On the third morning, she gave up her attempts to respect the privacy of his memories. She wanted what she’d never had. Even if she could only vicariously enjoy someone else’s frozen memories of what a loving family felt like.

She sent Krysti away on an errand, made her way to the Atrium, and waited until the coast was clear. Picking the lock was easier the second time. She pulled down on the wolves’ tails and slipped inside Wynter’s frozen wonderland.

In full daylight, the extent of ice forest built inside the Atrium was even more impressive—and more breathtakingly beautiful. With bright sunlight streaming through the glass dome, the frozen forest blazed to pure, radiant, diamondine life. It felt like Halla on earth. Pristine and perfect. And for now, at least, all hers.

She wandered slowly amongst the trees, inspecting and savoring every detail, every leaf, every branch, every delicately etched bird wing, life-sized animal and carved wildflower hidden amongst the trees. Whoever had created these sculptures for Wynter was an incredible artist. What a gift, to be able to form such perfect re-creations of life from blocks of frozen water.

When it came to the scenes of Wynter’s family, she slowed even more, committing each face and expression to memory, as if by doing so she could make those memories her own. The soft curve of his mother’s lips. The warmth of her smile. The pride in his father’s handsome, regal face. The love so plain between them as they watched their children and basked in each other’s company.

What was it like to be surrounded by such love and belonging?

She couldn’t keep her hands to herself. She found herself stroking frozen flower petals, laying her hand on the cold face of the carved toddler, brushing fingertips across the lips of Wynter, the young man, careful not to let her hand linger, for fear that her Summer-born gifts might melt the ice. Even so, with each brush of her hand, she could almost imagine she was there, enjoying a cool spring day in the forest with a family who loved her.

She closed her eyes and imagined that the ice forest was real, that there was a cool breeze blowing through the frozen treetops, fragrant with pine and spruce and loamy soil damp with snowmelt. And when she opened her eyes again, she could hear the birds singing in the trees, the rustle of squirrels and foxes darting through the shrubs and skittering across the bracken on the forest floor. She could hear the low, manly rumble of Wynter’s laughter as he and his brother walked through the woods on a hunt, bows slung across their backs, smiles on their faces as they shared a funny tale. She could hear his mother’s voice, calling her children back to her side, telling them to watch their balance by the stream, and his father telling her not to worry so, that their boys would be fine. They were Craig-born, after all.

The game of pretend felt so real she was loath to leave. She managed only because she knew she would be back the next day, and the next.

Krysti grew suspicious of all the errands she was sending him on, so she had to shorten her visits, but each morning she woke up eager to visit again. And each day, she counted down the minutes until she could. She became quite adept at giving would-be spies the slip, traversing up and down the maze of corridors and stairways in Gildenheim only to circle back around to the Atrium once she’d lost her followers.

And when she stepped inside the Atrium’s secret world, it was as if every wound and burden she’d ever suffered dropped away.

As strange as it sounded, she’d never been happier. And she never wanted the feeling to end. The days turned into a week. The week turned into a second.

And then, inevitably, Wynter returned.

The familiar, ice-and-snow-capped towers of Gildenheim were a welcome sight.

“Home, at last, Hodri,” Wynter murmured. The last two weeks had been long, cold, exhausting, and frustrating. The western defenses were nowhere close to being complete. If Coruscate and his Calbernan friends invaded anytime soon, they would be on Gildenheim’s doorstep before Wynter’s people managed to rally a defense.

Angry that he’d had to replace three of the garrison commanders and send another two thousand men to defend that dangerously undermanned coast, and weary to his bones because he’d forgone sleep for the last four days in his rush to return to Gildenheim, Wynter wanted nothing more than to enjoy a long soak in a steaming-hot tub and fall into his bed for a full day and night of undisturbed slumber. Maybe then he’d be close to feeling human again.

He touched his heels to his mount’s side, and the stallion cantered the remaining distance up the switchback road and through the palace portcullis. Hooves clattered on the courtyard cobbles. The tower lookout had already sent up the cry calling servants to help with the horses and baggage, so as Wynter drew Hodri to a halt, the Steward of the Keep was already standing on the palace steps, waiting to greet him.

“Your Grace.” Deervyn Fjall bowed and motioned to a footman to fetch the king’s saddlebags.

“Fjall.” Wyn tossed Hodri’s reins to a stableboy. “Give him an extra ration of oats and a good rubdown. We rode hard the last three days.”

“Yes, Sire. We’ll take good care of him.” The stableboy patted Hodri’s strong neck and led him away.

Turning his attention to the Steward, Wyn said, “Tell Vinca I want a hot bath and a hot meal.” He started up the stone steps.

“Yes, sir. Of course.” Deervyn Fjall jogged up the steps beside him. “Your Grace, you asked me to keep an eye out in your absence.” He pitched his voice low so it would not carry.

Wyn paused. “There were more falcons? How many?”