Page 1 of Gifted to the Frost King

1

DOVE

My old boot crunches through the thick layer of snow as I try to free one last carrot from the frozen ground.

Gripping the green stem in my gloved hand, I brace myself and pull hard. The carrot breaks through the ice with a resounding crack, and I nearly fall on my backside. It wouldn’t matter much if I did. I’m already soaked to the bone from the icy wind. My toes went numb an hour ago. My wool socks are squishy—wet from the hole in the toe that still desperately needs mending.

Mama has had much on her plate recently, and I haven’t had the heart to add fixing my worn boots to it.

Therefore, I grit my teeth against the blistering cold, push my discomfort from my mind, and toss the last meager carrot into my fraying basket. Five carrots and two potatoes is a meager haul. I can only hope my sister has had more luck. Glancing across the snowy field, my eyes land on Sophia’s small frame as she fights with her own stubborn vegetable.

My sister’s long scarf whips in the wind. Snow settles on her coat-covered shoulders. Tendrils of her dark hair cling to her pink cheeks. Glancing towards the sky, I sigh as the thick whiteclouds roll overhead. The dusting we are getting is about to take a turn for the worst.

The scent of fresh cinnamon bread tickles my nose. I drop my gaze down towards our cottage. Smoke billows from the crumbling chimney and orange light beams through the two front-facing windows. My stomach growls, reminding me I haven’t eaten today.

Tucking my basket in the crook of my arm, I cup my hands around my mouth.

“Sophia!” I call, watching her turn towards me. “Come. Let’s head inside before you turn into an icicle.”

She picks up her basket and stomps over to me—the deep snow rising nearly to her knees. The skirt of her wool dress is sodden. Once she is next to me, I take in her shivering body. Before we head inside, we must commence with our usual ritual.

“Two potatoes and four carrots,” she says proudly, holding up her basket.

Her scarf is wrapped around the lower part of her face, muffling her soft voice. Her blue eyes sparkle with pride. She, Mama, and I all share the same dark hair, but only Sophia was blessed with Papa’s light eyes. Whenever I look at her, warm memories of him flood me.

Smirking down at her, my cheeks sting from wind-burn.

“Two potatoes,” I say, raising my basket in triumph. “Andfivecarrots.”

Her dark brows pull down, and I know she's frowning even with her mouth covered. Her small hand tips my basket as she peers inside.

“No fair,” she huffs. “Mine are bigger!”

“The game has always been about quantity—not size.” I wave a dismissive hand.

Sophia pouts as she sets off towards the house. The numbness in my toes has now spread to my whole foot. Unsticking my legs, I trudge along after her.

The game helps Sophia see this chore as something fun, even if the task is dreadful. Papa used to play it with me, showering me with praise when my hauls were bigger than his. Those were the days when our harvests were much more significant: ten potatoes instead of four, fifteen carrots instead of nine.

Ever since Sophia was born ten years ago, and we lost Papa to illness in the months following her birth, the weather in our small town of Snowdale has gotten worse. I fear Sophia will only know hardship if it persists. The snow and ice have to let up. We won’t survive much longer if our bounties continue to be this meager.

That is why tomorrow is so important.

I quickly catch up to Sophia, and we huddle under our wet coats to share body heat. Sophia is quiet as we walk—lost in her thoughts as always. I don’t mind the silence, especially when each deep breath shreds my lungs with icy claws.

We make it to the front door of our cottage just as the wind picks up. Kicking the snow off our boots, we enter our home and latch the creaking door. Sophia and I hang our wet coats and mittens on the pegs near the door before taking off our shoes. Bright orange flames snap and flicker in the hearth. The heat lures Sophia and I towards it. The warmth licks over my cold cheeks and returns feeling back in my hands.

The oven door slams shut and I glance towards our tiny kitchen. Mama rises from her crouched position with a fresh loaf of cinnamon bread. She was able to barter for the elusive spice in the market a few weeks ago, and I’ve been patiently waiting for her to make it ever since.

It’s not surprising she chose today.

Flour decorates the front of her simple, dark gown. Gray hair curls around her temples, and her dark eyes glow warmly as she takes us in. She smiles, and the wrinkles around her mouth stretch with the movement. It’s warm, if a little brittle—the weight of tomorrow lingers between us in the cottage.

Picking up our baskets, I set them down next to her on the counter.

“Four potatoes and nine carrots. Sophia found the most.”

My sister turns from her place at the fire with wide blue eyes. I send her a quick wink and am rewarded with her toothy grin. Mama goes through our baskets, sifting through each vegetable.

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