Page 3 of Jack Frost
The sound I make is half-laugh, half-sob.
Why are there ice sculptures down here?
I must be very close to death. Dangerously cold. Hallucinating, for sure.
Closing my eyes, I press my gloved hands over them, inhaling icy air. If only it didn't hurt so much to breathe. If only I weren't losing the feeling in my toes, and the tip of my nose.
When I look again, the ice carvings are still there.
Fine. I'm just going to keep walking and pretend they don't exist.
Forward I march, my chin set grimly under my snow-crusted scarf.
Maybe the statues were left behind by some long-lost researcher or explorer who fell into the ice and carved them just for fun before dying in this lovely death-trap.
Right. Like that makes sense.
I'm a scientist. But I'm also an artist. Weird blend, sure, but it works. It means I have a detailed understanding of the biology and life cycles of penguins whilealsoknowing how to compose a shot correctly, for the best visual impact. So while I am a deeply pragmatic person, I have an even more foundational love for things that are mystically, inexplicably beautiful.
When confronted with the inexplicable, humans do one of two things—deny it or believe it.
The further I walk, the closer I edge to believing it.
It's the columns that convince me. Tall and graceful, reaching three stories high—perfectly round and smooth, like frosty white tree trunks that curve into crisply pointed arches overhead.
And then the steps—two dozen of them, blue ice shot through with swirls of white.
Have I stepped into a kids' movie here? Can I expect a blonde ice queen to sweep down the steps toward me, snowflakes unfurling from her hands? I bite back a hysterical laugh and knock the tears from my cheekbones before they can freeze and chap my skin even further.
Beyond the arches and the steps is a long hallway. I could swear this part of the—cave? castle?—is marble or stone, not ice. Or perhaps it's simply a kind of ice I'm not familiar with.
There are rooms here—wide and beautiful, with crystalline branches laced across their ceilings and furniture as clear as glass sitting untouched. A dusky blue light glimmers throughout the place—the faint echo of winter daylight. Everything feels expectant, unused. Like the whole palace is waiting for something, or someone.
I'm getting a headache. The pain splinters my consciousness, shattering my appreciation for the exquisite, impossible scenery through which I'm wandering.
The hallway expands suddenly, space opening before me—a great hall with fiercely glorious lines. Columns of ebony rock, gleaming wetly in the dim blue light, soar high above my head, meeting at a peak festooned with icicles bigger than my body and sharp as spears. The floor is lake-blue ice so clear I can see down into its depths for what feels like miles.
And there's a throne, because of course there is, because I am dreaming, or dying, or dead.
If I'm dead, or dreaming, I'm totally allowed to sit on the throne, right?
I'm so damn tired, and so cold. If I can just sit for a minute, I'll feel better.
Or maybe I'll fall asleep and freeze to death.
Reluctantly I skirt around the throne. At the back of the hall there's a door—the first one I've seen in this place. What kind of fancy ice castle doesn't have doors? Although I suppose unexpected visitors aren't much of an issue here. A hysterical giggle bubbles between my lips, and its echo off the icy walls is so frightening that I clap my hand across my mouth, vowing internally not to do that again.
The door is seamed with silvery lines and has a pattern of raised white snowflakes that fit together like a clockwork mechanism.
A quick wrench to the handle reveals that this door is locked, and if the snowflake-clockwork is anything to go by, it's not meant to be easy to open.
If this is a dream, I should be able to unlock the door with my mind. If it's real, maybe a good kick would help—even ice doors have weak points, right? Too bad my mind and my muscles are at their limit. I don't think I could run for my life, even if a giant snow monster stormed into the hall, roaring for my blood.
I lean my forehead against the door and release a soft sigh. "I wish there were blankets and hot chocolate and a warm bath behind you," I murmur. "But I seriously doubt it."
My breath puffs onto the cold surface, creating a swirl of opalescent white.
A faint chattering and clicking begins, and I back away as the clockwork snowflakes spin, interlocking, the motion transferring from gear to gear until the final one pops into place, and the door handle twitches a fraction.
