Before the Snow (3 page)

She only wanted to be in the water. It was where she could still feel her mother. And it was where she could weep without anyone seeing.

Days turned to weeks.

And then the Witch of the Woods, finally accepting that Nepenthe's choice was a final one and that she would never live on land again, came to her with a gift.

“I wanted you to come to this out of a place of love, not grief,” the Witch of the Woods preambled.

Nepenthe always answered when the Witch called. She would swim to the side of the River and listen to what the Witch had to say before pushing off with her tentacles back into the currents.

But this time, the Witch had not come with words alone. She had built Nepenthe a boat and it was sitting still, anchored, despite the current.

“There is a point where even a witch can forget who she is,” the Witch of the Woods said. One of her branches skimmed the top of the water, reaching for Nepenthe.

“I think I know who I am,” Nepenthe countered, swimming with a purposeful splash in her direction.

“Mourn your parents, but do not drown in your tears.”

The Witch of the Woods stood on the shore and reached a long branch beneath the waves, plucking Nepenthe up. With a slick thud, she deposited her on the boat's deck. And then she left her to be.

The boat was made of the Witch of the Woods's favorite silver Oaken. It was rare and came from the top of some mountain that she could not travel to by roots. In order to procure the Oaken, the Witch of the Woods had to climb.

The Oaken's bark looked like gold leaf, but it was silver—and it made Nepenthe think of the King's carriage. Only it was not twisted into something ornate. Its lines were simple and reminded her of the River's currents.

The boat had all the comforts of home, including a few of Nepenthe's favorite things. There were also some belongings of the River Witch and Prince Eric. Nepenthe contemplated throwing everything into the River. But instead, she curled up in her father's favorite chair, which somehow still smelled of him, and fell asleep.

The next few weeks went like that. Nepenthe got into a comfortable rhythm with the other witches. She continued her training, and when things became too much to bear, she had her boat. She had the water.

And
then the witches brought her Ora. She was so different from Nepenthe. Ora was about the same age, but she was not from the sea. She was beautiful, and Nepenthe imagined every boy in Algid thought so. The Witch of the Woods had said that Ora had powers, too. She was said to have control over fire. But while Nepenthe was submerged in exercising her power, Ora did not make any effort to find hers. Nepenthe hardly ever saw even a spark.

In theory, Ora was to take the Fire Witch's place one day. Just as the Coven had left Nepenthe's mother's place as River Witch open to her. But the Fire Witch and Ora were not mother and daughter. They were aunt and niece. And their relationship seemed a distant one. Perhaps it was because Ora was not interested enough in fire, or perhaps her disinterest came from the Fire Witch's lack of interest in her. Nepenthe never knew, and for all Ora's talking, Nepenthe sensed Ora would never really tell her. All she knew was that Ora was a fixture in the Coven.

In the future, she was to be a part of the Three. But Nepenthe wondered, somewhat meanly, what the Three would be if their Fire Witch could not so much as raise a hearth without kindling.

The Coven said Ora needed a home, too, and they brought her to Nepenthe's boat often. Ora was happy to have a new playmate, though, and her pretty and bright presence in contrast to Nepenthe's rumbling clouds drowned out some of the noise of Nepenthe's hurt when she was out of the water. If nothing else, Ora was becoming a friend—whether Nepenthe wanted one or not.

They went on like that for a while, living like sisters, until everything changed again.

One day on the boat, Nepenthe saw Ora saying good-bye to another girl. She had a shock of hair and a striking face that rivaled Ora's.

Nepenthe vaguely remembered her visiting the Coven during the phases of the North Lights when she was young. The girl was one of the Coven's apprentices. The Coven had many. There were girls from all over Algid who had shown some magical promise. Girls who might one day replace one of the Three—if Nepenthe or Ora did not rise as expected.

The Witch of the Woods had no heir and she was as old as the forest itself. Nepenthe wondered if this girl had wanted to be of the River. If Nepenthe had perhaps pushed out the apprentice by her arrival. But on second look there was something so earthly about the girl. So human. It was clear she did not belong in the water.

