What kind of parents produce a baby, doughy fists curled up, their precious little ball of pinkish regrets, drowned in maternal fluid, and decide, right then and there, to name her Excellence?

The kind of parents who grew up in a convent, that’s who.

Excellence’s name was a self-fulfilling prophecy. I know because she sits across me in Bible studies. She identifies the ingredients on the back of luxurious shampoo bottles, and she has not three weird friends, but a halo of girls who swirl around her. They suck up their stomachs to look like her. But a naturally concave tummy always does it better.

That was the curse of being around Excellence. You can spend all night dolling yourself up, smearing mascara and righting it, over and over again, but one look at Excellence—excellent black lashes, excellent blonde hair, and excellent pink gloss—and your appearance rots on the spot. Her excellence is not just in name, but a radioactive element that stabilizes in her and no one else. An excellence that not only outshines you, but condemns you to blandness.

And here she is. In all her glory. Bible shut close in her slender, manicured hands. Messy blonde hair like a gas floating around her head. Pale blue eyes, also deemed excellent for their observation skills, always delving into the text in a way the Sisters adored her for. They hold tears. Her bible trembles, worn with truly excellent worship.

‘How could you?’

My reputation likely dies here. Rest in peace, Milly Sanders.

October’s snow is virgin, the wedding veil of a defiant bride. Tugged fiercely over a rigid face. The insects expire beneath its layer, rot and dirty wings dissipating. All is clean.

July you rest upon grass or hide from the fuzzy bugs darting outside the windows. Aquamarine waters beckon your name. Attempt to leave and the beach scorches your soles. Do not breathe—you will choke on the richness around you, or realistically, inhale a fly.

December knocks on your door, bumping the hung holly, kissing cheeks who spent years apart. The weather might deliver death upon the unfortunate locked outside.

January renewed, frothed with promises, that gleam like truth for those thirty one days. It makes a believer out of a pessimist.

February realizes the promises for naught. The day after your beloved, when the specialty fades, abandoned on the fifteenth. It is tragedy simulacrum, those melted candies in your pocket. Succinct except when the year leaps, because horror must never go on so long.

June clings to the skin and breathes down the nape, heat incarnate. A little longer now and it will brand you in freedom, drink the rest of the cold from your veins like lemonade. Hold the ice.

March is the first proceedings in the divorce of snow and grass, within in a court, judged by the strokes of sunlight that creep out from their judicial gown of clouds. The judgement is merciless. Snow will not survive.

April will never watch your back. It exhausts the energy as daylight withers a vampire. The veins do not want to work, please do not force them. We are in the final stretch, so close yet so far. Most is learnt here.

November, and the air dares to snow, to break the fragility of its predecessors, but not too much. Modesty maintains, it maintains, and drapes upon itself a hefty coat of white, weighing the trees in pearly boas.

May sludges on. Green overpowers the white cast, finally, and flies crack from their cages, tumbling out of the ice, gasping for the first strokes of sunlight. The tires will need replacing.

August grasps at the strings of remembrance. A beggar on the street, the shaking cup soundless from no contents. How to fill it with attention? Impossible. Its siblings shine much brighter.

September, time to pick the backpacks and renovate the wardrobe, as the tidings of the future ripple forth. Do not let it pass you by, nor the time before or after. Every breath matters.

He’d fallen into bed with her, choking in a female perfume, catching the sleeves of her dress and yanking them off her shoulders. Her bones were like a bird’s, or the tiny ones holding up ear cartilage or maybe not there at all, like shark blubber. She was all flesh, no bones, that night.

It was in the morning, when she’d tossed him that smile, that he noticed the bones, the solidity of what he did, that he started in bed. Her black hair coursed down the sheets, and he wondered if a strand had crawled beneath his skin and tangled in his guts.

‘Did you have fun?’

He was too drunk that night, she too, but only one of them had developed enough to regret. She was nearly two years younger but he thought she ought to be smarter.

He pulled himself off the bed and stepped onto the carpet. Velvet melted beneath his feet and he looked down to a dress, like the residue of a crime scene, glinting at him.

There a smile flickered from the colour, then the body of her older sister, who had as much as love for him as he did for her. It couldn’t have belonged to her, but borrowed from her sister.

The same sister who stole the place of his original beloved, the same he’s bethrothed to in her absence. That chilling woman, his fiancée. He loathed to marry her, to recite vows on their wedding day, but loathed more to enter his parent’s disapproval.

