WHEN MEIRA HAD appeared next to the dais, cheeks tinged the most enticing shade of pink, the fabric of her gown pulling against her legs—Mather understood more violently than he ever had the meaning of the word perfection.
And he would have hated himself for thinking that, if not for their lingering conversation from hours before. The one when they had felt like themselves again—he, capable of helping her, and she, an untamed girl with deadly ideas in her eyes.
Now he couldn’t look away as she stood over the crowd, spewing niceties about gratitude and owing much to Cordell and Autumn. She was in there, somewhere. The girl he’d grown up with. She was in there, and he was still here too, and maybe, just maybe—
Reality crashed back over him.
They weren’t themselves. He was a lord and she was a queen and Theron was . . . hers. Theron, who smiled at her now. Mather wished he could find even a flicker of dishonesty in that smile—but it was pure and true, and Mather hated him for it.
This was why he’d avoided Meira for so long. So he wouldn’t have to see Theron too, and be reminded of how she had found someone better than himself.
Mather swung to his left, diving away from Alysson and into the crowd that remained transfixed by Meira’s speech. He had just formed a plan to sneak out of the ballroom when a boy from the army training burst into his path.
“Lord Mather?”
Mather drew back, thoughts scattering. Applause and lyre music rose up—Meira must have finished her speech.
“Just Mather,” he corrected. “Philip, right?”
“Just Phil,” Phil returned with a grin, and motioned toward the city. “Some friends traded with the Cordellans for ale. You look like you could use a glass.”
A laugh scratched its way out of Mather’s throat. “Is it that obvious?”
Phil bobbed his head noncommittally. “Well, I figure there are two kinds of people here tonight.” He glanced behind Mather, surveying the now dancing and chatting crowd. “Most are celebrating. The rest are trying to forget that Jannuari hasn’t had such a celebration in sixteen years.” His eyes drifted back to Mather. “And you’re definitely in the latter camp.”
Mather shrugged. “I don’t want to forget,” he admitted, and glanced over his shoulder, all the way across the room, to Meira, still standing on the dais and talking with Noam, William, and Theron. Even from this distance, he could tell that her confidence had sputtered into anxiety—her hands clenched against her stomach, her bottom lip occasionally caught between her teeth in a wince that made him want to slide an arm around her waist, press his lips to her ear, and promise that everything would be okay.
“Ah,” Phil murmured.
Mather turned back to him. “Ah, what?”
“Ah, you’re no different from all the other Winterian boys.” Phil motioned to Meira. “You’re sweet on the girl who saved us. It’s natural, I guess, to flip upside down over the person who made our lives less horrible. Don’t worry, ale cures that too.”
Mather blinked. Of course he wasn’t alone in his love for Meira. But realizing that made him feel even more pathetic.
“Lead the way to this ale that cures so much,” he said, and Phil chuckled.
Leaving the ballroom wasn’t as difficult as Mather had thought—no one spared them a glance as they shot out of the doors and into the night. The palace walls muted the cheering and music, making the transition from the packed ballroom to the open night one of instant peace. Mather breathed in the dancing snowflakes, but Phil was already halfway down the courtyard, striding quickly into the dark city.
Though all work had been packed away for the night, the air reeked of sawed wood and sweat, and snowflakes stuck to everything in sight. Mather dug his hands into his pockets and tried not to analyze the cottages they passed. William would want that one to have a new roof—that one still needed a sturdier door—the windows on that one were salvageable.
Phil nudged Mather’s shoulder. “You’ll feel less pitiful when you’re surrounded by people who feel the same way.”
“Really?”
“No. But everyone else will be excited to meet the swordsman who pulverizes them on a daily basis.”
Mather chuckled.
A few streets later, Phil jogged up to a cottage and rapped on the door. Laughter could be heard inside, sounding out of place in the damaged house. Repairs hadn’t yet touched this area—warped gray wood wove into an ancient front door, the windows on either side hid behind jagged burlap. Every building on this street was vacant, with only the laughter coming from within this lone cottage acting as a barrier to the sadness.
The door opened to a boy, slightly younger than them, who burst into a grin and punched Phil in the shoulder. “You’re late! We started without you.”
Phil grabbed his shoulder like the punch had actually hurt him. “As long as you Suns didn’t drain the barrels yet. Eli, Mather. Mather, Eli.”