“Margot, since we might not meet again, I want you to have this,” Ora trilled, giving the girl a pretty embroidered shawl.

“Thank you,” Margot said, flummoxed, before turning to Nepenthe.

“Nepenthe, is there anything I can do?” she asked.

The genuineness of her tone cut through Nepenthe, reopening her forever wound. She bit her lip, and called on her forgotten manners.

“That is kind of you,” Nepenthe replied. “I remember you. You are with the witches.”

“The Witch of the Woods says she has nothing more to teach her,” Ora explained. “So Margot's training is done.”

Margot looked at Ora then. That was the difference between them. Ora was a part of the Coven by blood. Apprentices were there on merit alone. But if Margot felt any resentment toward Ora, she hid it well. With a small smile, Margot pulled the new shawl around her with great care.

“Funny thing,” she said.

“What?” Nepenthe asked as she made her way toward Ora.

“
It's the only thing I have ever been given since my naming day,” Margot laughed.

A whole life from birth to now, and she had never had a present?
Nepenthe thought of all the gifts she'd gotten from her parents over the years and tried to imagine what this girl's life had been. Nepenthe opened her mouth to offer up a kindness, but what was there to say? Nepenthe had lost those who were most important to her. But she had the Coven and the water. Margot had never had anyone or anything, except for a little magic, and apparently not enough.

Nepenthe said Margot's name gently, but Margot was already gone into the night.

The next few years were a blur of magic and water. Apprentices like Margot would drift in and out of their lives, but Ora was a constant. In time, the Witch of the Woods would leave them for days and sometimes months at a time.

Ora and Nepenthe did not have much in common, but they spent hours together. Time unifies and endears, while one isn't paying attention.

And though her training wasn't complete like Margot's, Nepenthe could make the River do what she wanted now. She could change its course. She could make fountains rise and fall. But on land Nepenthe was limited. She could only move water like a bow without arrows. On land, her skin dried. Her tentacles disappeared. She looked like anyone else.

Like everyone else.

7

“Sometimes I think you never really leave the River. You're more fish than girl,” Ora teased, calling to Nepenthe in the River.

It sounded like something Nepenthe's mother would say. Ora's words were comforting and stinging all at once.

Ora was sitting on the riverbank. She was embroidering a dress with an exquisitely detailed bodice. The dress was way too pretty for a riverbed, or really anywhere. Where she was expecting to wear that dress was beyond Nepenthe. That was one of the many differences between them. Ora liked things.

Nepenthe liked the water and everything that lived beneath its surface. She liked the Coven and the boat and the few feet of land that the Coven sat on and she dragged herself onto for ceremonies and meals.

“Just because you have manners and a pretty face doesn't mean that you aren't ugly on the inside,” Nepenthe bit back, without hesitation.

“You wouldn't understand, River Witch. You probably just have a balloon full of water where your heart should be.”

“You know if I had a heart, that would hurt. But it doesn't,” Nepenthe countered and stuck her forked tongue at her sister witch.

Ora turned away as if wounded . . . and then she began to laugh. She turned her attention back to the dress. Her nimble hands swept the needle back and forth, sewing an elaborate flower into the bodice.

“Fancy threads. When's the ball, Princess?” Nepenthe teased.

“You jest, but you never know . . .” She winked, just as the ground rumbled beneath her and the King's carriage pulled to a stop by the riverbank.

A man dressed in burnished steel from head to toe climbed down beside it. It was the Enforcer, the King's henchman. The man did not speak, but he pointed to Nepenthe and then the carriage. The King was summoning her.

Nepenthe didn't want to go, never mind alone.

But Ora had been waiting for this carriage her whole life. When they were younger and no one was around, she would waste her magic on playing princess. Being royal appealed to her more than being a witch. She looked at Nepenthe expectantly, hoping for a chance to see how the royal half lived. The Witch of the Woods had told her the story of when the Coven erased the Prince's memory, and she felt like she'd missed out.

