Breadcrumbs - Anne Ursu [79]
Hazel could feel the water beneath their feet rocking, roused like an awakening beast. The patch of ice rocked with it, and Hazel struggled to keep them both standing. Water lapped away at their perch. The next floe was a giant step away.
“We’ll go at the same time,” she whispered to Jack. “Ready?”
“Hazel,” he said.
“It’s okay, Jack,” she said.
“Hazel!”
She looked up. Jack was staring off to the right. She followed his gaze and then sucked in a breath.
The palace loomed there watchfully. It was not alone. Standing in front of it, just before the shore of the lake, was the white witch.
Hazel had not realized how tall she was, how oddly thin she was, like a woman made of a cold breath. She seemed almost insubstantial, and yet she emitted a force that made you want to crawl toward her. She was a hundred yards away, but Hazel still felt the touch of those eyes on her. She wondered what the witch was thinking, and if she was impressed with Hazel for convincing Jack to go.
The witch did not step toward them, she did not call to them, she merely stood there, completely still, the center of this desolate universe, while the air bowed to her. Next to Hazel, Jack did not move. He looked at the white witch and Hazel could tell he was making a home in her gaze.
The floe rocked. The water splashed at their feet. Hazel stumbled to the right, carrying Jack with her, and still he did not stop looking at the witch.
“Jack,” she said, her voice a hiss. “Come on.” She tugged at him, pulling him forward. “Big step now,” she whispered, trying to keep her voice from shaking. She did not need to look to know the witch was standing there, perfectly erect, watching them. She could feel her presence, and Jack still could not take his eyes away. But he allowed himself to be pulled along as they lurched over the black crevice to the next floe, Hazel conscious of how clumsy she must look.
They stepped and the floe collapsed. Hazel lunged forward, feeling Jack slip out of her arms. She fell on a small piece of ice, smacking her face again. Her feet landed in the water, and a shock of cold ran through her body so intense she yelped. And then she heard another splash, a bigger one. Jack.
Hazel was alone on the small patch of ice, while freshly displaced water churned next to her. Hazel scampered over to the edge of the ice just as Jack’s head burst through the water, eyes popping, his breath sucking in the sky. He threw himself toward the ice floe, and Hazel grabbed onto his left arm.
“It’s okay, Jack,” she said, panting. “I’ve got you.”
It was only half true. In her mind she saw herself losing her grip, she saw Jack falling into the dark waters, she saw herself rescuing him from the ice only to lose him to something worse.
But Jack threw his right arm on the ice and Hazel helped him prop himself up. His face was white with shock. His chest was heaving frantically. The water had sucked away whatever warmth Hazel had given him. Hazel tugged on his arm and Jack wriggled his way up.
And then he was up and lying on the floe, shuddering.
And still the witch stood there, watching.
Hazel fell on top of him. “Jack, Jack, are you okay?”
He did not answer, only let out a small noise as chills racked his body and Hazel tried so desperately to give him warmth, there on top of the small patch of ice, while the water lapped hungrily at them.
The ice meant safety now, but it could only protect itself, for the water was coming. The ice surrendered bit by bit. Pieces cracked in front of them, and the dark water burst through the cracks. On her perch, Hazel could feel the water beneath her buzzing with greedy anticipation.
“Jack,” she urged. “We have to go.”
He did not talk, did not say a word, but he let her help him up. And then he froze and looked at his empty hand.
“The baseball,” he breathed.
“Oh,” said Hazel, heart plummeting. “The baseball.”
The baseball was gone, consumed by the black waters. It seemed like just an ordinary thing, but it was a baseball, signed by Joe Mauer, and Jack had given it to her,