The only real advantage was that he didn’t need to act proper. He’d already began aging the wine he’d drink the morning of the wedding. If he’s lucky, he’d be drunk the whole fucking thing.

‘Hey?’

He looked back at her, snapped out of it., frothing with questions.

Why would she wear that? Knowing what velvet red implies between them? Did she think he loved her sister in any capacity beyond tolerance? Horrible, horrible girl, and worser him.

‘What?’

‘Are you okay? With this, I mean, I—’

‘This can never happen again.’

Her thin brows skewed, faintly reminding him of a pathetic watercolour doll. ‘But wasn’t last night good for you?’

‘Like that matters.’

His life’s already messed up as it is without bedding his fiancée’s younger sister. His fiancée would grind his bones into a fine powder and smoke a blunt from his ashes.

‘But it does matter to me. For years, I’ve wanted—’

‘You’re nothing like that to me.’ He didn’t want to hear someone he loved as a sister finish a sentence like that. ‘I mean it. I’m sorry. I was wasted and I didn’t mean to take advantage of you. But can you…’ how did he word it in a way that didn’t make him the scum of the Earth?

But she caught on. ‘I won’t tell her.’

‘Thank you. If it’s alright, can you please be on your way? I’ll contact you later.’

She got off the bed as he pulled his foot off the dress. They were the last things he wanted to see.

He sealed himself in the washroom and washed his eyes, the light foundation and hints of blush that brightened his complexion last night, and opened his phone—left on the head of the toilet.

No messages. No scandal outbreak. Just a lone notification from Maman inquiring if he’d be there at the meeting this evening. The world spun on. She was still in his bed.

He wore a bathrobe and only left when he heard the door shut.

Little Mary Anne didn’t complete her chores today. She’d be punished, brutally. Daddy already had the coins out for her to purchase it herself at the fair. Mommy lent her not a kind eye.

‘You should’ve known better, Mary. Your behaviour is unfit. Just unfit.’

Unfit was no good. It was the opposite of fit, an antonym. It ought to be synonymous, ought to be healthy.

So Little Mary Anne took the coins and her parents let her get lost in the fair. It travelled here every spring, some winters, rarely summers, and never fall. Fall represented decay. The staff once told her that the place would become a black hole if they arrived in autumn and everyone within would die.

Black holes ripped people apart, worse than wild animals and creatures, because you had no fighting chance. Nightmares joined her in bed since. Her parents often said, after learning, ‘If you don’t do this, we’ll call them and bring you here during the fall.’

Luckily, it was spring, and quite fit weather. Except it was night, and nightly spring chilled the bones to a pain. She kept her neon oversized parka over her lips, which was too hot, but the only way her parents would find her when their game became enough.

Lights of pink, gold, and a sharp blue shimmered on signs. A game here claimed she should test her luck. Classic whack a mole sat beside it. A mirror maze Mommy insisted she’d get lost in the minute she entered is at the brink of the fair with a never-ending line.

But it was the prize-win game she was supposed to want. Blind-folded throwing with only enough for one round. If she could win something pleasant like sweets, her parents would forgive her.

That old thing was in the corner, unloved compared to all the more glamorous games, crowded with people—mostly zitty boy teenagers and dolled up girl teenagers, who were just as zitty but hid it better. They didn’t pay her any mind, but their Mommies and Daddies probably had them on missions, too.

She walked until she reached the corner. Until the salted butter popcorn and the sugary overload of cotton candy smells ran out.

There the same worker who’d handled it all these years stood behind the booth, always holding an ancient looking book. She was a simple woman whose black hair fell in straight unbroken panels down her back. Skin peeked out of her front hair. Mommy called that balding.

‘Hi.’

She slid the woman some coins. Her hand swallowed it and the other spun out the ticket for her to play. ‘Having fun?’

‘Yes,’ she lied, second-nature, because while lying wasn’t good, Mommy and Daddy already taught her that certain lying wasn’t bad.

The woman got up, tied the sash round Mary’s eyes, and pushed her in front of the machine. It was a bit like an arcade box but with a wider screen and no joy sticks. She could picture it in her mind from how often she’s played. She opened her hand and the woman placed the ball—warm, fuzzy—inside her palm.

‘Are you ready?’

‘Mm.’

Noises sang from the machine. Its screen would be changing by now. She tried to pinpoint the right one, the sparkling noise. The game was all about throwing to the right noise and having the ball hit a part of the screen. Whichever item was closest was the item won.

As long as she got nothing sharp she’d be fine.

