A Soul as Cold as Frost: The Winter Souls Series, #1

A prayer is how this story begins.

‘Twas a thought no larger than a button, no tastier than honey or hope, slipping out into the midnight hush by the mouth of a mother before she passed.

A gust skated through a crack of fractured glass in the window of the house—where not a thing stirred, not even a mouse—and caught the prayer into a lift. The window whistled its amusement at the sight, ruffling the worn pewter curtains; its chalky web of cracks creating the tiniest peepholes into a home once complete, now plagued with hollow corners where things ought to be.

But the prayer did not float to its heart’s content, or take a warm nap, or sip the sugary scent in the air, or sit by and perform for the gust that had come to play. Rather, it thanked the gust kindly for the lift and danced through the home before slipping out the keyhole of the modest dwelling. From there, the button-sized prayer battled the elements to survive, squeezing past every power and force that tried to stop it.

After a journey filled with meddling and suppressed giggles—for if you ever saw a prayer as it galloped, you would certainly consider it a thing that meddles with the atmosphere and has a terrific sense of humour—it collapsed into a fold where it stayed for a measure of time. And as prayers often do, that single breath of intercession sparked into sizzling ribbons of orange, crimson, and gold—the very catalyst that sang o’er the futures of many timestrings, the lightening inside of the flame.

These feisty little things have a certain magic, you see.

Chapter, The First

Never in my sixteen years of life had I believed in things unseen until that day. I had never created an imaginary friend as a child or believed in ghosts or the work of angels. But on that cold December afternoon, everything I knew went up in a gray cloud of smoke.

Snowflakes escaped their ashy sky prisons, piling up at the storefronts, hitting the rust-red car speeding by, and kissing my nose as I rushed with my leather book bag tucked under my arm. The French and Biology notes I’d penned out twice as many times as everyone else in my classes had turned my bag into a paper-stuffed boulder. Fortunately, today was the last day I’d had to brave school and now the holidays were in full swing.

The bite of cold was rough at this late afternoon hour. The wisest city-dwellers had gone inside already, leaving all the dummies of Waterloo kicking through the snow and fighting for a path on the sidewalk like me.

Antique streetlamps illuminated downtown, prismed in every direction like hovering confetti. Carols blared from the crackling radio of a newspaper stand, the familiar melody of Jingle Bells muddied by the static. Storefronts were adorned with glassy bouquets of scarlet, green, and gold ornaments, but it was difficult to enjoy the splendour of the season in this bitter flash-freeze.

My Aunt Sylvia’s scolding managed to reach my numb ears. Helen, we’re late! she said. As usual.

The mutter of the last two words didn’t get past me even though she was already pushing through the door of a bakery half a block ahead. Her bushy fur coat caught a splinter on the doorframe, drawing a scowl from her face and a smirk from mine—the first smile I’d managed since the day began.

The trail of dots Sylvia’s heels left in the snow were my guide, a pattern that kept me aligned even when my face was pressed down into my scarf. I couldn’t guess why the woman had decided to wear such glamorous footwear in this snowfall. Her ape-sized feet must have been crisping to blocks of ice.

A disorderly family Christmas dinner was on the horizon—thus, why Sylvia and I were headed to collect a pumpkin pie. My aunt claimed her pile of to do’s was taller than the CN Tower, so, being the oldest and most responsible cousin, I had to accompany her downtown.

A jug of eggnog fell to the sidewalk in front of me, the glass exploding in a mess of jagged edges and Christmas cream. Six loose oranges rolled into the slop, all spilling from the torn grocery bag of a man in a plaid lumberjack coat. He scrambled to his knees to pick it all up, his ripped grocery bag floating off in the wind before he could catch it. I looked ahead to where my aunt had disappeared into the bakery, then I dropped to a knee beside the man and began plucking oranges out of the liquid and slush. We both stood at the same time, and I balanced my oranges atop the ones in his arms.