Eli narrowed his eyes. “Once-King Mather?”
Mather’s brows rose. He’d never been called that, but it had probably been thought in his direction. He couldn’t believe it didn’t hurt him now. “Just Mather.”
Eli didn’t seem convinced, but he disappeared back inside, shouting as he went that they had two more for the table. Phil moved to follow when Mather tipped his head. “Suns?”
Phil glanced back. The happiness on his face flickered, his smile breaking for the first time. “I guess you’d never have heard that, huh?”
Just as Mather waved his hand to brush it off, Phil spoke.
“You know how Spring soldiers have black suns on their breastplates? That got to be what we called ’em, in the Bikendi camp, at least. ‘Suns are coming, better be quiet!’ It’s a joke now, among those of us from Bikendi.” Phil winced every time he said the camp’s name. He shrugged toward the people within. “They’re all ‘Suns.’ Like worthless, you know? Unwanted. Sounds ridiculous explaining it, but there it is.”
An invisible hand wrapped cold fingers around Mather’s throat. Phil dove inside like he hadn’t just pointed out the one biggest difference between Mather and everyone here.
Mather had been free while everyone else had been separated into four Winterian work camps in Spring—Abril, Bikendi, Zoreon, and Edurne. Would they hate him for it? Would his presence serve to remind everyone of how they had spent their childhoods cowering from Angra’s men while Mather had spent his childhood with his family?
Mather stomped into the cottage and slammed the door behind him. The room sat in near blackness, lit only by a few candles, and holes in the ceiling let in barrages of snowflakes that poured over the single table in the center of the one-room cottage. Five of the younger boys from the training sessions, including Phil, crowded around the table, goblets in their fists, puddles of ale dyeing the wood dark brown. Another person sat away from the table, huddled in a back corner on a stool. A girl, her knees pulled up to her forehead, her hands working furiously at something as bits of wood flew about her. Whittling?
The door’s slam reverberated through the room. The boys paused in their alcohol-encouraged laughter to survey the newcomer.
“Mather.” Phil waved his hand in introduction from his spot at the table, pointing out people as he said their names. “Trace, Kiefer, Hollis—and you already know Eli. Kiefer and Eli are brothers. The ghost in the back of the room is Feige, Hollis’s little sister.”
Feige shot Phil a glare that would have unnerved the hardest soldier. “I am not a ghost.”
Phil rolled his eyes. “Keep telling yourself that, little one.”
“Leave her alone,” Hollis said in a voice that, while soft, shot into everyone like an order from a general. He was a huge boy, broad shouldered, the oldest of the lot, probably twenty or twenty-one. He had his chair positioned so he could see everyone in the room, and kept glancing at his sister as if to make sure she hadn’t vanished.
Phil shrugged at Mather. “They’re all in denial. But I guess that’s what this is about, eh? Liquid denial.” He took a swig.
Trace chuckled into his own goblet. He was older than Mather, but not by much, with the lean muscles of someone who could be molded into a fantastic close-combat soldier. Knives perhaps, something easy to carry, a weapon that victims saw only when he wanted them to.
“Don’t sound so righteous.” Trace peered up at Mather as he spoke, though his words were still directed at Phil. “You’re denying it just as much as the rest of us.”
Mather plopped into a chair between Phil and Eli and grabbed the nearest cup. “Denial has nothing to do with it. There’s no way to handle it at all.”
That wasn’t true. William handled it, and Alysson, and everyone else who clung to the joy of “At least we’re in Winter again.” Somehow, they’d been able to accept being back in Winter as enough to heal their pasts. He wished it could be that easy for him, but it wasn’t. Which was why he didn’t care what repercussions William might dump on him for drinking his problems away—and worse, for condoning other Winterians’ drinking their problems away too.
Kiefer glowered across the table. “What would you know about any of this?” he hissed. His question shattered the cloak of ignorance that the others had been holding on to, and everyone shifted in the sudden crack of discomfort.
Mather swirled the ale around his goblet. “Nothing,” he confessed.
Kiefer held still. He hadn’t expected that answer and, after a moment, dropped his gaze.
Feige leaped up in the silence that followed. She strode across the floorboards, the old wood not even moaning under her small frame, and stopped just beside Hollis.
“Go back to your stool,” her brother snapped.
