Ice Country (33 page)

“You want to?” Skye says, her eyes bold and
sharp as they cut into mine.

This time I really hope Jolie can’t hear
us.

Skye leans into me and I scoop a hand around
the back of her neck, slip it under her coat, feel the warmth of
her smooth skin, pull her even closer. Her forehead touches mine
and we look at each other, all the way in, closer than close, her
brown chestnut eyes bearing her soul to me, and I can see—nay,
feel
—how much she wants me, how when she looks at me she
feels the same way I do when I look at her.

I touch her jaw with my other hand, just
below her ear, running my thumb along her brown skin. And then we
kiss, more tenderly and slowly than the last time, when it was all
adrenaline and urgency and—

I pull back, glancing sharply at Jolie, who I
thought I saw move.

“What?” she says, following my gaze.

Jolie continues sleeping as still as a stone,
just like she’s been the whole time.

Feeling foolish, I say, “Sorry, Skye, I
thought—I just thought I saw…”

“It’s okay,” Skye says with that raspy voice
of hers that makes me shake with desire. She touches a gentle hand
to my face, brushing the scruff of my beard. “Time’ll heal
everythin’,” she says.

~~~

One day till Skye leaves. (And me with
her?)

I know, I know, I’ve been saying all along
how I’m going, how Buff’s going with me, how I owe them and have to
help Skye and Siena find her sister…but…but…

Jolie.

How can I leave my sleeping angel sister
alone in her bed, maybe to wake up one day without me there by her
side? After all she’s been through, how could I ever do that? The
warmth of the fire is making me sweat.

I’m brooding over my thoughts, changing my
mind again and again, when there’s a knock on the door. Usually
Skye and Buff and the others just come right in, so it surprises
me. Abe again maybe?

I wipe my sleeve on the frosted glass so I
can take a peek. My breath hitches. What am I seeing?

I rush to the door, thrust it open, slamming
it off the wall, but not caring, not caring, because—

—standing before me is my mother, practically
withered away to nothing, all skin and bones and as pale as the
Glassies, but that doesn’t matter, because she’s standing on her
own two feet.

“Dazz,” she says, her voice as whispery as it
always is, like when she’s murmuring nonsense at the fire. But
there’s no nonsense in it, because it’s her—it’s really her. Not
drugged-out Mother, but the real one, the one who was always there,
always around when father was working in the mines, who only left
us when he did.

My brain’s telling me to turn her away, to
tell her to come back when she’s been clean for more than a day, a
month at least, but every instinct in my body is saying different.
And after everything—Wes and Jolie and Skye and the king—I can’t, I
can’t be the firm hand on her now, because I need her, maybe every
bit as much as she needs me.

I step forward and curl my arms around her,
feeling my heart beating firmly against her head, which rests on my
chest. I hold her and hold her and hold her, and I feel her body
shaking as she sobs into me, but then I realize I’m shaking too,
just letting go, letting everything out of me, because she’s my
mother again, and she can make all the bad stuff go away.

I don’t know how long we stand there, just
hugging, just being mother and son again, but by the time we pull
apart there’s snow on our eyebrows and in our hair from the big,
fluffy flakes that have begun to fall, coating everything,
including us, in white.

“Want to come inside?” I ask.

She bites her lip and nods, frozen tears on
her pale cheeks.

Her tears melt from the warmth of the fire
while we sit next to each other, watching Jolie sleep. We don’t say
anything, except when, from time to time, Mother strokes Jolie’s
hair and murmurs, “My baby, oh, my sweet baby.”

I just watch her, wonder how things could’ve
been different had my father not died, or if mother was able to
cope with it better. Would we be different, Jolie and I? How much
was lost by my mother’s actions, by her weakness? Although I don’t
want it to, my red, red temper starts to rise.

I clench my fists in my lap to try to squeeze
it back down.

Mother’s eyes flick to my hands. “I know,
Dazz,” she says. “You’re angry. You have every right to be.” She
won’t look at me, keeps her eyes on Jolie, and I don’t blame her.
I’d be scared of me too if I were in her position.

“You as good as abandoned us,” I say through
my teeth.

“I know.”

“Father didn’t have a choice—it was the
disease that took him—but you—”

“I know.”

“You could’ve been stronger, could’ve taken
care of us, helped us through the loss that hurt us every bit as
much as it hurt you.”

“I know, Dazz.”

“Jolie was just a little girl…
is
just
a little girl. And Wes…Wes had to become a man, take care of all of
us, well before any kid should have to. And now he’s…” And I can’t
say it, can’t say it, not one more time.

“I know, Dazz.”

“You know nothing!” I rage, burning a hole in
the side of her head with my eyes. Still she won’t look at me,
because she’s too weak, like she’s always been. “Look at me!” I
demand, and she flinches a little, her cheek raised, turning red,
like she’s been slapped.

Slowly, so slowly, she turns to face me, her
eyes filled with moisture and failure. “I’m sorry, I—”

She reaches for me, but I’m not ready to
touch her, still hot and quivering with anger.

“—I hate myself for it,” she says, the tears
dripping out of her eyes and falling all the way to my feet,
splashing on my boots.

The hurt, the anger, the accusations, all of
it, falls away from me, leaving me as bare as if I was naked,
stripped to my very soul. Before me sits a broken woman, my mother,
who’s punishing herself for what she’s done far more than I ever
could. And she won’t…nay,
can’t
get through this without me
supporting her, especially with Father and Wes gone. All we’ve got
is each other and Jolie, and that has to be enough, will be enough.
I’m sure of it.

I push into her arms for the second time,
clutch her tighter than before.

When I pull back, I say, “Let me make you a
cup of tea,” and her teary smile warms me more than the fire, or a
cup of tea, ever could.

