“Listen. You can’t work yourself up into a fury about this. We’ll be all right. There are enough men in the group who can clear a path for the less able. We’ll make it to the docks and get onboard the first boat we see,” Wynn said.

Chey regarded Wynn’s nervous hand-wringing and restless pacing with a doubtful eye. Despite all Wynn’s assurances, Chey thought that she was a little more worried than she let on about being forced out of Kallaster Castle. The news had started to trickle into the general population, causing a handful of people to approach the guards with questions. Chey wondered if a few advisors hadn’t ‘leaked’ the news on purpose to lessen the shock come morning. Wynn had heard it from Chey’s own mouth first, because Chey wouldn’t have it any other way.

Ensconced in the master suite with the children asleep in the adjacent room, Chey tiredly gathered her hair back into a messy bun and stretched her legs out on the chaise lounge she’d claimed for her own. The last remnants of a fire burned low in the fireplace and two well-placed candles created a warm glow that shivered against the castle walls. It was still drafty in the large space, but not so drafty to be uncomfortable. Snow blew so hard outside that Chey couldn’t see more than a foot past the tall windows overlooking the balcony.

“There has to be another way. There is another way. If it takes me all night, Wynn, I’ll figure it out.” She wasn’t going to let the majority vote stand until and unless she’d exhausted every other avenue. For the last several hours, Chey had paced and fretted and driven herself to the point of collapse attempting to find a way out of the predicament. Finally, she’d been forced to rest while Wynn bathed and hustled the kids into bed. Several layers of blankets helped keep the babies warm.

“The thing is, Chey, I’m not sure you’ll find the answers you want. Look at the weather,” Wynn said, pausing by the windows. “I can’t see anything out there. That means trying to send a team to the mainland just to procure food will be risky as anything, and hunting is out of the question. I don’t know how any animals have survived as it is.”

“Yes, and it also means that it’s suicide to send hundreds of people out there in it, too. Children, for crying out loud. There’s no way I’ll let it happen.” Chey propped her elbow on the back of the chaise and rubbed her temple with her fingertips. She could feel a tension headache lurking behind her eyes. “You can’t be saying that you agree with the advisors.”

“I don’t know what I’m saying.” Wynn chewed at a fingernail and paced away from the windows. She hadn’t stopped moving since she’d entered the suite. “If we all stay here and no aid gets through, we’ll all slowly starve to death. And I have to admit, Chey, that’s not appealing either. I don’t trust people. What if, when the food is closer to running out, some people start hurting others? To, you know, reduce the number of mouths to feed.”

Chey shuddered at the thought. In truth, she could see how the situation might deteriorate and end up in physical violence over the remaining supplies.

Why? Why is this happening? Chey rubbed her palms over her cheeks and exhaled a sharp breath. She felt as if her very soul were being tested, like the weather and lack of food and the advisors’ decisions were all a part of some cosmic catechism where she would either come out whole on the other side or be torn apart from within.

For a moment—one solitary, frightening moment—she wanted to scream at the sky, to vent her frustration on the relentless storms and the snow and the cold. She didn’t, of course, because she didn’t want to scare the pants off Wynn or disturb the children’s sleep.

Swallowing down the urge, she instead said, “Maybe I should send out a team in the morning. Early. Before the advisors get up. Raune can arrange for the strongest, most adept men with survival skills to try to reach the docks and then the mainland. If I take that step, perhaps it will make the advisors back off. Maybe they’ll give us at least another day or two. Buy some time. If I can get ahold of Sander, he’ll veto their vote and none of the regular citizens will have to leave.”

“It’ll push the food supply to the limit. We’ve got less than two weeks. If the team takes three days to get over there, two days to gather food, and three days to return, that puts us at eight days. Right on the red line. We’ll have twenty-four hours of supplies left and if the team doesn’t come back . . .”

“I know. I know it’s a risk. And all of it hinges on if they find food and if they don’t take longer than three days to go each way. So many ifs. I don’t even know if food will be easy to find over there. Supplies were slim months ago—I can’t imagine what it’s like now. The team will be scavenging either way, whether they go tomorrow or if everyone leaves at once.” Chey looked from Wynn to the windows, where all she could see was a swirling mass of white beyond the panes.

Wynn hugged her arms around herself and paced through the suite. She wore a wool blanket in lieu of a coat. “I’ve thought about all of it. Staying, going, what we’ll find on the mainland. What will happen on this island if more than three hundred people run out of food.” After a brief pause, Wynn whispered, “I’m scared, Chey. For the first time since the storms hit, I’m actually scared of what’ll happen.”

