Page 104 of Seasonal Fears

—William Shakespeare, King Lear

I rode a white horse over Uffington Hill

And the Moon lit the valley below

Wolves ran ahead of me, scenting the prey

I followed their tracks through the snow

The circle of seasons was turning again,

Winter would soon lose its hold

But moonlight appeals to me, snow has its charms,

And my kind do not feel the cold.

—Talis Kimberley, “Uffington Hill”

Funeral Faire

CALENDAR SEASON: MARCH 1ST, 2017: ONE MONTH TO SPRING, WAXING SPROUTING GRASS MOON.

He thought only the winning candidates would come out, but that seems to be another thing that’s gotten distorted by three hundred years without a coronation, because the other candidates begin to emerge from the labyrinth not long after Melanie. Some of them come out with bloody hands, or with wounds already clotted and scabbed over. Others come with clear signs of frostbite or sunburn, having run afoul of some hunting candidate from the other side. Most are unscathed, save for their eyes, which stare endlessly into the empty middle distance. All look back, gazing longingly at the outline of the Impossible City.

Harry stays where he is, keeps his arms around Melanie. She’s no more inclined to let him go than he is her; they cleave to each other as if they fear nothing more in this moment than separation. She says nothing. When he presses his lips to her ear and murmurs, “Did you see the Summer?” she looks at him and nods, starlight and shadows in her eyes.

He can’t decide whether that means she won or lost, but in the moment, it doesn’t matter. None of the other candidates seem to shine in a way he would associate with them having won.

Aven never comes out. Neither, he’s relieved to see, does Matthew.

After what feels like an eternity has passed since the last candidate emerged, the wall begins to fade. It doesn’t reveal the topiary, or a clear path to the Impossible City; it just vanishes, leaving empty field behind. Most of the candidates who’ve emerged are with their attendants now, some weeping, some being consoled. None of them look particularly victorious.

Harry holds on to Mel. It’s the only thing he can think of to do, until a throat is cleared behind them. He turns, arms still around her, and there are Carolyn and Clifford, in their ridiculous, impossible seasonal attire. He doesn’t say anything, only stares at them and waits.

Carolyn smiles at him, as warm as an afternoon in August, and Clifford bows, deep and low, expression solemn.

“My Lord,” he says.

That’s the moment when Harry knows for sure. That’s the moment when, between one breath and the next, color comes back into the world. Carolyn shifts her gaze to Melanie and inclines her head.

“My Lady,” she says.

Harry laughs abruptly, moving his grip to Melanie’s waist and picking her up as he spins her around. She joins in the laughter, both of them rejoicing in the moment, in their success, in the sheer impossible reality of their survival and their victory. When the spin is finished, they wind up facing each other. Melanie stares at him, eyes very wide. He can see traces of frost beginning to curlicue through her irises, which are still a deep, glacial blue, but different now. He’s sure something about him is equally transformed. You can’t dance with the seasons and come away unscathed.

When he kisses her, her lips taste like peppermint ChapStick, like a stiff wind on a cold winter day, like snowfall and the freeze. They also taste like firelight and warm socks and hot cocoa, and it shouldn’t be possible for one kiss to carry so much, but it does, because when she kisses him willingly, he’s kissing the entire living, beating heart of Winter. They did it. They made it through the labyrinth. They won.

“Winter gave you her crown,” says Mel when they break apart. Her voice is hushed, her eyes bright.

“Summer gave you his,” says Harry, and traces her lips with his fingertips. She’s not going to die. Neither is he. They get as much time as they want. They get the whole alchemical marriage, and someday, when time comes for them to pass the crowns along, they’ll have the Impossible City. They may be too human now to claim citizenship, but time is the greatest river of all; it will erode their edges, and give them time to settle into new shapes.

Together. As long as they do it together, nothing else can really matter.

He turns back to Clifford and Carolyn. They’re all still in this vast and impossible field. That means this isn’t over yet.

“Now what?” he asks.

Clifford smiles.