~~~

“Thank you,” I say, having spoken those words
many times before, but never meaning them as much as now. Mother
told me how Wilde helped her over the past few days, how without
her she’d never have defeated the drugs.

“I’m just glad I could help,” Wilde says, and
I can tell she means her words too.

It’s just us, walking through the woods on
the edge of the village, while my mother, Skye, and Buff look after
my sister. It’s the first time I’ve left the house in days, and the
cool chill of the air makes me feel alive again. And going with
Wilde…that was my request.

“Wes and I,” I say, my voice cracking
slightly, as it always does when I say my brother’s name, “we tried
so many times…”

“It’s okay,” Wilde says, taking my hand,
squeezing it, making me feel better with only those two words and
her simple touch.

I can’t help but think about how different
someone’s touch can feel from another’s. When Skye holds my hand,
it’s like my whole body’s on fire, reaching for hers, pushing for
her, needing to be closer to every part of her. And when I held my
mother’s hand earlier today, it felt warm and safe. But now,
holding Wilde’s hand, it’s different still. A whole world of
different, like nothing I’ve ever felt before. So full of caring
and mystery and
strength
, like she’s giving me her strength
through my glove, through my skin, charging it into me. And
although she only feels sisterly to me, I can see why Buff is so
taken by her.

“How did you do it?” I ask. I have to know,
in case my mother ever falls again—so I can save her myself.

Wilde releases my hand, extends her palm, and
catches a snowflake on it. We both stop walking as she studies it,
as if committing every last detail to her memory. I watch her,
somewhat awkwardly, unsure of what to do or say.

When the snowflake finally melts from the
body heat coming through her glove, she looks at me and says,
“Everything beautiful must die eventually. And to her, your father
was the most beautiful thing in the world. All she needed was to
understand that.”

