The slamming of a door made her jump, and she heard voices coming from Mina’s parlor. One of the voices was Mina’s, and after listening for a moment, Lynet recognized her father’s voice as well.
“And you didn’t even think to consult me first?” Nicholas was saying.
“You’ve never cared before,” Mina replied. “I’m free to do what I want with the South. That was our agreement.”
“Building and improving roads and reviving the university was one thing, but this is a castle, Mina. What’s the point in taking on such a project?”
There was a heavy pause, and Lynet didn’t need to see her stepmother’s face to know that it was stony with anger. Lynet had years of practice pretending not to notice the arguments between her father and her stepmother. But over the years, whenever she heard Mina’s voice raised in anger or lowered in defiance, Lynet had started to imagine that it was her own, instead, telling her father all the things she wished she could say to him.
“I don’t expect you to understand,” Mina said quietly, “but in the South, the Summer Castle’s abandonment always represented the North not caring about us. Finishing its construction will be a legacy of sorts, not just for me, but for you, too. It will give the South something to take pride in, and it will employ hundreds of people. I know the southerners want this, Nicholas. They write to me all the time, telling me how thankful they are that someone finally cares about them—”
“It will take years, Mina.”
“I have years to give.”
Now Nicholas fell silent, and Lynet held her breath, wondering what he would say and who would win this battle.
“You promised me, Nicholas,” Mina whispered. “Don’t you remember?”
“Of course I do, but I still—” He paused and said in a calmer voice, “We’ll discuss this at a later time, after Lynet’s birthday, perhaps.”
“Construction has already begun. I won’t let you take this from me, Nicholas.”
“Later, I said. I don’t want to spoil Lynet’s birthday with our bickering.” Lynet heard the door open and close again, and then she heard Mina sigh.
At another time, Lynet would have been eager to hear more about her stepmother’s new project. Mina always spoke of the Summer Castle with such affection, telling Lynet all about its golden domes and marble floors, the rest of it abandoned and unfinished. She would assure Mina that she agreed with her decision no matter what Nicholas said, and it would be something they shared together.
But now Lynet could only think of the secret that Mina had kept from her for all these years, and she left her corner to sit on the bed and wait.
When Mina came into the bedchamber and saw Lynet, her face tightened into a strained smile. “You’re early!” she said. “I hope you weren’t waiting here long—”
Lynet couldn’t stop herself. She took a breath and said, “Why did you never tell me that I was made of snow?”
Mina’s mouth hung open in surprise before she recovered and reverted back to her forced smile. “What did you say?”
Her pretense was unbearable. Lynet might have expected anyone else to wave her aside, but she couldn’t accept it from Mina. “Mina, please,” she said in a whisper, “don’t lie to me.”
The smile faded from Mina’s face slowly. She shut her eyes tight for a moment, and then she nodded to herself and opened them again. She walked over to where Lynet was sitting on the bed and gently lifted Lynet’s head with her hands, her fingers curled against Lynet’s jaw. “Who told you, then?” she said, her voice sad but resigned.
“So it’s true,” Lynet said, her last remnants of hope dying away as she looked up at her stepmother with wide, pleading eyes. What she was pleading for, she didn’t know.
Mina started to say something, but then she stopped, her jaw tensing, her hands falling away from Lynet’s face. “Did my father speak with you?” When Lynet didn’t answer, Mina grabbed her roughly by the shoulders. “Tell me, did he—but no, no, he’s away now, he couldn’t have…” She released Lynet, her shoulders sagging in relief as she turned away. “But if he didn’t tell you, then who did?” she murmured to herself.
“The real question is, why didn’t you?” Lynet said, her voice growing louder. She rose from the bed, wanting to stand more level with Mina. “Why did you let me find out on my own?”
Mina grew quiet, and Lynet wished she wouldn’t look so sad—it was making it harder for her to stay angry rather than burst into tears like a child. Without looking at Lynet, Mina walked slowly to the small table beside her bed and gently touched the handle of the broken hand mirror. Abruptly, she pulled her hand away. “There have been times over the years,” she said, still looking down at the mirror, “when I’ve thought about telling you, but as you grew older, the truth seemed more like a burden than a gift. I’d hoped you would never find out.” She looked up at Lynet, the fire reflected in her warm brown eyes. “Don’t you wish you had never found out?”
Lynet started to consider her answer, but then she shook her head, like she was trying to shake something off. She didn’t want to see Mina’s point. She didn’t want to be reasoned with. She wanted to scream, to release some of the panic that was threatening to overcome her. “I know why my father never told me, but you—I’ve always trusted you to be honest with me. You should have prepared me for this. You should have told me something. If it were you instead of me, wouldn’t you want to know?”
“No,” Mina said almost instantly, a sharp edge to her voice. She reached for Lynet’s face. “I would have considered it an act of cruelty to tell you.”