Feige ignored him, her eyes on Mather, calm certainty turning her youthful face into a dare. She was so small, yet Mather saw in her the ferocity that came when someone had seen years of bloodshed and battle. This girl couldn’t have been more than thirteen or fourteen, but she was . . . weathered. That was the only word Mather could think of to describe her, but even that didn’t entirely fit. Some awkward combination of worn and hard.
“Why?” Feige asked. “I’m not in denial.” She glared at Phil and he instantly dipped away. When she was satisfied that he had surrendered, she turned to Mather. “What do you have to be in denial about, Once-King?”
Mather’s grip tensed on the goblet. Hollis dropped back against his chair, his muscles coiled, bracing himself. All of them braced themselves, gulping ale and avoiding eye contact and holding their breath. For what? Feige?
Mather gave the only answer he could. “Failing you.”
Feige laughed, her white hair bobbing in clumps that had likely never seen a brush. “At least you can admit it. No one else running this kingdom can.”
“He isn’t running this kingdom anymore,” Kiefer mumbled to his lap. His eyes shot up, daring, challenging. “You may be a lord, but you’re just one of us now. You’re here instead of dancing the night away with the royals. They kick you out, Once-King?”
Mather dropped his eyes from Kiefer. No challenge here.
“But maybe that’s why they don’t let him do more than train the army now.” Feige dug for something in her pocket, a wooden object she closed in her palm. “Because he’s not the king, but the older ones know he can admit what happened.”
Mather wanted to agree with Kiefer. He wanted to say he wasn’t leading this kingdom, not anymore. But tonight should have been a chance at forgetting, so Mather stayed silent, his fingers tightening even more on the goblet.
After a long pause, Feige’s amusement vanished. She tossed the object in her hand into the air, a chunk of wood that smacked onto the tabletop with a dull thunk. “I think you know we aren’t really Winterians. We’re different from them—we can’t forget our pasts because it’s all we’ve ever known. And I think the older ones realize you know that, and that’s the reason they don’t want you around. Because the people who are running this kingdom can’t bear to have anyone around who might remind them of their great failure.”
All the blood in Mather’s body rushed downward, leaving him light-headed and gaping at this girl. This was why Phil had called her a ghost; it was too hard to believe she was real, this child throwing insults and truths with more accuracy than any adult.
Everyone at the table remained quiet, bodies slack. Mather tipped his goblet, the ale sliding down his throat in a bitter wave as Feige returned to her corner, curled on her stool like nothing had happened.
“Isn’t enough ale in the world,” Phil murmured. “Your sister will be our downfall, Hollis.”
Mather reached for the carving in the middle of the table and cradled it in his palm. “No.”
“My lord?” Hollis glanced up.
Phil rolled his eyes. “Suns, Hollis. He’s one of us now.”
The alcohol hit Mather’s empty stomach and made him a little warmer, a little lighter, as if his body might float up out of the holes in the ceiling. Phil started drinking again, urging everyone else to start up before Mather could expand on his disagreement. Back to their evening, as if Feige’s interlude had never happened. They could be just as good at pretending they didn’t hurt as all the older Winterians.
Mather joined them. He wanted this, or thought he did, and forced himself to laugh at Phil’s imitation of a Cordellan soldier. He wanted to focus on jokes and being around boys his age; the only person he had ever interacted with his age was . . . Meira.
She needed to know there were others who felt as she did, apart from Mather. That things were wrong, that they didn’t fit here as perfectly as they should. He should storm back into the ballroom and swoop Meira into his arms and let everything tumble out.
Mather emptied another goblet.
Feige faded to nothing more than a shadow in the corner, whittling and rocking back and forth. Mather kept her carving in his lap, and though he toyed with the idea of pretending, he made sure he still had that small reminder that this wasn’t real happiness.
Trace recounted Phil’s failed attempt at sword fighting earlier today. Mather laughed and offered details, but kept his hand on the carving. No bigger than his palm, half a wildflower, half a snowflake, with four words etched on the back.
Child of the Thaw.
He wasn’t sure why that mattered so much to him. But the more he drank, the more he could pretend Feige’s words hadn’t slammed into some hollow place inside him. The more he could pretend he didn’t see how the boys gazed into the air when they thought no one watched, their eyes distant as if they saw the horrors of their pasts raging toward them.
The more he could pretend they weren’t all Children of the Thaw.