It hits me like a bolt of lightning, and unlike magic, I can’t absorb it easily. Instead it sears itself along my bones, leaving nothing but scorched earth behind. If I had listened to the rumors, if I had paid attention instead of letting myself fall into this fantasy—of family, of belonging and normalcy, of Oskar, his needs, his body and his mouth, carved doves and warm gloves and granite eyes that always leave me guessing—I would have left days ago. Because I didn’t, two women are dead, and those who love them grieve. A little girl has lost her mother. And Oskar . . . he has killed against his will, been drawn into a fight he didn’t want, and now he’s walking through the dim, chilly cavern, his back covered in blisters from both the heat and the cold.
As families are reunited, children clinging to their fathers’ knees, women hugging their men, everyone cutting glances toward the ice tomb that blocks most of the cave entrance, Oskar, Freya, Maarika, and I make for our shelter. Jouni gives me a curious sidelong glance as he walks out of the cavern. Ismael and a few other fire wielders are already out there, palms out, their heat eating away at the frozen catastrophe so the bodies can be disposed of.
Perhaps we’re all thinking the same thing: This is only the beginning. More will come. More weapons, more magic, more rage. There will be no winter respite now.
And it’s my fault.
When we duck into the shelter, Freya immediately goes into her mother’s room and comes out with Maarika’s old boots—the ones that I used to wear before I had my own—some stockings, and a worn gown, plain and brown with holes at the elbows. While Maarika begins to cut off Oskar’s tunic, parts of which are clinging to his damaged skin, I slip into one of the back chambers to change. With a lump in my throat, I slide the delicate carved dove from under my pillow and put it in my pocket.
By the time I emerge, Maarika has her boots on, and Freya is packing pelts into a sturdy basket for her to take. “There’s a farmstead only a quarter mile south of here,” Maarika says. “I can trade for the herbs I need to treat his burns.”
“Is there no way to find Raimo?” I ask. “These wounds were caused by magic, and it seems like magic would be the best medicine. Doesn’t anyone know where he’s gone?”
Oskar is lying on his stomach on a bearskin pallet next to the fire. “We w-won’t see him until the s-spring thaw.” And that’s two months away, at least.
Freya grimaces as she hears his shivery stammering. “I’ll go get more fuel for the fire,” she says, grabbing another basket and stomping out of the shelter.
Maarika’s eyes meet mine. “Take care of him.”
I don’t look away. “You know I will.”
She gives me a quick nod and leaves. I wait for Oskar to acknowledge me, but he doesn’t. As my thoughts duel, I hike down to the stream to fetch a pail of water and carry it slowly back to the shelter, my fingers aching. I slip back inside to find my ice wielder where I left him, blistered and shivering. I set the pail next to the fire to warm the water inside, then sink to my knees next to Oskar. His forehead is pressed to the backs of his hands, the muscles of his back flexing as he tries to cope with the pain. “What would feel better, cold or hot?” I ask him, dunking a scrap of wool in the cool water.
“I don’t know,” he whispers. “Both. Neither.” The tight, pained sound of his voice makes me ache.
“And this?” I lay my palm against an undamaged stretch of skin on his shoulder, and he tenses, perhaps feeling the ice magic leaving him.
“S-stop it,” he says, his teeth chattering.
“You need it.” And I need it just as badly.
His body shudders, sending vibrations up my arm. Suddenly the cold flowing into me recedes like a tide, and the chill returns to his skin, leaving me feeling hollow. The room spins, and I wobble unsteadily. “What are you doing?” I whisper.
“Get your hands off me.”
I obey him, and as soon as my hands fall away, so does the dizziness. “What would you have me do, Oskar?”
He lets out a choked, humorless laugh. “Again, I don’t know.” He turns his head, and I lie on my side so we’re face-to-face, like we’ve lain every night for the last two weeks. “But I understand now,” he says quietly. “I didn’t, this morning on the rocks.”
Strands of his dark hair slide across his face, and I’m dying to smooth them back. “Why won’t you let me touch you?”
“Because I understand.” His eyes close, and mine burn. He leans his forehead against the back of his hands again, hiding his face. “Get s-some rest. You must be aching.”
My fists clench. “You can’t expect me to sit here and watch you hurting.”
“You don’t have to take c-care of me. You’ve done enough of that.”
Pressing my lips together to keep from screaming, I look up at the ceiling of the cave, stretching its rocky claws down toward us, hiding so many secrets in its dark shadows. I can’t find a path back to the way we were a few days ago, before I woke up in his arms. My doubt about how he felt about me made me push him far away, and now he seems determined to stay there.
I stare at his long, shivering, sweating body. I’ve siphoned off so much cold in recent weeks, but the magic just grows to fill the space. My touch offers temporary relief, but not the permanent solution that Oskar craved. And now he’s denying himself even that, out of . . . I have no idea. Honor. Pride. Sheer stubbornness.
Or maybe he does blame me. And maybe he should.