Page 2 of Gifted to the Frost King

“Thank you, girls. These will do well in a stew. We still have some meat from the butcher.” Her eyes roam over my face. “We should eat the last of it tonight.”

“Mama,” I say, reaching for her hand.

Her slender fingers come down on top of mine in a reassuring squeeze.

“I just never thought this day would come,” she whispers, shaking her head.

I glance at Sophia, who’s too busy warming her toes by the fire to hear us. I’ll never forget having to explain to her what tomorrow was. As much as we all pretended it wasn’t happening, we knew from the moment I turned twenty-five, it was a matter of if not when I’d be sent out into the snow and offered tohim.

By being unmarried and childless at what our town deems an old age, I am forced to submit forthe Offering. It is the price I must pay if I wish for myself and my family to remain in Snowdale. There are stories about the families who don’t comply—how they were turned out of their homes by a mob and left to freeze out in the barren, icy wastelands surrounding our town.

My eyes linger on Sophia a moment longer. With our age difference, many would expect us not to be close. Even more would believe I should already be married with at least one childof my own. I knew at fifteen my life plan wouldn’t look like many of the other young women around me.

With Papa gone and Sophia still a baby, Mama needed my help raising her. We have spent every day together—working together and loving each other fiercely. The three of us rely on each other for everything, and that’s why—no matter how barbaric I think this ritual is—I will partake without fuss to keep them safe.

I wouldn’t be opposed to a family of my own, but as we live in one of the most remote cottages, our trips into town are sparse. Besides, it’s not as if Snowdale is brimming with eligible suitors. We rarely get travelers passing through, and the ones we do are frost-bitten old men.

Marrying Jon would’ve taken me out of contention for tomorrow, but I’d rather swallow a kitchen knife than be his bride.

He is one of the only men in our village who has ever paid me much attention—unwelcome as it is. Our last interaction still burns in the back of my mind. Jon had caught me on my way home from the market. Cornering me against an old barn with his breath reeking of ale, he declared his intention to put forth an offer of marriage to my mother. Stating with a smug sneer, he knew how much we could use the coin.

I can still recall his gloved hand sliding over my cheek and his coat opening to show the ornately carved handle of the knife strapped to his hip. Looking for a way out of the conversation, I had told him I was going through withthe Offering;my deadline to be married and avoid it had already passed.

“Hmm,” he had purred against my ear. “The Offeringis a simple delay. Once it is over, I will have you. I take it you are familiar with my reputation?”

I had nodded reluctantly—the stories of his cruelty and brutality were well-known. A smile graced his cracked lips, exposing two rows of yellowed teeth.

“Good. Then you should know I always get what I want.” His beady eyes ran down the length of my body as if he was looking at me unclothed. “Using a little force is something I’ve never shied away from.”

Bile swam up my throat then, just as it does now. A man like Jon Nine-Fingers—a nickname he claims was bestowed on him while doing something heroic, but everyone in Snowdale knows he lost his thumb during a bar fight—would trap me in a marriage of pain and misery. The thought of bearing his children makes my stomach turn.

I allow the roaring fire to melt away the remnants of the icy memory. Mama squeezes my hand once more before I drop hers. She stares at me another moment, eyes rimming with red. The sight of her tears encourages my own to form.

We share a soft smile before she shakes herself and wipes her palms on her skirt.

“Why don’t you two change out of those wet clothes, and I’ll get started on supper.”

Sophia and I head to the bedroom, and I help her out of her wet gown. Even her shift and wool socks are soaked. There must be a hole in her coat somewhere. If I can find our old needle and thread, I’ll try to patch it for her. Slipping a fresh, dry nightgown over her head, I unbraid her soft hair knowing it will dry faster unbound.

“Thank you, Dove,” she says, kissing my cheek before setting off for the table.

Our cottage is small; Mama sleeps in a loft above the main room while Sophia and I share a bed behind a curtain just off the front room. I love my mother and my sister—I’d happily spendmy life with them, but this constant existence of working hard for mere scraps is no life.

What kind of future will Sophia have? How can I start a family when their future is nothing but hardship? What will it be like for Sophia’s children?

We’ll be lucky if this cottage survives until Sophia becomes an adult—I doubt there will be anything left to inherit by the time she gets married. The roof leaks, a draft trickles in from every window, and the floorboards have started rotting from the snow.

Things have to change—I believe they will somehow. I have to, or else I would never get out of bed. Even if change in Snowdale seems as impossible as a day without snow.

Sitting on the creaking bed, I peel off my wet stockings, knowing they’ll need to be set before the fire. I untie the laces at the back of my gown until the fabric gapes. I rise slowly to my feet. The material hits the wooden floor with a wet thud. Stepping out of it, I inspect my toes, happy to see no traces of frostbite.

I slide off my wet shift and put on an old nightgown and fresh wool socks. Bundling up in a thick robe, I pad out to the main room and take my usual spot at the kitchen table. Mama ladles thick brown stew into our bowls. Steam curls over the lip of the cracked ceramic, and I lower my face to absorb the warmth.

My stomach growls as Mama slices off thick pieces of cinnamon bread. The sweet scent invades my lungs.

“If only we had butter,” Mama says softly, shaking her head.

“You know I’ve always preferred it plain.”

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