Brent! What’s taking you so long?! a woman’s voice barked down the street, and the man looked up. When I turned to see who the woman was, my shoulder was struck by the man rushing by.

I gasped and spun, catching a streetlamp to steady myself. The plaid-coat man turned back and dipped his head in apology before chasing after the woman. The pom-pom of his toque bobbed as he disappeared around the corner of the old breakfast diner that would be closing its doors forever next month.

I sighed, my warm breath frothy white against the colourful seasonal backdrop. December was a nice time of year to look out the window, but there was nothing else good about the winter season, the wet socks trapped in my boots, the busy stores with lines of customers out to the street, or the stress it put on my grandmother every year to keep up with Aunt Sylvia’s wild party ideas.

I rubbed my numb face with mitten-covered hands as I looked back to the bakery. Sylvia was probably already shuffling a pie into her bag and digging through her purse for change.

I paused by the jeweler’s window where the fading sun licked over a chain of pea-sized diamonds, the glistening ballet of iridescent whites unearthing that old feeling of waking up to the first snowfall of the year. That morning of fresh vanilla snow used to send my brother and I racing for our boots and hats. It had been a long time since we’d dared anything like that.

I only had one memory of my father chasing us into an ocean of snow. My sister Kaley had been just a baby, and my brother Winston and I could barely run on our toddler legs. After Winston and I had exhausted ourselves building forts, my mother had brewed hot chocolate on the stove, and we’d spent the day listening to my dad sing off-key Christmas carols while decorating the tree with popcorn we’d strung ourselves.

I shifted my reflection in the glass to pretend the jewels hung around my neck like the ogling window shoppers often did in movies, but my laugh spoiled the air at the sight of the necklace against my hole-punched winter coat and thrift store boots.

A silhouette rushed into the reflection. I glanced back just as a body collided with mine. There was no lampstand to catch myself this time; my feet slid out from under me, my back smacked hard against the sidewalk, and my book bag flew half a metre, leaving my boots stabbing the air as slush leaked through the holes in my coat. A shudder brushed up my spine, and mushroom-cloud cough of visible carbon dioxide blossomed over my face as a near-silent gasp squeaked out.

I blinked away the shock of cold as the figure appeared over my sprawled frame. The assailant wore snow-powdered boots with silk laces that gave off the potent scent of sweet spices and pending excuses.

I propped myself up on my elbows, ready for some sort of appropriate Canadian apology, but the person dropped to a knee, and I stilled, eyeing the gray knit scarf covering the lower half of their face.

Burly eyebrows framed hard, silvery eyes with a twinkle that seemed a little bit…crazy. My gaze shot to where my aunt still hadn’t come out of the bakery.

Aeo-aight— A muffled voice pushed through the gray knitting. I stared up at him, or her, blankly.

A hand emerged to pull the scarf down, revealing the distinct face of a girl who looked younger than I’d assumed.

Are you alright, Trite? she asked again in a pressing tone like she had somewhere to be. Her accent wasn’t one I recognized.

I’m fine. It was almost true, aside from my butt—it was totally ice-cold-numb.

The girl grabbed the collar of my coat and yanked me back to my feet in one fast motion. My legs betrayed me; they scissored the moment my boots hit the ice floor, and it took shamefully longer than it should have for me to find my footing.

Ragnashuck, you’re a peg out of its shell. Her low-toned mutter sounded like an observation, but when I pulled myself together, I realized she was no longer watching my wretched ice-dance performance. Her bright eyes were fixed on something behind me.

I craned my neck to look, seeing only hustling city crowds and cars puttering beneath the glowing streetlamps. The lights flickered with whisking snow from the blizzard lifting behind the buildings.

The girl made a ruckus as she scrambled, digging through the folds of her jacket with shaking, large-knuckled hands. I glanced back at the street again, still not grasping the urgency.

