Breadcrumbs - Anne Ursu [73]
What are you going to do now, you cold splotch? Knock?
What else was there to do?
Hanging in the middle of the front door was a solid ring of ice. Hazel reached up and grabbed it. It did not feel cold to her bare hands, and whether that was because it was really glass or because she was so frozen that ice felt like wood to her, she did not know.
Hazel banged the knocker down. The sound echoed through the white valley.
Silence. One heaving breath. Two. Three. Then the door opened.
Hazel did not know what she’d expected. Servants. Minions. Something. But she did not expect the door to be opened by a tall, shimmering woman in white, with eyes of ice and skin like snow and a dress that looked like it would evaporate in the sunlight. A rush of cold slammed into Hazel, and of dread, and of awe—so much that she took a step backward. Her feet twitched again, like they might want to flee, if only they could remember how, if only she were ever going to be able to move again.
People feared snowstorms once. Hazel read about this all the time. Pioneers opened their front doors and saw they’d been entombed in snow overnight. They walked across malevolent swirling whiteness and did not know if they would survive. Nature can destroy us in a blink. We live on only at its pleasure.
That was what looking at the witch was like.
The witch tilted her white head, as if Hazel were a great curiosity. “You made it,” she said.
Hazel shivered and clattered as the witch appraised her. She was desperate for warmth, but could only search for it in the witch’s eyes. There was none to be had. Still, she kept looking.
“You poor dear,” said the witch, with a voice like bells. “Let’s warm you up. Come inside.”
And there was nothing to do but follow.
The witch led Hazel through an empty white front hall. Her movements were like floating. She did not seem real, or possible. She was as substantial as the snow. And yet the very air seemed to bow to her.
Hazel found herself in a parlor-like room. The walls were light blue, like the color Hazel had picked for her own living room, only these walls were made out of some kind of light. Translucent curtains hung in front of two windows, protecting the room from the night outside. There was a long white chaise longue and two tall, curvy white armchairs. Between them sat a small table on which perched a crystal statue of a ballerina.
The witch motioned to one of the chairs in a long, graceful gesture that made Adelaide’s swan arms look jerky and pained in comparison.
Hazel fell against the chair. It embraced her.
“Take this,” said the witch, picking up a large white fur. She wrapped it around Hazel’s shoulders, and Hazel sank into it. She would have taken anything from her.
“Is that better?” the witch asked.
It was. Hazel was tucked into the furs like a baby cub. She could stay that way forever.
The witch settled herself into the chaise. “I’m sorry about the difficulty of your journey. This winter has been particularly harsh.”
Hazel huddled in the furs, trying to take in the witch in front of her. It was just like being out freezing in the woods, how all you wanted in the universe was to curl up under a tree and fall asleep. And you knew it meant death. But it didn’t matter.
“It wasn’t so bad,” Hazel found herself saying.
“Good,” said the witch. “It is a difficult journey, and you are such a small girl.”
Hazel winced. Splotch.
“So,” the witch said, leaning in, “what brings a girl like you to me?”
“I lost my friend,” Hazel said. As she spoke the words, she felt the snow-touched darkness seep back into her.
“I’m sorry,” said the witch. “It can be quite cruel out there. The world is no place for young girls.”
“He left me,” Hazel said.
“I know. I’m glad you’ve come.” Hazel searched the witch’s eyes for some sign that the words were true. But there was nothing but cold curiosity. Of course not—what about her would gladden a witch?
Hazel looked away. Her eyes fell on the crystal ballerina statue. Its arms