Thread of Frost

Ch. 46: Broken Toys

Isolde was playing cards when the note arrived.

The words were printed on white cardstock, edged by a swirling blue border. The note felt heavy. Expensive. She'd received a similar note not too long ago, Isolde recalled, the night before her wedding. She scanned the words.

Come to my bedroom immediately.

H.

She lowered the card. The heat of the fire scorched her cheeks. Tilda — who'd been dealing out cards — paused.

"What is it?" Tilda asked.

"The emperor wants to see me."

Tilda and Sendra exchanged a glance. Tilda's gaze darted to her face and then quickly away. Isolde twined her hands in her lap. She knew what the other girl was looking at: she'd done her best to cover the day-old mark with powder, but it remained on her jaw, black and tender as a bruised plum.

"I should go," Isolde said.

She rose, gathering her skirts. Unsurprisingly, neither girl offered to go with her. Halson's temper was like a storm: unpredictable at best, destructive at worst. "If I'm not at supper tonight..." The fire stung her eyes. "Will you have a tray sent to my rooms?"

"Of course," Tilda said.

Tilda looked like she wanted to say something else, but she turned back to her cards, shuffling them with expert fingers. Isolde started down the corridor. Servants faced the wall as she passed, their eyes blank and unseeing. Wind seized the shuttered windows, rattling them with impatient fists. Isolde counted each step.

Twelve, thirteen.

Bile rose in her throat. Isolde thought of a Holy Night at the convent, two days after Sister Tria had cut off her leg. A nun had pressed laundered robes into her arms. "Here," she'd said. "Take these to Sister Tria. Quick as you can."

Forty-two, forty-three.

Isolde could still recall walking down the corridor, her small hands fisted in the black material. Biting down on her tongue until it bled. Her injured leg had burned, sending waves of fire through her chest.

Seventy-six, seventy-seven.

Now, Isolde paused outside an ornate door. Someone had carved a design into the wood: a white bear beneath a winter star, gazing mournfully at a night sky. The Dolphenberg family crest. Her family crest too, she supposed.

She knocked.

"Come in," Halson called.

She pushed open the door. Halson was leaning over a wooden desk, dressed in a black velvet robe. His blond hair gleamed in the candlelight. Several bottles were arranged across the desk. Port, sherry, white wine... Isolde couldn't identify most of the labels. A single bottle probably cost more than most people made in a year.

"You wanted to see me?" Isolde asked.

Halson didn't look up. "You're meant to curtsey in my presence."

"Oh." She glanced around the empty room. "I assumed—"

"Go on," Halson said.

He clasped his hands behind his back. Isolde sunk into a curtsey, her glass leg bending awkwardly. Halson held out a bottle. "Drink?"

"No." Isolde swallowed. "Thanks."

Halson nodded. "I'm sending a case of our finest blends to Wynterlynn. To toast our new friendship." He pulled out a goblet. "Oh, and I'm sending Julian, too."

Isolde stared. "What?"

"Julian," Halson repeated calmly. "Perhaps you know him." He poured out a healthy measure of wine. "Dark hair, permanent scowl, carries a bow like he might shoot at anyone who annoys him—"