“That I announce the marriage of our King Torgen—”
Gemma shut her eyes, wishing she could shut up her grieving heart just as easily. Regret knifed through her. Stil’s love—phase or not—was a precious gift. Gemma understood that as she rubbed her magic thimble.
“And pronounce you husband—,”
No!
“RUMPELSTILTSKIN!” Gemma screamed, the words ripped from her throat and heart without the agreement of her mind. The thimble heated up and chimed like the smallest of goat bells, but the noise was blocked out by the smashing of glass. The gorgeous stained-glass window cracked and broke, raining glass shards like rain.
A figure in a black wool cloak with intricate silver embroidery fell with the glass, landing on the dais with a thump.
The figure stood and tilted its head. “Is your fashion sense sliding, Gemma?” the figure said with a smile. “That dress is hideous.”
Gemma was glued to the ground. “…Stil?”
“You called for me?” Stil asked. His hood was still up, but his easy smile was in place as he bridged the distance between them to kiss Gemma on her cheek.
“You wretch—arrest him!” King Torgen shouted, red with rage.
“Come with me,” Stil said, taking Gemma’s hand. He mowed over the guards who—truth be told—were slow to reach for their weapons, even if they were surprised.
Stil and Gemma ran down the aisle, hurrying for the back door.
As if she could silence herself no longer, Lady Linnea leapt to her feet. “RUN, Gemma!” she shouted.
“Open the doors,” Jentine—Lady Lovland’s lady’s maid—called.
“Run, lass,” Otto echoed, his voice booming in the cathedral. Soon, a number of people stood and shouted encouragement.
King Torgen roared and rampaged down the aisle after Gemma and Stil.
Gemma tripped and almost fell when she glanced over her shoulder and saw her mother—using the cane Grandmother Guri usually carried—whack King Torgen on the head so hard, the wood cracked.
“Never. Again!” her mother shouted, still hitting King Torgen. “You won’t get my daughter! This time I’ll stop you!”
Gemma gaped as Stil helped her stand while other villages moved to help Gemma’s mother.
“Don’t stand there like a stork, my girl. Get moving!” Grandmother Guri shouted from inside a pew.
Gemma regained her balance and raced the remaining distance, gripping Stil’s hand.
“Stil, what on earth are we doing?” Gemma said as the doors opened. They had to slow down to pick their way across the icy steps.
“I have a hunch,” Stil said as they cleared the steps and ran across the courtyard. The wind howled and pulled on Gemma’s terrible dress.
“A hunch,” Gemma repeated.
“Yes,” Stil said when they reached the far end of the courtyard. Instead of running into the village to lose the guards, Stil turned around and stood his ground.
“And what hunch would that be?” Gemma asked, her voice was calm with a ring of ire to it.
“That the Snow Queen will care for her own,” Stil said, rummaging through his cloak. “SHINE!” He shouted. At the top of the church tower, a cluster of starfire prisms burst into brilliance, casting as much light as the noon sun.
Up on the lone tower of the castle, another bundle of starfires ignited, glowing like a comet.
At the gate of Ostfold, another bunch of prisms exploded in light. The city glowed like a radiant jewel, lit from the three different points.
As Gemma—and the townsfolk who waiting in the courtyard—gazed slack-jawed at the light, Stil threw a fistful of snowflakes into air. “Spread,” he ordered.
Obeying his order, a gust of wind carried the paper snowflakes into the air. When they disappeared, it started to snow. A snow cloud formed above the city, and a twin cloud formed at the base of the mountains behind the palace—specifically Fresler’s Helm.
The snow started to fall in thick flakes and at a greater pace when King Torgen finally struggled out of the crowd in the cathedral.
“Guards, ARREST THEM! Kill the man!” King Torgen ordered, pointing a finger at Stil and Gemma.
The guards behind King Torgen were motionless.
King Torgen twisted around. “MOVE!” he shouted, spittle flying from his lips. “Or I shall have your families slaughtered for your insolence!”
More guards entered the courtyard, streaming from the palace until they lined the sides of the courtyard.
“Seize them!” King Torgen shouted to the newcomers.
None of the guards moved.
“You refuse? You are traitors! You will all suffer!” King Torgen shouted.
“Guards of Ostfold and Verglas, stand down,” Prince Toril ordered, emerging from the cathedral.
In a well-practiced movement, the guards sheathed their swords or reversed their hold on their spears and jabbed the tips into the ground.
King Torgen whipped around. “You rebel against me, son?” he sneered. “You wouldn’t. You haven’t the strength or the power.”
