“This is madness, Frida.”
Callum was at her side, speaking with a force she had not heard from him before.
She shrugged. Perchance it was.
But she had come this far and she would not give up now.
Without so much as a glance in his direction, Frida stepped forward, willing her ankle to support her. It stayed strong, for now at least, although every stride through the snow was an effort. Before she had reached the end of the courtyard, her chest heaved and her lungs burned. Turning the corner into the blast of wind seemed like madness indeed, but turning back would be an admission of weakness that she was not prepared to make.
She would never admit it, but she experienced a rush of relief when she realised he was following her. His face was set, his lips compressed into a grim line, but he was close behind.
And she was grateful.
In this formation, they struggled onward. There was a slight incline which usually did not bother her much, but now felt like the highest of mountains. At last, they reached the plateau and she paused for breath with her hands on her knees. Callum came beside her, still silent and cross.
Resolved to ignore his steely disapproval, Frida glanced about to get her bearings. Everything looked the same in the snow. The fields and trees and low stone walls which she knew so well were cloaked in an undiscriminating blanket of white. But after a few seconds of squinting, she made out the shape of the shepherd’s hut and even the water trough where the sheep had been gathered. Chances were, the missing sheep was still somewhere nearby.
Gripped with resolution, she strode forwards without thinking. She had forgotten the steep drop of the ground just here, and the fact the water spilled over from the trough and turned to ice once the temperatures dropped. This ice remained, even beneath the thick covering of snow, and once Frida’s bad ankle started sliding, she could not stop herself from falling.
She landed with a bump, but not before fear had stolen her dignity and forced her to shriek out loud. Hot tears squeezed from her eyes, not because she was hurt but because the sensation of slipping out of control brought back painful memories from that dreadful day when her ankle shattered and her life changed forever.
Callum loomed above her, concern flashing in his dark eyes.
“Frida.”
One word, which from his lips had the power to be her undoing.
But she did not want to be undone.
“I am fine.” She struggled upwards, ignoring the hot ache of her ankle and a stabbing pain where she had twisted her lower back.
He paid her no heed, gripping her beneath the shoulders with strong hands and hauling her upright. Frida wavered in the snow, unwilling to catch her balance by leaning against him.
And so, instead of sobbing with cold and pain and effort, she got angry.
“I can manage, thank you,” she spat.
Callum released his hold and she managed to shift her weight to her good ankle just in time to prevent another tumble into the deepening snow.
“Forgive me.” His voice was dry.
The only thing that was.
Frida’s racing mind took stock of their situation. Her cloak was all but soaked through. A numbing cold had taken hold in her feet and hands, and despite the adrenaline coursing through her body, she was shivering violently.
But the lamb, the one that Mirrie had laughingly named Gertrude, was still out there, somewhere.
Frida pushed herself forwards, thinking for one moment that she could make out a dash of black against the all-pervading white, but it must have been mere fancy on her part.
“Frida, this is madness,” roared Callum, his words reaching her on a gust of wind. She turned to face him, surprised to see his coal-black curls and deep blue cloak all turned to white. “We must get inside.”
He was right, part of her registered, though another part wished to keep searching. The wind barrelled into them again, making Frida lean down into the slope of the hill to withstand the gusts. For the first time, it occurred to her that the simplest thing might be to just lay down. The soft blanket of snow looked inviting. She could sink into it and rest, just for a moment.
But here was Callum, his face twisted up with something like anger. “Walk,” he demanded, all but pushing her forwards.
“Do not presume to order me about.” She drew herself up, every inch her father’s daughter, despite her sodden clothing and aching limbs.
His answer was a bark of laughter. “I am trying to save your life.”
