“Why do you put up with it?”
“Pardon? I don’t understand what you mean,” Gemma said, glancing at the mage. She stopped sawing long enough to adjust her grip on her dinner knife before she went back to it.
“Why do the citizens of Verglas put up with it? Why don’t you overthrow him?”
“As much as we fear him, he does have the blood of the Snow Queen’s family in his veins,” Gemma grunted. “And as much as we hate him, we have absolute loyalty to the Snow Queen.”
“Even though she’s been deceased for centuries?”
“Even then.”
The mage folded his arms across his chest. “Centuries later, and Verglas is still unwavering. I wonder if she spelled the people in addition to the land.”
“It helps that it’s mostly the nobles and those of us foolish enough to live in Ostfold who bear the brunt of King Torgen’s temper,” Gemma continued. “And the country already has enough trouble. It hasn’t been officially stated, but everyone knows Arcainia all but owns Verglas. We have a mountain of debt to them.”
“Is that so,” the mage said.
Gemma was still sawing at the board when she saw white dance on the horizon. A geyser of snow shot up from the ground into the air. Ice formed behind it, stretching as tall as a small mountain. The display was far away, but it was impossible to miss as the moonlight danced on the snow and ice, making it shine like lightning.
The tension faded from Gemma as she watched the display.
“What?” the mage said, leaning so he could see outside. He looked for barely a moment before he slid back against the wall.
“It’s the Snow Queen’s magic,” Gemma said.
“You can’t know that.”
“Every citizen of Verglas knows her magic like we know the faces of our mothers,” Gemma said, tilting her head as she watched the light reflect off the ice.
“You’re thinking something,” the mage said.
Gemma hesitated. “Yes.”
“What?”
“Why would the Snow Queen’s magic activate?”
“I would assume it means an evil magic wielder is trying to force his way past the Verglas borders,” the mage said. “That is what activates her residual magic, after all.”
“Of course—but why?” Gemma repeated. “The world knows about the Snow Queen. What dark magician could possibly be desperate enough to try regardless?”
The mage was silent.
Gemma was quiet as well as she watched the snow fall. The sprouted ice disintegrated, falling from view.
“It’s nothing you need to worry about,” the mage said, pushing away from the wall. He retreated to the spinning wheel to check on the gold thread and the flax fibers. “It’s almost a joke,” he added.
“What?” Gemma asked as she adjusted the fold of blue cloth tied around her forehead.
“The Snow Queen’s magic is still strong enough to keep magic users with evil intensions out of her country, but it is the offspring of her family that rules with horror,” the mage said.
Gemma knew of no safe reply to the mage’s dangerous statement, so she tucked her chin and kept sawing.
After the midnight hour, Gemma gave up sawing and sank to the ground.
“Tired?” the mage asked.
“Perhaps.”
“You could sleep.”
“Exhaustion does not necessarily equate with sleepiness, Sir Mage,” Gemma said, running a hand through her wavy hair.
The mage tipped his head like a dog. “What do you mean?”
“It means I don’t think I could sleep if I wanted to. Death threats and King Torgen have that sort of effect on us normal citizens,” Gemma dryly said.
The mage smiled widely. “I see. I hadn’t thought about it like that. You mentioned before that you haven’t much hope King Torgen will release you.”
“Even if he does, he knows my name. He will remember the result forever. I will have to leave Ostfold immediately,” Gemma said pulling her legs to her chest to conserve heat.
“Is that so bad?”
“I would leave behind the only friendships I’ve ever made,” Gemma said, thinking of Grandmother Guri and Lady Linnea as she traced a hem of her brown and white uniform with her finger. “And I don’t think my survivability rate is favorable. I could perhaps find employment somewhere in Verglas, but King Torgen would surely hire the assassin’s guild to track me down. Outside of Verglas, I am more likely to survive, but who would want a seamstress from Verglas? We are the backwoods of the fashion world,” Gemma said.
“I don’t think you have ever strung so many words together before,” the mage said.
Gemma cracked a wry smile.
The mage sat down, resembling a tent with his swirling cloak. “I recall hearing you made dresses. You work for a lady, I believe?”
“Lady Linnea, daughter of Lord and Lady Lovland.”
“And they are nice?”