Put out your hand so I can give you a most-important treasure, she instructed. "Hide it in the common world, somewhere safe where she won’t find it. I beg you, Trite, don’t be reckless with it." Growl and sweetness bled together in her voice. With her accent, it was an utterly bizarre combination of sounds.

Pardon…? I wasn’t sure she was still speaking to me until her eyes locked onto mine, bringing my own words to a halt. A funny smile danced across her small mouth as though she was reliving an inside joke.

You’re going to have to open your eyes, clumsy Trite.

Open my…what…? I got the strangest impulse to turn and run—a nervous reaction to her husky, outlandish blabbering and harsh features—but I stayed because I didn’t want to be rude.

Put out your hand, she said again.

I lifted my mitten, but before I could ask what the rush was, the girl shoved something into my palm.

It was a glass sphere about the size of a tennis ball. I raised my mitt to study the smooth surface and the unusual ivory and gold mist inside.

Hide it! the girl snapped at the sight. I’ll confuse them while you get away. No time to waste, Trite. Blink twice and chase the train! That same crazy twinkle lit the girl’s eyes again.

What train?

As though summoned by the girl’s lunacy, a horn-like blast echoed down the city street, and I spun around in alarm.

People moved by as though they hadn’t heard it, chatting and pushing their way through the rush hour crowd.

The girl appeared in front of me and slapped a strong hand on my shoulder that almost threw me off balance again. An apologetic expression flickered over her features. May the forces of Winter save you from what I have just done.

She began sliding back on her heels like she was going to run. I scrambled after her, positive she was crazy and muttering on about a conspiracy she’d fabricated in her mind. But when I conquered the ice patches on the sidewalk, I realized she was already sprinting down the street.

Wait! I called, but the girl was too far away to hear.

She replaced her gray scarf over her mouth before pulling two gold medallions from her pockets. She turned to face me again once she was a full block away.

The crazy spark in her eyes had become a torch, glittering like the diamonds in the jeweler’s window. I rubbed my own eyes, sure her irises couldn’t really be that bright.

Glory to Elowin! It was a stifled muffle through her facemask as she cast one last look at me and slapped the medallions together.

Clatters echoed through the street like popping fireworks, and a fountain of snow burst upwards, its snowy fingers twisting and swallowing her entirely into its throat.

My muscles seized, lurching me to a halt. I thought I was dreaming, but I couldn’t peel my stare away, even though all I could think about was running for my life.

The churning snow came to a standstill in mid-air like a speckled, colourless cloud. I jumped in surprise when it erupted into a blanket of white flakes, littering the end of the street and temporarily eating a streetlamp before it calmed.

The snow floated back to the ground, but the girl was gone. Like she’d evaporated into thin air.

…

Time froze as I gaped at the spot where I was positive I’d seen her: the girl in the scarf. The girl who’d knocked me onto my back. The ache in my rear end felt too real to be imaginary, but still, for a moment I wondered if I’d been making it up and had somehow convinced myself that everything I’d just seen and felt was real.

Finally, I let out a sigh of relief as I concluded there was no other explanation: I was suffering from the drastic temperature drop, dehydrated from the dry weather, and too sick to trust myself.

A nervous chuckle escaped me as I turned to go find my aunt, tossing the glass ball into the air and catching it, feeling ridiculous until it landed in my palm and my feet came back together.

Inside my mitt, my fingers tingled as they ran over the curved surface.

My eyes crept over, and sure enough, there was that weighty ball in my hand, clear as crystal, encompassing an ivory and gold haze that glowed ever so slightly like the active molten core of a planet.

No.

I held the ball away from my body, positive it needed to be anywhere but in my hands. My palms were sweating in my mitts, even in this crisp air.

I had to drop it. I would drop the glass ball on the sidewalk and leave. And I would never, ever think about this moment again; the moment I realized I was losing my mind.