Chey took in the worry lines that marred Wynn’s brow, and the fear—yes, that was fear—that flickered through Wynn’s eyes. Chey couldn’t recall a time when she’d felt so helpless and frustrated. Wynn was not the type of girl to scare easily. She was strong and resilient and mentally tough. “I know. I’m about where you’re at, too. I guess I keep hoping every day that the weather will clear and the sun will come out. That a truck full of supplies will appear at the bailey gate. Literally every hour I think salvation will find us. But the truth is . . . I don’t know anymore. Hope is starting to fade. It really does feel like the end of the world out there.” Despite the helplessness and hopelessness, Chey could not totally give in. It wasn’t in her nature to wilt and wither. She would cling to hope and fight until the bitter end, no matter how bad things became. It was this long-standing stubborn streak that made her say, “We’ll get through it, Wynnie. I can feel it in my gut. This is just a trial and we will come out on top. We’re survivors, you and I.”

Wynn aimed a shaky smile at Chey. She crossed the room, knelt down by the chaise lounge, and hugged Chey tight. “You’re always the last bastion, Chey. I don’t think anything could ever bring you down.”

Resting her cheek on the crown of Wynn’s head, Chey said, “You’re just as strong. I haven’t seen you cry over Leander in at least the last twenty-four hours.”

The moment of levity drew an unexpected laugh from Wynn. “You saw that, huh?”

“Big old crocodile tears. Yes, I saw.” Although it had been longer than a day. Perhaps a week since Chey had caught Wynn dabbing tears from her eyes. Wynn missed her husband as much as Chey missed Sander.

Banshees screamed at the windows as the storm intensified.

The night passed in awkward fits and starts. Sander couldn’t get comfortable knowing there might be enemies close by, even though Leander and Gunnar took turns keeping watch. Stretched out on the floor, one arm hooked behind his head, Sander stared at the ceiling and thought about Chey. The wind had stopped blowing—or at least stopped blowing so noisily. Which didn’t mean that a blizzard wasn’t still raging beyond the windows. Every now and then, Sander’s reverie was interrupted by the distinct sound of ice pellets impacting glass. Then the dead silence of heavy snow took its place. He imagined they would all eventually wake up to snow drifts eight feet high, and those were the dreams that disrupted his sleep. Dreams of a buried farmhouse, of danger lurking in the gloomy hallways. He couldn’t get out.

Jolting awake in the middle of the night, Sander mopped sweat from his brow and breathed in the scent of melting wax. The darkness was a little too complete; the candles had gone out.

Or been blown out.

Suddenly on alert, he tensed and reached for a gun that he’d stashed beneath his pillow. A hand stayed his grab for the weapon. Leander spoke nearby, coming into focus as Sander blinked away the last remnants of slumber.

“You don’t need it,” Leander whispered. “The candles burned down and I didn’t want to forage around the house to find more. No one is down here but us.”

Easing his rigid posture, Sander slumped back to the ground.

“You feeling all right? You’re sweating bullets,” Leander said before Sander could get a word out. He put the back of his hand against Sander’s forehead. “You’re burning up.”

“I’m fine. Restless sleep.” Sander ducked away from Leander’s touch. He cocked an arm back again and realized that he was freezing despite the sweat. The farmhouse was warm enough, and he had on thick clothing with a blanket over his legs, yet still his bones shivered. The longer he was awake, the more he noticed it.

“I heard.”

“Heard what?” Sander frowned.

“Your restless sleep.”

“Was I talking or something?” Sander asked.

“Trying to. You were mumbling and thrashing around. You sure you don’t have a fever?”

He did have a fever. Sander felt the burn under his skin. “No, I’m fine.”

“You have a fever.”

“I don’t.”

“We’ve got something for that. Better to kill it now than let it fester.” Leander started to rise.

“I’m fine. Don’t waste that on me. If it’s not gone by morning, then we’ll discuss it.” He knew Leander would have to search for candles and light them before rooting through the right backpack for aspirin.

“Thought you said you didn’t have a fever?” Leander asked, lowering to sit on the edge of a sofa.

Sander didn’t say more about it. He closed his eyes, resisting the urge to pull the blanket higher and huddle beneath it.

“You going to tell me what went on earlier today?” Leander whispered.

In as few words as possible, Sander explained that he’d seen Turo at the window, possibly eavesdropping, and how Turo had made a timely weather report once Sander stepped inside.

Leander grunted. “Don’t worry, old man. I won’t let the boogeyman get you. Go back to sleep.”

“I will get up and kick your a—”

“No, you won’t. You’re about to fall back asleep, that’s what. I’ll see you in the morning,” Leander said, apparently putting an end to the conversation.

Sander didn’t argue. He stared at the ceiling, positive this time that Leander was wrong. Sleep was the farthest thing from his mind.

The next time he woke, a soft yellow glow greeted his gaze instead of the usual gray gloom. Cracks and pops from a recently stoked fireplace explained the diffused light. On his side, huddled into a fetal position with his arms pulled tight against his body, Sander shook off the vestiges of sleep and sat upright.

He felt like he’d been hit by a truck. His chest ached and sometime overnight his bones had surely turned to lead. An unnatural heaviness tugged at his arms, legs, and torso.

