’s no time to dwell on the fear. The window frame is sharp—I can feel it bruising my hands as I heave myself up onto it. I hold my breath, listening for the sound of Brigit rising, moving, coming after me. Nothing.

I drop to the ground. It’s so cold I feel a shock run from my feet to my hips as I hit the dirt. I reach into the hoodie pocket and find Flannery’s knife—I stashed it in there hours ago—then run.