Chapter, The Second

There’s a reason why we lean on the sciences. Theories give us ways to cope with things we can’t otherwise explain. Brilliant minds scribe papers and books, journals and lists, all in the name of trying to find the most supported explanations for why things happen the way they do.

But where, exactly, was the explanation for this?

Ah! I nearly jumped from my skin when something barrelled into my foot, making the crystal ball tumble from my mitt. My hand lashed out to catch it before it could turn into a glassy splash on the sidewalk. I stuffed the glass ornament into my pocket and blinked down at my boots.

A furry white creature grinned up at me, its long ears folding out from behind the crown of cotton atop its head.

I blinked again. And again.

It was a rabbit. Or…was it?

It was unlike any rabbit I’d seen before. No rabbits I knew of could grin.

Helen! Aunt Sylvia’s voice boomed over the street from where she stood outside the bakery, her bare legs trembling from the cold beneath her pencil skirt. But when I looked up, surprise hit the back of my throat like a punch.

My gasp was lost in the cold wind drifting down the walkways overcrowded with holiday lights and Ontarians in multicoloured parkas. But the street wasn’t just busy with the usual Waterloo crowd; it was busy with other things too, even birds.

The flock was its own blizzard of glittering feathers, their silken wings carrying them just above the human masses as they tweeted a melody in perfect unison like a well-practiced choir. They dipped and rushed past at eye level, nearly driving me to stumble off my feet again.

Past their rippling current, I noticed a store wedged between a luxury clothing boutique I could never afford to shop in and a barber shop. The new store fit like a puzzle piece, nestled snugly into the alley between the two buildings. Panels of russet wood striped the front like an old cabin around four frost-kissed windows, and a symbol shone in the centre of an indigo door—white calligraphy of a "W" with wispy embellishments. But that wasn’t the weirdest part. What struck me most about the store was that I was certain I’d never seen it before.

I sniffed as a new rush of scents hit my nose, and my gaze lifted to billows of steam spilling from a round chimney up top and seeping through cracks in the door, releasing the intoxicating scents of warm chocolate and hazelnuts. Once I inhaled it, I couldn’t stop.

The rabbit at my boots scampered towards the road and looked both ways. I watched as it tucked itself into a ball and rolled across, weaving in a zig-zag path to avoid cars. A patter rose in my chest.

Hoisting my book bag from the slush, I followed the animal in long strides. A car horn sent an attention-drawing heatwave through me, but when I reached the other side of the street, I found the rabbit perched on the window ledge of the shop. A heavy lumber sign dangled on black chains above the indigo door with words carved into it:

The Steam Hollow

I hesitated, studying the vintage sign and eyeing the splinters of wood that seemed to have flaked off the storefront into brittle piles over time. I was sure it hadn’t been here a moment ago, but that didn’t make sense because the store wasn’t newly built; all the evidence said as much.

The rabbit glanced up from the sill, a silky taunt upon its milk-white face.

I approached with caution, crouching to study the specimen while my mind raced to find any possible explanation.

The rabbit was pure white, even its nose. The only colour anywhere was the fantastically bright, sparkling blue of its eyes.

A figure appeared on the other side of the window, and I stood straight when I realized I wasn’t alone. The evening shadows and the glare off the glass encompassed most of his body, but I could see a boy watching me. He was taller than I was by a few inches and dressed in raven-black from head to toe with a pointed hood covering his hair. I gasped at the unnatural blue of his eyes. They mirrored the rabbit’s—a set of bright sapphire stars peeking through a dim sky of window fog.

He studied me the way someone might admire a new animal at the zoo; tilting his head in what was either boredom or bland curiosity. After a moment, he raised his hand in what might have been a greeting, but not one I knew. Still though, to be polite, I lifted my hand as well and performed an awkward wave.

Surprise flickered across the boy’s bright eyes, his expression turning wary. He stared at me. He blinked, then his gaze turned ice cold. He backed away from the window into the shadows, the reflection of the sign’s deep purple letters on the glass the only thing that remained.

