Chapter 1 #2
She’s thinking about the time she was briefly taken prisoner by a group of marauding orcs.
I’m not sure if the orcs violated her during the two days she spent in captivity, as she shuts down whenever anyone broaches the topic, but the entire city of Braemar assumes she’s spoiled.
People are outwardly polite to her, and business at the bakery remains steady, but all her childhood friends have ceased talking to her.
I think what torments her most is that her fiancé, a young soldier named Ian, broke their engagement only hours after helping to rescue her.
Life can certainly be cruel at times.
Ah, there it is. My usual pessimism.
“I will never stop talking to you, Isabel. I promise,” I finally say. As I prepare my own cup of tea, I give her what I hope is a comforting look. The poor thing. She’s a few years younger than I am, and I fear she already believes her life is over just because she’ll never marry or have children.
“You’re an absolute dear.” She smiles, though I can’t help but notice the sheen of tears in her eyes.
“Did you hear the battle horn and notice the sudden frost?” I ask just before taking a sip of tea.
She nods. “Yes. I was standing on the porch accepting a delivery of milk when the snow started and the frost came. Then… the horn.” A shadow crosses her face. “Papa ran off to see if he could find out what’s happening. Hopefully he’ll return soon, and hopefully the news isn’t bad.”
I reach across the table and give her shoulder a quick squeeze. “At the first sign of danger, you can hide beneath the floorboards,” I tell her.
She swallows hard and grows pale. “Orcs like to burn things. I appreciate that Papa created a hiding place beneath the floorboards. I know he meant well and thought it would help me feel safer. But if Braemar is attacked by orcs and they have catapults with balls of flame…” She sighs before taking a long drink of tea. Her hands tremble around the cup.
My sense of foreboding deepens, and not just because her words are making me think of burning buildings. It’s because I’m not really worried about orcs at all.
Orcs can’t influence the weather. They can’t make it grow unseasonably cold in a matter of moments, bringing frost and snow and violent winter winds.
But the creatures who can command the weather are too terrifying to mention aloud. So, I keep my concerns to myself. Isabel has enough on her mind. Besides, her father should return soon, and then we’ll know for certain.
Perhaps I am only envisioning the darkest possibility out of habit.
“I guess battle horns are bad for business,” I say with a gesture at the empty seating area. I’m trying to lighten the mood, and thankfully it works.
A smile tugs at Isabel’s lips, and she reaches for a blueberry scone.
“More treats for us,” she says with a wink.
I grab a scone too, and we eat in companionable silence for a few minutes.
The wind is now blowing so hard that it’s rattling the shutters, and we aren’t able to hear the shouts of soldiers or anyone else who might be in the street.
But each time I peer out the window, I glimpse no one, not a single soul, though I am startled by how heavily it’s snowing.
The steady crackling of the fire helps soothe my rattled senses, if only a little. I say a silent prayer to the gods for the safety of Mr. Sinclair, Isabel’s father. If the storm grows worse, he might not be able to return to the bakery as soon as hoped.
“Look,” Isabel says. “You can’t even see the buildings across the street anymore. I’ve never seen it snow so hard before. It’s a true winter storm, never mind that it’s early autumn.”
A true winter storm.
Her words settle in my chest like a block of ice.
All the scary stories Mama told me as a child come rushing back, tales meant to frighten me into obedience, into safety, into never straying beyond the fortified stone walls of Braemar.
“I don’t believe I’ve ever seen a storm like this either,” I reply, striving for a calm voice. “But don’t worry. If your father can’t make it home safely, I’m sure he’ll be wise enough to hunker down at the barracks, or at a friend’s house.”
“I hope you’re right.”
The wind howls louder, and we scoot closer to the fire. We’re holding vigil together, waiting for news about the battle horn. Waiting for Mr. Sinclair’s return. Even waiting for… an attack.
I try but fail to push away my worries about the abrupt change in the weather. It’s possible the frost and snow are a natural occurrence, possible it’s a coincidence that a cold wind swept down just before the battle horn sounded.
Possible, but not very likely, a voice in my mind whispers.
What if all the stories Mama told are true?
And what about the brand-new stories recently brought to Braemar by traveling merchants? Stories about entire settlements of humans and orcs being wiped out. Stories about the realm changing, about glowing and glimmering vegetation appearing in forests on both human and orc lands.
Stories about unusual, deadly creatures…
Otherworldly creatures never before seen in human or orc territories.
The door bangs open, and Isabel and I gasp. Mr. Sinclair steps inside and quickly shuts the door against the howling wind. The burst of snow that entered with him drifts to the floor.
Isabel dutifully helps her father remove his cloak, hat, and gloves, then urges him to sit directly in front of the fire.
Holding his hands over the flames, he fights back a shiver.
His face is bright pink with darker splotches of red, his skin battered raw by the wind and snow.
Clearly, he was out in the storm for too long.
“Papa, are you all right?”
He stares at her with an eerily blank expression, the sort of look a person displays when they’ve received a great shock. I imagine it’s how I looked after Mama died and after Harry was murdered.
My trepidation increases.
“I… I…” He tries to speak a few times, only for his words to trail off. Beneath the shock in his eyes, I catch glimpses of hopelessness, his utter resignation. It’s as though he’s just learned something terrible and has decided to give up. To surrender to some horrible, dark fate.
“Papa? You’re starting to scare me. Please, tell me what’s wrong. Why did the battle horn sound?” Isabel sits next to him and cups the side of his face.
His eyes flare wide. He looks at her, then he looks at me, like he’s just noticing us for the first time.
The back of my neck prickles.
He draws in a shaky breath.
“The Winter Court army. They’re coming.”