He disappears into Maarika’s little chamber, and I hear him murmuring to her. My heart seizes with fear—is he telling her there’s something odd about me? Is he—
He emerges from her chamber with a pair of knee-high leather boots and a thick leather cloak lined with fur. “Get these on.” He tosses a pair of leather gloves at me. “These, too.”
Stars, he’s going to turn me out in the snow. “I’m sorry,” I say in a choked voice. “Please don’t do this.”
“Put them on, Elli.” He sits down next to his own boots and jams his feet into them. “Move it,” he says when I’m still standing there a few seconds later. “I wasn’t kidding when I said I needed to get going.”
I might be immune to ice magic, but dread is turning my insides cold. With shaking hands, I pull on the boots and clumsily lace them. I don the cloak and pull it around me. I slide on the gloves, which are also fur-lined. Once Oskar has completed his own preparations, I follow him as he strides through the front cavern, where it’s still dark. Not many people are awake at this hour, though I see the glow of a few small fires in some of the shelters, and I hear the trill of little Kukka’s laughter as Senja shushes her. My feet already feel like blocks of ice, even before we emerge from the cave and are greeted by a thick blanket of snow. “You were right,” I mumble.
“I’m always right about snow,” he says, and then tromps up the trail.
I work to keep up, grateful that he gave me these boots, because they keep the snow from soaking my woolen stockings. We hike along the narrow path that leads up to the marshlands. Where is he taking me? “Oskar, please. I’ll work harder.”
“Is that even possible?” He gives me an amused sidelong glance. “I’ve rarely seen anyone work harder than you do.”
“I’ll keep at it,” I tell him. “If you let me stay, I’ll—”
He stops walking. “Why wouldn’t I let you stay?”
“Where are we going, then?”
“Hopefully to find a few snow hares. The tracks will be easy to see today.”
My brow furrows. “Why are you bringing me with you?”
His gaze slides to my right hand, two fingers of my borrowed glove hanging loose. “Because if I’m going to do this, I don’t want anyone else hearing or seeing anything.”
I stare up at him with wide eyes. “I’d never tell anyone about you,” I squeak.
Oskar begins to laugh, a beautiful, deep, alive sound I haven’t heard for weeks. The knives at his belt clink together as he doubles over and puts his hands on his thighs.
“Your face,” he says, his eyes tearing up. “I swear, you’d think I’d threatened to kill . . . you . . .” He stops laughing. “Wait. Is that what you think?”
I raise my eyebrows.
He stands up straight again. “You really believe I’d do that?”
My heart has slowed a bit, but the aftershocks of fear vibrate along my limbs. “Like you said, Oskar. I don’t know you. You spoke more to me when you thought I was dying.”
A strand of his dark hair has worked its way loose from the tie, and he sweeps it back from his face. “I spoke more before Raimo told me you hated magic, a lie he obviously concocted to hide the fact that there’s something very strange about you.”
I cross my arms over my middle and stare at his boots. His gloved finger nudges my chin up.
“When I was young, we lived in the city,” he says, pulling his hood over his head and starting to walk again. “My father was a hunter.”
I trip over my own feet and stumble as I start to follow. Oskar catches a handful of my cloak and pulls me upright. “Are you all right?”
“I’m just recovering from the shock. You actually told me something about yourself.”
He rolls his eyes and hikes down a hill. “I didn’t want to be a hunter. I wanted to stay inside all day, right in front of the fire, and carve little animals out of wood.” He chuckles. “The cottage was full of them.”
The sun is hovering above the trees to the east, making the rolling hills around us sparkle. It’s a fluffy, dry snow, so I’m able to keep up with Oskar’s long strides as he heads west, toward the dunes that mark the edge of the Motherlake. I don’t dare fall behind, because I’m clinging to every word he says.
“My father was a hard man. And he thought that I was soft. From the time I could walk, he took me with him in summer and fall, hiking these outlands in search of game, wolves and bears and beavers, pelts we could barter and meat that would keep us alive. When I was eight, he decided I would go with him every day, no matter the weather.” Oskar pauses and turns his face to the east, closing his eyes as the sun offers a bit of warmth. “I hate the cold. I’ve always hated the cold.”
“I don’t understand.” I look at the tiny smile on his face as the sunlight caresses his brow. “You’re an ice wielder, aren’t you?”
“You already know I am.”
“How can the cold bother you, then? Why aren’t you, I don’t know, impervious to it?”