Lynet flinched from Mina’s outstretched hand, backing away until she tripped on the corner of a rug. That small indignity was too much for her, and whatever courage she was trying to maintain in the face of this revelation shattered in an instant, leaving her with all the fear and hurt of a child who’d discovered pain for the first time. “That doesn’t make any sense!” she shouted as she burst into tears. She shut her eyes and hugged her arms around herself, expecting Mina to come and hold her at any moment. But moments passed, and she was still alone in the dark.
“Doesn’t it?” Mina said, her voice small and wavering. “There’s nothing you can do about it, nothing you can change, so what’s the point in knowing the truth? Why would I tell you, except to hurt you?”
When Lynet opened her eyes again, Mina was clutching the bedpost like a shield between them. Lynet wondered if she had ever seen her stepmother appear so distressed. She almost moved to reassure Mina, until she remembered that she was supposed to be the one in need of comfort. That was why she was so angry, so scared—not because Mina hadn’t told her before, but because Mina wasn’t doing anything now to make it better. She had thought Mina would tell her it would all be fine, but instead she seemed even more afraid than Lynet.
“At least tell me what else you know,” Lynet said. “Tell me … tell me what I should do.”
Her voice cracked, and the sound seemed to reach through to Mina at last. She straightened and came to her, pulling Lynet into her arms. “Of course, Lynet,” she said, her hands pulling at Lynet’s curls, untangling them from years of habit. “Tell me what you want to know.”
She gently guided Lynet to the chair in front of the mirror, and Lynet sank into it gratefully. She didn’t want to be angry anymore—she was too scared and confused to take on the truth alone, and the feel of her stepmother’s fingers combing through her hair made her feel safe. More than that, it made her feel like herself.
“So what am I, then?” she said, her voice more like a croak. “Am I just … a doll?”
“No, you’re not just a doll,” Mina said. “My father shaped you not just from snow, but also from blood.”
“Is that important?”
Mina’s hands paused for a moment, but then she continued. “Yes, it’s important. Without his blood, you’d be artifice, a perfect imitation of a human being, but only an imitation. You wouldn’t grow or age. You … you would have no hea
rtbeat. Blood creates genuine life.”
Lynet took a shuddering breath. “So I’m not … I’m not going to die at the same age as my mother?”
Mina looked up in surprise, meeting Lynet’s eye in the mirror. “Is that what you’re afraid of? Oh, Lynet, no, your life is your own, to live out as you choose.”
A fresh set of tears filled Lynet’s eyes, though whether they were from relief or despair, she couldn’t say. She covered her face with her hands, ashamed that Mina should see her like this again. But when Mina gently tried to move her hands away from her face, Lynet allowed it, seeking to draw strength from her stepmother’s example. Mina was kneeling beside her, waiting for her to speak.
“I’m sorry,” Lynet managed to say. “I’m sorry I’m like this, but I … I wish it weren’t true. I wish I had something that was only mine. I wish everything were different.”
Mina seemed to wince, but then she nodded. “I understand. But listen to me, wolf cub. I never knew your mother; I only know you. You don’t have to be like your mother, no matter what anyone says.”
“Sometimes I think I will be whether I want to or not.…”
She took Lynet’s hand, a fierce gleam in her eye. “I won’t let it happen. You’re not your mother, and you’re allowed to have something that belongs only to you.”
In that moment, Lynet believed her. She believed that Mina could do anything she was determined to do, her will stronger than any magic. Lynet threw her arms around Mina’s neck, and Mina held her close. “Thank you,” Lynet said.
Mina pulled away first, as she always did. “Do you feel better now?” she asked.
Lynet nodded, though she wasn’t sure how she felt. She still had the unsettling feeling that she was trapped in someone else’s body. Then again, she had felt that way even before knowing the truth.
Mina bit her lip, and then she said, “I want to show you something.”
She stood, went to the door, and held her hand out to Lynet, waiting for her to follow. Lynet did follow, and the two of them left the room and walked through the halls together, crossing the long gallery to the west wing of the castle, continuing until they were in a narrow hallway Lynet wasn’t even sure she had seen before. That was impossible, though; she knew every corner of Whitespring, even if there were some she visited less frequently.
At the end of the hall was a simple wooden door. Mina pushed it open and Lynet followed her inside. She recognized the place now: it was a chapel, or at least it used to be. The line of stone altars was still there, but the wooden benches for worshippers had been removed over time as the North stopped trusting in any gods but Sybil, and now the room felt cavernous and empty. Three large stained-glass windows lined the wall behind the altars, but without much sunlight, the windows were dull and a little sad, the pattern of colors all appearing as the same dreary hue.
“I always found this chapel a comfort,” Mina said, her voice barely echoing in the empty room. She walked over to the line of altars and sat in front of the center one in a single graceful movement. Her presence seemed to make the room feel intimate rather than lonely.
Lynet sat beside Mina, careful not to make any noise—she felt somehow that it would be disrespectful if she did.
“I used to come here when I wanted to be by myself,” Mina continued. “I knew no one else came to this chapel anymore, so I felt like it was the one corner of Whitespring that was mine.”