And, of course, that explains everything and
nothing, but I’m thankful for it either way.

~~~

I still feel sort of awkward being alone with
him, but I couldn’t put it off any longer, so I pulled him
aside.

Feve stares at me with dark eyes, waiting
expectantly. “Are we just going to look at each other all day,
Icy?” he asks.

I take a deep breath. “Look, I know things
have been…
rocky
for us from the start, but I want to thank
you. I don’t know if my sister will wake up, but she’d be dead
without you; and you never backed down from a fight that wasn’t
really yours in the first place. So thank you.”

Feve raises his chin, cocks his head to the
side, looks at me thoughtfully. “I still don’t like you much,” he
says, “but I accept your thanks. And you did save my life once. Who
knows, maybe we’ll become friends one day.”

Not today
, I think. “Maybe,” I say,
nodding.

T
hey’re leaving
later today, Siena and Circ and Wilde and Feve and
Skye
.

Going to find the Stormers. To find Jade, if
she’s still alive. It may be the last time I see any of them again.
Buff’s going too, even though I’m not. He said he’ll get my revenge
for me, as long as I take care of his family.

I’m scared of losing all of them, but I won’t
abandon my family, not when we’re so broken to pieces, and yet
feeling like we have the potential to be whole again.

Skye said she’ll come around later to say
goodbye, but I think she’s delaying it as much as I am.

Mother’s out. I know, it sounds weird even to
me. She hasn’t been out in a long time, doing normal things. The
bakery, which was burned to the ground during the Stormer attack,
has been temporarily relocated and is back up and running, so she
took some of Abe’s silver and went with Wilde to buy some fresh
bread. I’m thankful we don’t have to eat Buff’s hard rolls
anymore.

I’m holding Jolie’s hand, just holding it,
telling her a story. A story about her brother’s bravery, about how
Wes was her hero, trying to break down walls to get to her, to save
her. How he gave his life to save hers. My tears are flowing before
I’m even halfway finished.

That’s when I feel it.

A twitch. Her finger moves beneath my
grasp.

I swear it does.

I stop speaking, stop moving, wait.

Nothing.

Nothing.

My imagination or a random muscle spasm.
Nothing more. I can’t hope for more.

So I go back to telling my story, hoping for
the day when a twitch is real and turns into more—

She twitches again and I know this one
is
real because right after it her mouth opens and she
yawns—really yawns!—lifts an arm above her head and stretches—

And I’m staring, just staring, tingling all
over, my mouth gaping open, but sort of turning into a smile, but
sort of not, because I could wake up anytime and it could all be a
dream, but then she’s opening her eyes, pushing the sleep—the long,
long sleep—out of them with a little fist, the way she always has
and—

—looking at me, really looking at me, with
adoring eyes that I’ve missed so much, missed more than I even
realized until I see them right now, at just this perfect, perfect
moment.

“Dazz?” she says, and it’s the same voice
that spoke to me when the king had her, when he was stabbing her,
trying to take my whole life away from me for no reason other than
he could. But she’s not in his grasp anymore, won’t ever be in his
grasp again, and I drop to my knees and I hug her, feeling an
explosion of warmth and love running along and through every part
of me, concentrating in my chest, right where my heart is beating
furiously for my sister. My sister who’s alive.

Alive for good.

~~~

I’ve been arguing with Jolie for near on an
icin’ hour now.

After all the tears and the hugs and the
mourning for Wes and the big family reunion with my mother, Jolie
demanded I tell her everything. So I told her the whole story, and
I told her the parts about Skye—leaving out certain details, of
course—three times over, because she wanted to hear them again and
again, and I’d do pretty much anything for her right now.

That’s when the arguments began.

“You have to go with them,” Jolie insists
again, trying to sit up.

And, of course, that’s the one thing I won’t
do for her right now.

I gently guide her head back onto her pillow.
“I’m not leaving you,” I say, refusing to back down. “Either of
you,” I add, looking at my mother, who’s standing—actually
standing—her hands on her hips.

“I’m fine now, Dazz, I swear it,” my mother
says.

I roll my eyes. “I’ve heard that before,” I
say, “but without Wilde here to work her magic, will you really be
fine?”

She nods but even she doesn’t have much
belief behind it. Whatever influence Wilde has on her ability to
stay clean, it’s stronger than I think either of us fully
understands.

There’s a knock on the door and I know it’s
time. Time for Skye to say goodbye. Time for everyone to say
goodbye.

But it’s not. Not quite yet. Only Wilde
stands at the door when I open it.