Thread of Frost

Ch. 45: First Winter Star

Julian stood outside the door.

He raised his fist. Lowered it again. Over the past three minutes, he'd done this approximately seven times. Halson's guard stood across the corridor, his stony gaze fixed on the wall. The man hadn't so much as blinked. It was, Julian had to admit, actually quite impressive.

Julian ran a hand through his hair.

The door was scuffed, dented where Halson had once slammed into the wood. The palace roof had collapsed after a bad winter storm, and the entire west wing of the palace had frozen over; they'd put on ice skates and raced through the corridors, munching on handfuls of roasted chestnuts and rosemary biscuits.

That was back when they were children. Back before Halson's father had died, and everything had changed.

Julian raised his hand.

Paused.

Julian turned to the guard. "Is he even in there?"

The guard stared at the wall. No reply. Right, Julian thought; sod it. He knocked on the door three times. Halson's voice sounded from within.

"Who is it?"

Julian leaned his head against the wood. "Jules."

"Oh." Papers rustled. "What are you standing outside for? Come in."

Julian pushed open the door.

His cousin was sitting at a desk, dressed in a velvet robe. Bottles of expensive wine were scattered across the wood, along with a stack of letters. Julian looked away. His chest was burning. He'd anticipated the anger, the confusion, but the betrayal. That was the surprise.

"Good," Halson said. "You're just in time. Listen to this."

His cousin lifted a letter, clearing his throat.

"I hate to bother you so soon after your nuptials, but this really cannot wait any longer. I require three dozen goats by next week. My astrologer says that it's imperative if I'm to conceive a son." Halson lowered the letter, looking amused. "That's from Lord Yiddensburg. Can you believe that? As if I'd grant a single goat to that fat lump."

Julian didn't move. "Why?"

Halson raised an eyebrow. "Don't tell me that you feel sorry for Yiddensburg. No offense to the old bat, but I hope he doesn't conceive a son. The world is better off without being afflicted by his progeny."

"No," Julian said. "Why?"

His voice was terse. Halson's smile faded. "What are you on about, Julian?"

Julian's heart hammered in his chest. "I have spent the last twenty-four hours wandering around the woods. Thinking."

"Well," Halson said, "that seems like an interesting psychological experiment, but perhaps irrelevant to our current conversation." He lowered the letter. "Did you have an actual question for me?"

"How many times have you hit her?" Julian asked.

His heart thundered. Everything was Isolde's face. Her bone-blond hair. Her dark eyes. Her face, swollen and bruised in the candlelight. Her last words echoed in his head, over and over again: Please, Julian. Just go.

Halson's face was blank. "Who?"

Julian looked away. "Don't do that." His voice was sharp. "Don't pretend like you don't know."

"If you're speaking of my wife—"

"Of course I am." Julian's breath was ragged. "She's your wife, Halson. You're meant to love her. To protect her."