“Why must you press me?” Ashelia said shrugging out of her grip and stepping away.

The woman just grinned at her, head tilted and eyes wide. Almost as disquieting as the glitters drifting lazily around her. “Because it’s a ball, my dear!” Her voice broke with enthusiasm.

“Ela?” The voice broke, raising an octave. He was close enough she could’ve touched him. Instead she watched his youthful stance still untainted by manhood. Spirit and fire. Play clashing against adulthood. She could lead him.

Crouching low, Cheskel glowering at the offensive portrayal. His beloved Arlene framed along with him. He’d seen the lie of that frozen bliss the moment she’d opened the package. Why hadn’t she? Why had Arlene gifted a position of honor?

Raizel’s satchel hit the ground with a sodden thump. Milo shifted, raising his head from the map they inspected. Those rest ignored her interruption. She was nothing to them. Milo, however, rocked backward hand clutching his knife.

The house sung to Hazel. She paused at the shutters, pressing her hand to the wood. The air hastened past into the night. She glanced at the latch.

Marc shrugged his shoulders and felt a bit of the chill leave his back. For all the good that would do. The snow kept falling to replace what he dislodged. The mountains were far away and there was no village, not even a hut or crossroads. He’d believe he was alone with the hissing white storm, except for the infernal crunching trailing him.