“Here. This might help a little,” Mattias said, handing down a mug of steaming coffee.

“Thanks.” Sander accepted the cup and brought it to his lips straightaway. Scalding or not, he needed a sip. He had three, silently wishing for better quality than instant but glad to have it nonetheless. Before he could ask about the weather, Mattias gave him the bad news.

“We’re pretty socked in. There’s at least a foot of snow on top of what there was when we got here. And it’s still snowing.”

Leaning his back against the sofa, Sander took a moment to let the information sink in. Another foot or more of snow. That alone would make the trek back to the abandoned truck treacherous. Never mind the ongoing blizzard.

He sipped the coffee, a muscle twitching in his jaw.

“I couldn’t get a signal on the satellite phone either,” Mattias added.

Of course they couldn’t get a signal. That would have been too easy. He would have liked nothing more than to connect with his wife this morning and hear that she was doing all right. Sander chased away the glut of negativity that wanted to consume him. He took another timely sip of the coffee then said, “I want to know if Valder and his family have snowmobiles. Most of the time, people who live out this far don’t go without them.”

“Even if they do, it would be far too risky to ride anywhere. You can’t see more than a foot beyond the windows,” Mattias said. “And that’s even if they have any gas left.”

“Let’s find out anyway.” Sander would not be deterred.

“You’re not well enough to travel for at least another day, maybe two. You won’t admit it, but you’re sick.” Mattias stepped away from the sofa before Sander could reply.

Having finished the coffee, Sander shucked the blanket and rose to his feet. A simple cold wouldn’t keep him down.

“I made your breakfast myself,” Leander said, advancing on Sander with a plate in his hand. “The last of the powdered eggs, a few beans, and trail mix. You need the protein.”

“I thought we were out of powdered eggs.” Sander accepted the plate, on which the portions were ridiculously small but larger than the portions last night. “Don’t give me any more than the rest of you,” he said. “I don’t want special treatment.”

“Just eat and be quiet.” Leander scowled then glanced over his shoulder at the dining table where the other members of the house were beginning to gather. “I had a little squirreled away for emergencies.”

Sander followed Leander’s gaze while forking a bite into his mouth. Berith hurried back and forth from the kitchen with plates of hot food. Everyone but Joska and Tiemus were pulling up chairs, anxious to eat.

Sander spent a moment considering where Joska and Tiemus had gotten off to. As if Leander could read his mind, he provided an answer.

“They’re getting firewood off the back porch. Apparently there’s a screened patio we haven’t seen yet. And although Valder said the firewood was already cut and stacked, Joska and Tiemus have been gone more than fifteen minutes. Can’t imagine what’s taking so long.”

“Probably plotting the five best ways to kill me,” Sander muttered. He finished the meal two bites later and took the plate into the kitchen. Because of the power outages and loss of electricity, Berith and Valder had set up a row of large silver canisters to use as survival stoves that had once housed either coffee grounds or vegetables. Puncture marks dented the rim and base of each for necessary air flow, and while it was a crude way to corral heat, it was also effective. One canister still had an orange glow of fire from within, ready to be used to heat water for coffee or even wash dishes. Before he could set some water on to boil, Berith rushed in and shooed him away.

“I don’t mind, Your Majesty. I can wash up. Just leave the plate in the sink there.” She rushed around the square kitchen, gathering a small bin and a half-full container of water. “If you need the facilities, we’ve got an outhouse out back. You’ll have to follow the tether we tied between the porch railing and the outhouse, though. Snow is still blowing.”

The last thing Sander wanted to do was expose himself to the cold. What he wanted and what he needed were two different things, however, which meant he had to face the weather, fever or no fever. He would never make it back to Kallaster if he didn’t push himself to keep moving forward.

Nodding silent thanks to Berith, Sander stepped out onto the screened porch after snatching his coat off the coatrack. A hinge whined as he closed the door, announcing his presence to Joska and Tiemus. The two were having a heated discussion near a dwindling stack of firewood at the far end.

Sander stared hard at Joska as he drew on his coat. Without saying a word, Sander exited the screened porch into a fresh onslaught of snow. Gritting his teeth against the biting wind, he turned his back to the worst of it and made his way precariously down a set of three shallow steps. Kicking snow off each was a requirement just to reach the ground.

What he really wanted was a pile of heated blankets or a steaming hot bath. Instead, he groped for the tether Berith told him would be there and followed it toward the outhouse. The going was slow, laborious. Every step felt like he was dragging cannonballs behind his heels, compounded by the knee-deep drifts he had to slog through.

Several times he cursed the weather; the wind whipped the words from his mouth.

A dark shape loomed ahead: tall, square, with a small slanted roof.

Teeth chattering, he reached for the wooden latch.

Unexpectedly, a hand landed on his shoulder.

Sander swung a fist back, prepared to fight for his life.