Lynet watched her reverently, struck by Mina’s serene smile, her soft brown eyes no longer flashing with the fire that always burned in her room. Mina seldom spoke of her life before she had become queen, as though it hadn’t truly begun until she’d worn a crown. Lynet could believe it—she couldn’t imagine her stepmother as anything but a queen, even though she had vague memories of the first time they’d met, before Mina and her father had married. Even in her memories, Lynet always saw Mina as a flame, something fierce and fearless and regal.
But here inside the calm quiet of the chapel, she could imagine Mina as a child—not a child, but sixteen, the same age Lynet was fast approaching—sitting here by herself in a strange, cold world, her flame somewhat dimmed. She thought of the fire that was always roaring in Mina’s bedroom, the furs she wore even though everyone else at Whitespring had long since adapted to the cold. This one place alone had given her a sense of comfort, of belonging, and Lynet wished she could find the words to tell her stepmother how dearly she appreciated being here with her now.
“You’ll find something that’s yours alone,” Mina said, taking Lynet’s hand in her own. “And when you do, don’t let anyone take it from you.”
Lynet thought of the argument she had heard between Mina and her father, the way Mina had fought for what was hers. Would Lynet ever be able to do that? Could she ever burn as brightly as her stepmother, when she was made of snow?
“Thank you for telling me the truth,” Lynet said. She hoped Mina understood that she was thanking her not only for that, but especially for sharing this place, this memory, with her.
But Mina frowned slightly as she looked down at their joined hands. When she spoke at last, it was to say in a halting voice, “Yes, Lynet, of course.”
Lynet wanted to ask her what she had been thinking about, but something stopped her. She kept picturing that girl sitting alone in the chapel, and it was strange and even unsettling to think that Lynet hadn’t been a part of Mina’s life then. Whatever Mina had just been thinking—whoever she had once been—was a world away from Lynet. She held Mina’s hand more tightly, not yet ready to accept that there were still so many secrets hidden away at the center of the flame, too bright for her to see.
8
LYNET
Lynet sat on the edge of the North Tower’s one large window, waiting.
The patches in the ceiling let in beams of moonlight, illuminating pieces of the room one at a time: a corner of a faded rug, the skeleton of an empty bedframe, the arm of an overstuffed chair, all covered in dust. The only inhabitants of the North Tower lay in the crypt below.
Each morning for the past few days, Lynet had found a new note from Nadia tucked into the branches of the juniper tree. She kept imploring Lynet to see her again, to let her apologize for handing Lynet this burden so gracelessly. Lynet didn’t respond, but she still checked every morning for the latest one. Besides, she was too busy to visit. More and more visitors were arriving at Whitespring as Lynet’s birthday celebration approached, and Lynet’s duty as a princess demanded that she stand by her father’s side in the Hall, greeting and visiting with each new arrival personally. And now she understood why her father made such a fuss about her birthday every year. He had been trying, in his own way, to make her feel human.
As much as she tried, Lynet couldn’t be angry with him for that.
She wasn’t angry with Nadia, either, not really. But she couldn’t stand to go back into that room, to look at that spot by the table and think, That was where I learned the truth.
And then, just this morning, she’d found another scrawled message in the tree—the shortest one yet:
I have the prior surgeon’s journals, if you want to know more.
She knew Nadia was appealing to her curiosity, but did that matter? Lynet did want to know more. For the first time, she left a note in response:
Midnight at the top of the North Tower. Bring the journals.
She had chosen the tower because it was the highest point at Whitespring, a marked contrast to the subterranean workroom where Nadia had unraveled her with a few simple words. Perhaps in the tower room, high above the royal crypt, Lynet could put herself back together again.
Shortly before midnight, she had climbed out the window of her room, descending carefully to the ground below. It may have been dramatic of her to choose to meet at this time, but she felt freer at night. There was nowhere she was supposed to be, no one she was supposed to be, and so it seemed a fitting time to find out who she was.
When she had reached the courtyard, she quick
ly checked the juniper tree to be sure Nadia had seen her note—yes, the note was gone, so she quickly went through the arch that led to the garden. After only a few hurried steps, she found herself running.
Running to the tower? Running away from something? She wasn’t sure—she only knew that she needed to feel her blood rushing through her body, to become so aware of the pounding of her heart and the rush of air through her tired lungs that she couldn’t feel anything other than human—flesh and bone, not snow and blood. In the dark of night, with only the moon watching her, she could even pretend that she didn’t look anything like her mother.
She knew the position of every tree in the Shadow Garden, and so when she suddenly collided with something, her first thought was that one of the trees was in the wrong place. But then she looked up and found that she hadn’t run into a tree, but a man.
His hands were on her shoulders as he held her away from him, and so she recognized him as the best of her father’s huntsmen when she saw the scarred skin that peeked from under his sleeves. Lynet had seen him many times from the window when her father was preparing for a hunt, but she had never encountered him personally, and she was glad of that. His scarred arms didn’t frighten her, but his eyes did—they were so blank, so empty, like black marbles set in a human face.
“You’re the princess,” he said, bending his head a little to look at her. “You’re as beautiful as they say.”
Girls Made of Snow and Glass Page 7