My lashes fluttered. I tried to decide if the boy had left by coincidence, or if he really did just run away from me. I smooshed my face against the window, my hands cupping around my eyes to see where he went.

Beyond where the boy had been, two dozen beings of unnatural stature congregated around tables, hunching to fit beneath the ceiling. The sight sent a barrel of heat rolling through my stomach. Pointy ears and long noses protruded from their heads, hidden only when they sipped from their steaming mugs. Some of them had to be as tall as the lampposts outside.

I ripped myself back in horror.

My heart pounded as I looked both ways down the street, wondering if maybe a performance had just ended at the local theatre company and the whole cast had come here in costume.

Tall creatures with pointed ears?

Rabbits that grinned and rolled into balls?

A shop that suddenly appeared where it hadn’t been before?

When there were no cars passing by, I took off back the way I’d come; back to my side of the street, back to where my aunt was waiting, back to where everything had been normal a moment ago.

Sylvia.

Oh, buttery basket of buttocks, she was going to be furious.

Aunt Sylvia?

I searched the faces packed into the street and jogged for the bakery. It buzzed with groups travelling in and out, long dress coats brushing by puffy winter wear.

A small bell chimed as I entered. I was immediately encompassed by the scent of pie crust, freshly ground coffee beans, and the sour impatience of old ladies shivering in skirts just like my aunt’s.

A dozen people herded through the lines, snatching up lemon pastries, coffee cakes, and boxed pumpkin pies from the shelves. There was nothing abnormal about the patrons of this shop—no beak-noses or teardrop ears to be found.

I rubbed my eyes, questioning what in the world was going on with me when the sharp toot of a horn blasted through the space, bringing a startled scream from my throat.

Alarmed customers stared at me, taking in my dripping wet coat and soggy-butt pants. I waited for one of them to comment on the exploding horn, but no one seemed bothered by it.

Toooot! It sounded again, and I jumped. I spun, trying to locate the source of the noise. But apart from several weird looks in my direction, there wasn’t anything notable in the shop.

No… Could it really be…?

I swallowed and offered a strange, shallow bow of apology to everyone in sight. Sorry… I choked out.

When I was brave enough to lift my eyes again, I saw that there was no sign of Sylvia. So back outside I went, keeping my eyes down on my shuffling feet, hoping with every fiber of my being that no one in the bakery had recognized me. Even though the flash-freeze had turned the slush into rippled ice sculptures and filled the air with wintry prickles, my cheeks were hot.

I yanked off my mittens and held the back of my hand against my flushed cheeks, trying to convince myself that it couldn’t be true. Trying to convince myself that I wasn’t the only one in that store who’d heard the horn.

I didn’t pull my gaze up from the sidewalk until I reached Sylvia’s house. My aunt’s familiar brick abode rested before me with the same stone stairs, iron railing, and mustard-yellow front door I’d passed through every Christmas since I was little. The only thing different was an oversized garland wreath weighing down the door this year.

I didn’t go in right away; I stole a cautious look around. But I saw nothing—nothing but regular vehicles, regular lampposts, regular pine trees covered in regular snow.

I sighed and rubbed my forehead. I wondered if a good night’s sleep would fix me. Rest, after all, was reported to be the best remedy for people out of sorts. Anyone who’d ever read a medical journal knew that.

My boots thumped up the porch stairs, but the front door swung open before I could grab the handle, startling me more than it should have.

Peanut! Aunt Bertha reached to pull me inside, and I forced a smile across my stricken face. The nickname she’d given me was cute when I was little, but at sixteen I’d well outgrown it and now it was just weird.

Slipping by Bertha, I tossed my book bag on a hook and spotted Aunt Sylvia conversing with my Uncle Ted, likely complaining about me for not keeping up.