“Okay, Ora,” Nepenthe said. “Let's go.”

Ora clamored to her feet before Nepenthe emerged from the water. The Enforcer never moved from his place next to the carriage.

From what they had heard, no one had ever seen his face and there was a rumor that the Enforcer was not one man but a series of rotating guards. The Witch of the Woods believed it was something more supernatural: one man serving his entire life behind the metal helmet only to take it off at death and pass it on to the next Enforcer.

Inside the carriage, Ora began to ask questions.

“What was the Prince like?”

“Like a ten-year-old kid whose whole world was ending. And then we made it right again. Until now. ”

8

The Enforcer walked them past the Throne Room and up the staircase, which was as wide as the grand hallway. Nepenthe heard Ora gasp as she took in the palace's grandeur.

“I was sorry to hear about your mother,” the King said when Nepenthe was brought before him. “She was the loveliest of her kind.”

He was shorter than Nepenthe remembered. There was a coldness now that she wasn't sure was there before. She could hear it in his words. She could see it in his eyes.

Expecting to find another room full of ice statues, Nepenthe wanted to prepare Ora for what they were about to see. But instead, they were led to a corridor of rooms. The Enforcer stopped beside one of them and pointed, and then continued on his way.

Nepenthe reached out for the door's handle and then paused. “Ora, maybe you should just stay out here. I'll see what's inside and come back out.”

Ora shook her head. “I know I don't have my powers like you. But I have seen things. I am still a witch.”

Knowing there was no winning the argument, Nepenthe pushed the door open and saw a winter wonderland of ice and snow. Everything was covered—from the floor to the bed to the mirrored nightstand.

The boy was standing in front of the window. Outside, the sun was coming up glorious and warm. Inside, it began to snow.

“Nepenthe . . .” Ora looked at her for a long beat. “You look like you've seen a ghost.”

The boy stood unmoving. This was the Prince, the boy she had once comforted, all grown up.

Nepenthe looked at the boy. She thought about the ice statues that weren't statues the last time they'd met. A time he'd never remember.

“Maybe I have,” she whispered.

“Not a ghost, per se. Father coined the term. I am Lazar, the Snow Prince,” the boy said without turning around.

“Lazar, we have guests,” a voice said behind them.

Nepenthe turned around to find the King at her heels.

As the boy spun to face them, Nepenthe could not shake her own ghosts: her mother and father. But her brain was also on the Prince. Had his memories come back? Did he remember her?

She heard another gasp from Ora. Nepenthe nearly gasped herself. Lazar's features were no longer round and soft. His jawline, cheekbones, and brow somehow came together in the most appealing way. His handsomeness was clearly not wasted on Ora. She had been dreaming of fairy-tale princes, and here he was in the flesh.

Ora knelt down suddenly. For a second, Nepenthe thought she had fainted, but then she realized that she was curtsying.

“He's not our prince. We don't bow to him,” Nepenthe countered under her breath.

But she could tell that Ora was enjoying the curtsy for the curtsy's sake. Once again, they were as opposite as night and day. Ora was made of something soft and fine like the tapestry that hung from the wall now encased in ice. Nepenthe knew she was made of water, but not the calm kind—the brackish waves right before a storm.

“We don't serve the King, Ora. We do not bow to him,” Nepenthe repeated.

“I know that, but it's out of respect for their customs. For who they are.”

“
Respect is a mutual thing. They have to respect that witches don't bow to anyone.”

Ora made a small sound of protest, but just then the Prince broke into a smile, ending the debate. His eyes landed on Ora, just like every other man in Algid's did. Ora was like human sunshine while Nepenthe considered herself comparatively a storm cloud.

Nepenthe did not expect Lazar to notice her at first, but when he did, Nepenthe saw his were the same eyes she remembered: inquisitive and a shocking blue. But there wasn't an ounce of fear in them now.

“You are right,” the Prince said to her. “She is clearly not one of my subjects, so therefore she is not subject to the same rules. I would not want you to do anything that wasn't in your nature. I apparently know so little of my own.”