A tinkling sang from the left side of the screen, splat near the middle. That was the grand prize. She’d never been able to win it and it was too risky to try. All the sharp things surrounded it, like the toys babies choke on and the weapon plushes.

Instead, she waited for the clinking of the keys, the swish of the tickets, the clunk of the rocks. Three seconds played. She heard them ring their familiar series. Rightmost top corner it sounded. She engaged all her muscles, her mind, and poured it into the swing.

The ball hit solid on the screen. The worker made a sound. When Mary ripped the blindfold off, she wished she hadn’t. The screen’s cracked, a shard of the plastic dangling from where the ball struck.

The worker’s already phoning whoever to fix this old, disgusting machine which never worked in Mary’s favour ever.

In the woman’s panic, Mary walked up to it and plucked her prize, the dangling shard, and held it tight till it cut a line of red across her palm.

At least the punishment will be fair and fit.

Kaya lights the candle at the basement door and waits the three seconds till it flickers red. Always, on time, Jana meows from behind the door, scratching down it with her paw.

Behind, Gale descends the stairs halfway, holding her bowl of chips. She’s never mustered the nerve to complete those stairs, unlike Kaya, who finds comfort in the screech, in confirming Jana’s life.

‘It’s almost time.’ Kaya hunkers to the door. She treats the screeching wood and yowling cat like promise. ‘We’re getting you out tonight, Jana.’

It happened ten years ago, precisely on Kaya’s eleventh birthday. Now here they were, full circle, back again.

‘Have you ever heard of a twenty-two year old Persian?’

‘I still think this basement freezes time. She’ll be the same when she leaves.’ Kaya slides a fish treat beneath the door. The darkness snatches it up and devours it before she’s finished pushing. ‘Good girl. You must’ve been extra hungry.’

‘And you think we’re strong enough?’

‘Mmm.’ She stands and looks at Gale. Below, the light from upstairs dies down to a hush, killing Kaya’s radiance. ‘And if we’re not, we’ll find out.’

‘What do you think we’ll find out, though?’

Gale pictures Jana, bones and ratchet skin, laid across the ground, ripped in different places from the force that stole her that evening. Her tail dilapitated and frayed. A zombie cat, so old it should be put out of its misery.

Kaya twists a curl of blonde hair with her index finger. ‘Just Jana.’

‘And how will she look?’

‘The same.’ Kaya’s face darkens. ‘What’s with these questions? Are you having second thoughts?’

Gale the only other person who saw the basement door gape, its hinges squeal, and the blackness inside snatch Jana up when she got too close. When that awful boy at scared her down here.

‘No. I would never. But are you having second thoughts?’

‘No.’ Kaya smiles, brilliantly, pink lips spreading. She’s always been gorgeous, in a Barbie way, that incites the belief that Gale can do anything. But not this.

Kaya sprints up the stairs, touches Gale’s shoulder, and says, ‘Get the gun.’

‘Will a gun work against a shadow?’

Kaya shrugs again, adjusts her pink tube top, and flounces back into the living room. Gale knows she promised. But she’s shaking. Kaya couldn’t love a Persian cat this much, to wait ten years lying low to fight a light-murdering, basement shadow.

‘What if we saw it wrong? What if we’ve been holding that cat captive for no good reason?’

‘At least we’ll unseal the door tonight, if all goes well.’

Construction men couldn’t after the incident. The hinges wouldn’t come off. It broke their tools. Yet Kaya is convinced that she could do it. Gale adores her for believing two twenty-one year olds could do what a gaggle of contstruction men failed at. That the reason her house became a spectacle online for years—this indestructible basement—can be remedied.

Kaya pours them glasses of coconut rum, and spills in apple soda. Gale forces herself to walk to the other staircase leading up, and press the safe keys. She drops the bowl of chips on the safe as it sighs opens. Bends, grabs the gun, and tucks it in her short pockets.

‘Gale!’

‘Coming!’

Gale enters the living room to find Kaya sat on the couch, one leg crossed over the other elegantly. Kaya grins at her, hands her a glass, and clinks them together.

‘Liquid courage. We’ll need it.’

‘You barely do.’

‘Well, because I trust this will work. If it doesn’t, oh well. At least we tried.’ This is the same Kaya who trusted she could fly at ten and broke her leg.

‘You know what I said about not having second thoughts?’