Merry Christmas, my dear! My grandmother, the amazing Wendy Wilthsmurther, appeared from the living room in a flour-covered apron and reached to give me a hug even though it had barely been two hours since I’d seen her. Her arms were warm against my cold skin, and I shot her a crooked half-smile when she pulled away.

Your aunt tells me she had to leave you in the street to make it here on time, she said to me beneath the chatter of the room. The scolding in her voice was entirely overshadowed by the smirk on her face.

Um… A dozen images flashed through my mind at once: smiling rabbits, sparkling birds, tree-sized people, a human-swallowing snow tornado. I felt a little ill, but I forced my cheeks to move out of the way for a smile, otherwise my grandma would know something was wrong. I got distracted. I’ll apologize at some point, I promised, though she and I both knew I probably wouldn’t.

Grandma squeezed her lips to mute a chuckle, and if I had to guess, I’d say the old woman found a bit of pleasure in seeing Aunt Sylvia so stressed. It was, after all, Sylvia who insisted on hosting Christmas every year to show off all the new travel treasures she’d amassed in her large, nine-bedroom house.

My father used to roll his eyes at Sylvia’s collections. He’d always found excuses to leave the room to avoid my aunt. It was one of the memories that came easily in this house.

Dinner’s ready! Aunt Bertha’s shrill voice broke over the noise of congested human interaction, and suddenly, like a herd of wild animals on the African plains, dozens of people began rushing to the dining room.

Chapter, The Third

The turkey was golden brown, cooked to perfection and stuffed with garlic butter and herbs. Aunt Sylvia had put out her best silver candlesticks from Rome and her porcelain plates from Barcelona.

A rainbow of autumn tones adorned the table, and the whole room fogged with the sweet smell of cranberry sauce, pumpkin pie, sizzling turkey, hot cocoa, melting butter, and a hint of crackling wood from the fireplace.

Everyone ate heartily, bickering only a few times while Sylvia babbled on for the better part of an hour about all her traumatic Christmas shopping ventures and the terrible people who’d gotten in her way. My gaze stayed on my glass of apple cider as I dropped in my spoon and stirred, and stirred, and stirred. There was no point in trying to talk when there was already so much noise. It wasn’t like anyone actually cared what the others had to say anyway.

I only made a noise once—to laugh when Winston flicked a spoonful of butter at Aunt Bertha’s plate despite the diet she kept announcing she was on. Bertha didn’t notice and scooped a forkful of mashed potatoes into her mouth. She made a face and looked down at her plate.

My Uncle Ted went into detail about the argument he’d had with his boss about getting time off for the holidays. Everyone displayed dramatic sympathy for him, but I couldn’t focus. The longer I sat there, the more invisible fingers reached from my mind toward the glass ball burning a hole in my pocket. A ball handed to me by a silver-eyed girl who looked like she could have been a weightlifting champion. A crazy, weird weightlifting champion.

Something was wrong with me, and I couldn’t bring it up with these people who stuffed themselves with spiced bread and hot turkey and declared their opinions with loud voices. Because even though I sat in a room crowded with relatives, I felt the familiar pang of being alone. Same as I did every year during the holidays when I woke up to the cold bite of winter and relived the ache of bad memories that came with it.

I finished eating in silence, my toe kicking the leg of the table inconveniently located right where my feet would have naturally rested. Across the table, I noticed my grandmother’s focus fall distant behind the reflection of her family in her glasses. She was a body here, with a mind somewhere else. Like me.

After dinner, Uncle Ralf read a Christmas poem as we gathered around the fireplace in the living room and tried not to ogle at Aunt Sylvia’s horrendously fat spruce tree held together with gold ribbons and crystal teardrop ornaments. The display gave off the fresh scent of pine needles, sap, and the sort of inconsiderate wealth-flaunting that practically shoved spare bills up one’s nose.

Throughout the reading, Ralf’s children begged him to let them open just one gift from the pile beneath the tree. It severely disrupted the poem, but we all clapped nonetheless