Chapter 27 Memory Globe #2
But not the woman I’d seen on video calls. Not the woman who had visited Palm Springs twice a year with stories of Arctic research. This woman was regal, powerful, and unmistakably magical. She was a being of winter elegance that made something stir in my blood.
She stopped mid-step when she saw me, one hand flying to her throat. “Neve.”
I couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move. The ground beneath me tilted as past and present collided in a dizzying rush. Several pairs of arms caught me right before everything went black.
I drifted through a cloud of half-forgotten memories, floating in that space between sleep and waking where nothing is quite real. A gentle tug at my scalp. The crackling of a fire. The scent of peppermint.
“Hold still, little snowflake.”
I was small, cross-legged on a plush rug before a roaring fireplace, watching the flames dance. Behind me, patient fingers wove through my hair, silver-white like freshly fallen snow. My mother’s touch was sure and gentle as she worked, humming a melody that made my eyelids heavy.
The fire popped, sending sparks dancing upward, and I giggled as one transformed into a tiny butterfly of light before disappearing.
“Almost done.”
Her voice was like bells on a winter breeze. I felt a gentle twist as she secured the braid.
“There.” She moved around to face me, tucking a stray strand behind my ear. In her palm lay a silver snowflake hair clip, intricate and impossibly detailed. She fastened it at the end of my braid with reverent care. “For sweet dreams.”
Her lips pressed against the crown of my head, and I leaned into her embrace, surrounded by warmth and peppermint and safety.
“Mommy, will you make the lights dance tonight?”
She smiled, and light glowed at her fingertips...
My eyes fluttered open.
This wasn’t my apartment. This wasn’t Klarhaven. The canopy bed I lay in was draped with gauzy silver fabric that caught the strange, ethereal light filtering through frosted windows. The ceiling above was painted with constellations that seemed to twinkle as I blinked.
“You’re awake.”
I turned my head.
My mom sat beside me, her hand warm around mine as her thumb traced small circles against my skin. Glimmera Icethorn North was her real name, but for the past decade, I had no clue.
“I fainted.”
“You did.” Her smile was small but reached her eyes, which were the exact shade of blue as mine. “Quite dramatically, too. But that was mostly because of your nine reindeer.”
I tried to sit up, and she immediately moved to help, arranging pillows behind me with practiced ease.
“Where are they? Where am I?” I glanced around at the unfamiliar-yet-somehow-known space.
“They’re waiting in the great room, and we’re in your bedroom.” Her fingers lingered on the edge of a silk pillowcase embroidered with tiny snowflakes. “Though I suppose you might not remember it yet. We’ve kept it exactly as it was.”
I let my gaze wander, taking in details that should have felt significant but weren’t yet. A bookshelf filled with colorful spines. A vanity with a silver brush set. A bay window with a cushioned seat.
“I had a memory,” I whispered, the words catching in my throat. “You were braiding my hair by the fire.”
She released a breath that sounded like it had been held for years. “Your memories are going to return quickly now that you’re back.”
I swallowed hard, suddenly aware of the question I wasn’t asking. Where was my father? “Why did you make me leave?”
Mom’s hands twisted in her lap, her gaze falling to a loose thread on the blanket. “We never wanted you to leave. It was supposed to be temporary until you were old enough to have more control.”
I stared at her, trying to reconcile the gentle woman from my memory with this stranger who had let me forget my entire life. “Temporary? It’s been more than a decade.”
“We thought distance from the North Pole would mute your powers enough for you to learn control at your own pace.” Her fingers plucked at the thread, unraveling it slightly. “When you started rejecting holiday things, winter, anything Christmas-related, we assumed it was teenage hormones.”
A bitter laugh escaped me. “Hormones? I built my entire personality around hating Christmas. I didn’t even know why.”
Her eyes glistened with unshed tears. “I wanted to bring you back. But…”
“But you didn’t.” Ice crackled across the surface of a glass of water on the bedside table. “You left me out there, thinking I was some weird human who hated Christmas.”
Mom reached for my hand, and I let her take it.
Her thumb resumed soothing circles against my skin.
“We were advised it might take years for you to learn to use your powers, and by the time I realized you were forgetting everything, it was too late. We couldn’t bring you back even if we wanted to.
And we couldn’t tell you anything. We failed you, and for that, I am so very sorry.
” A teardrop finally escaped, sliding down her cheek.
I frowned, latching onto the strange phrasing. “You were advised? By who?”
Her expression shifted, a flash of something that looked like anger crossing her features before smoothing out. “Your father’s—”
The wooden door swung open, silencing her.
A tall figure filled the doorway, broad-shouldered and commanding. He took one step forward, then stopped, as if afraid to come closer. His eyes roamed my face, searching for something.
The silence stretched between us, an invisible tether pulled taut with years of secrets. When he finally spoke, his voice was rough with emotion.
“Snowflake.”