He huffed, clearly displeased. His nose nudged at the door latch, unwilling to accept the break in their ritual. Most days she brought him a few carrots or a piece of apple, a handful of grain tucked into her coat pocket. While he crunched, she scratched the thick muscles of his neck until he leaned into her hand with blissful abandon. Of course he didn’t understand why today was different—and he made sure she knew he didn’t approve.
She smiled faintly but kept walking.
Near the end of the stable, she paused at Gloria’s stall. A wide blue ribbon still hung proudly on the half door. Inside, the old sow lay buried in straw, only a subtle rise and fall of thehillock showing she was alive at all. The sight warmed Dragonfly—Gloria still held court like a queen.
In the tack room, the air was colder. Dust shimmered in the shafts of weak sunlight, falling over the forgotten clutter of old gear. She rummaged through a collection of spider-webbed hiking sticks. Most were brittle with age—too short, too warped, or simply useless. She nearly gave up.
Then, in a shadowed corner, she spotted one leaning against the wall. It was just the right length, with a worn leather grip and a sharp metal tip. She wiped it down with a rag, brushing off cobwebs and the husks of tiny things long dead, left behind by the spinners of those ghostly snares.
Satisfied, she turned and made her way back through the barn. Falcon snorted once more as she passed.
“I’ll bring you a snack later,” she called softly. “Promise.”
Then she stepped into the light and shut the door behind her. She had somewhere to be.
The brittle stems of frostbitten grass snapped beneath her boots. Just a few hundred feet from the stable, she stopped and turned her gaze toward the woods. Unease stirred low in her gut and climbed into her chest, tight and unwelcome. The guard hadn’t approached her since that day in the forest, but his presence lingered. Whenever she ran errands through the winding streets of White Wood, she felt his sinister gaze tracking her every move. Even here, on Constantine’s land—tending chores, reading beneath bare-limbed trees—she never truly let her guard down. Would she ever feel safe again? Would she ever find her courage?
It didn’t happen often, or maybe she just couldn’t always remember her dreams, but she’d begun having horrible nightmares. In her dreams, something always chased her—sometimes a guard, sometimes just a shadow. She always woke up feeling exhausted, as if she really had been running all night, but worst of all, the sense of fear remained with her throughout the day. On days like those, she found herself looking over her shoulder, jumping at any slight noise, and being irritable and snappish to anyone who spoke to her.
Dragonfly reached under her coat, double-checking that she’d brought her weapon. Her fingers closed around the carved handle of her knife, warm from her body heat. The weight of it steadied her. Some of the hesitation faded.
Before setting out, she paused to scan her surroundings. The habit had become second nature—always watching, always making sure she wasn’t being followed. Her eyes drifted toward the farmhouse porch, where Arion’s seadog was already watching her.
“Elijah,” she called. “Want to come along? Come on, boy!”
The massive white-and-black seadog leapt down from the porch and loped across the yard in easy, fluid strides. He stopped in front of her, tail wagging, tongue lolling from one side of his droopy jowl. Elijah looked up at her with wide, eager eyes.
Dragonfly returned her attention to the woods and the foot of the mountain. The Pass to the summit was long closed by now. She yearned to see snow—the icy chill, the hues of blues and grays, the sparkle beneath the sunlight and moonlight, and the purity of a snowflake falling never failed to rejuvenate her soul. If only she could have a glimpse, a brief sight of fresh fallen snow upon the forest floor.
Just beneath the surface of that wanting, there was another calling, another pull luring her to go up the mountain. She imagined herself under the oak beside the lake. Perhaps a canoe was beached on the bank. Maybe she was reading a book, or maybe she was simply watching the sun begin to paint the sky with vivid colors. What washedoing? Maybe he was dozingbeside her after a long day of teaching. Perhaps he was cleaning the fish they’d just netted. Or maybe they were in the midst of an in-depth discussion about the difference between spirits and ghosts.
She was afraid to let her feelings rise—afraid of what might happen if she named them, let them grow. What if the warmth she felt now cooled with time, leaving him wounded? Or worse, what if he changed his mind, and she was the one left shattered?
Love could turn as quickly as the tide. Even Hadria and Aries, as inseparable as they seemed, fought bitterly—disappearing from each other’s lives for days at a time, then reuniting as if nothing had broken. But what if it didn’t mend next time? What if one argument was the end?
Dragonfly wasn’t ready to risk that kind of closeness, that kind of loss. It was safer to keep her love quiet, to hold it from a distance where it couldn’t crumble. It was easier to love Collin from afar—where hope still had room to breathe.
"Come on, Elijah! Shall we go find some snow?”
She tucked her hair into the back of the cloak and pulled the hood over her head. She set out in a swift trot that quickly turned into a heart pumping jog.
The great dog bounded after her with surprising eagerness. For a creature so old and heavy-boned, he quickly outpaced her, settling into a steady trot several yards ahead. He always followed her to the edge of the woods, and today, he seemed to know exactly where she was headed.
When she reached the trees, she slowed to a walk. Running on uneven forest ground was a losing game. The incline was gentle at first—barely noticeable—but it would steepen soon. The walking stick would earn its keep.
Over a mile in, Elijah began to lag. His pace had already slowed, though curiosity kept him going. The forest was full of irresistible smells.
Dragonfly passed him with a casual glance but stopped a few steps later when he wasn’t following.
Despite the cold, Elijah was panting hard, his sides heaving. A long string of sticky drool swung from one jowl, catching glints of light as it swayed. Bits of forest clung to him—leaves, twigs, moss tangled in the shaggy feathers of his legs, chest, and belly. He looked like a mess. A magnificent, slovenly mess.
She patted the big dog on his broad head. “Go home, you tired old thing.”
At her words, Elijah perked up his ears. He turned and began loping homeward.
Dragonfly stood where she was for a moment. Elijah's noisy footsteps slowly faded away. With only the ghosts left in her company, an eerie silence soon settled heavily over the forest. She checked the knife under her coat before continuing forward with her heart beating resolutely.
Snow creaked beneath his boots with every step. The leather straps on his snowshoes pinched slightly, but he didn’t stop to adjust them. He needed tomove. His breath fogged in the frozen air, each exhale biting in his throat.