Kara downs her glass, blue eyes sparkling when they meet Gale’s. ‘Yes. And I get that. You’re scared.’ She sets aside her glass and twines their left hands together, fingers tight. ‘I am too. But I also want you to know that no one else would go down some hungry basement for me. I couldn’t do it alone either. You’re the one making me strong.’

Gale wants to turn away, to not draw herself into this. A ten year investment and she wants to break it, now. Kara leans closer, her breath kissing Gale’s cheek, scented with alcohol and apple and the strawberry lip gloss she smears religiously.

‘Can’t you let me make you strong, too, Gale?’

‘You do,’ she breathes the words.

‘Then trust me. I know this sounds like a goodbye speech, but I’m not scared it is. I’m happy it’s not. Because it’s my birthday. And you’ve chosen to give me the best gift anyone can give. You’ve kept your promise. And you will for every other birthday I’ll have from now.’

‘Yeah,’ Gale whispers, ‘Always.’

‘I really love you.’

Gale’s heart stutters when Kara squashes her into a hug. She nearly spills her drink from the intensity of it. Almost falls.

‘You’re the best friend I’ve ever had.’

Gale swallows on the best friend part. She pats Kara’s tough shoulder and pries away before her heart bursts.

‘Okay, alright.’

At least Gale can say she struggled. But Kara always finds a way to win over her, whether she knows it or not.

A dragon breathes fire as a pen breathes ink. When the pen suffocates, its breath runs out, A knight has throttled your dragon round. The story shared back home entails a defeat, belonging to you, your ink’s retreat, that spilled of red, your fire drained, and the pages laid away to waste. As a poet you must persevere, and in any case, never let that knight near. It will snuff out your dragon, suffocate your pen, and the paper’s story won’t start but end. A flame caged within the throat, your veins and ink, a sea and boat. That knight is asphyxiation, white-out and water, your gravest challenge. And it will win some days and hail over you.

On the march back to Cherry Shrine, Tara checks her heels for Pearl, to ensure that cat hasn’t camouflaged into the snow banks, or run away. Pearl looks back up at her at the same time, as if checking for Tara. For a moment, she is a pair of floating blue eyes on wintry ground. She meows and exposes a sliver of pink mouth.

The other five shrine maidens are ahead, talking amongst each other, gossiping about the new artisan, Micha. He came around a month ago and the gossip has not died down—a Northern boy, fair-faced and dark-eyed, with the thick accent that syrupped his words when he spoke their tongue.

‘I get to decorate the yard after breakfast.’ Kirsten’s red frock glides against the snow path as she twirls back. ‘Micha might work outside then. I heard he will from one of the guys lodged with him.’

‘Which one?’ Aya asks. ‘And how come you’re speaking with every man in the shrine? Do you have no shame? How do I become more like you?’

The women laugh, shaking their heads. Kirsten primps her blossom-shaped white collar, grinning. ‘It was Thane who told me. Besides, men are simple creatures, Aya. Talk to one and you’ll see.’

‘Simple creatures until they want you to break every heavenly principle with them,’ Darcy says. ‘And I could never speak to the men at this shrine. Imagine a falling out happens and I still have to work with them. It is terrifying.’

‘Again, men are simple creatures. It might not occur to them to be petty.’

‘Animals, I say.’ Hana tosses her head back. ‘Not you, Pearl. You’re better than that.’

Pearl meows and titters follow.

‘Tara, can you be faster? How will you attend your lady lessons if you’re all the way back there?’ Aya calls, bracketing her mouth with her hands.

Tara laughs, bends, and scoops Pearl up. Pearl doesn’t ever protest. She jogs forward, picking the frock in one hand and coming near. ‘Sorry, Pearl is a lazy boy. What is your grand plan to seduce Micha?’

‘Oh, hush.’ Kirsten flips her dark luscious hair back. The tips of her ear burn red from the cold. ‘I don’t seduce. I flirt. Seduction is quite unprincipled.’

Amira is quiet, as always, but her eyes fix on Pearl. Tara hands the cat towards her, though Pearl doesn’t ever look away from Tara. He really is the lamb to her Mary. ‘Thanks,’ Amira says, quietly, before running a thin hand along Pearl’s crown. Pearl meows.

‘Yes, and you’re such a principled flirt,’ says Aya.

‘We exist you know.’ Kirsten rolls her eyes. ‘The seductresses give us a bad reputation. Now, I’ll tell you what happened with Thane, and what I plan on doing with Micha.’

As they near the shrine, the High Priestess Wisteria comes from the front stairs, towards them, her radiant blue gown swimming down the steps. Aya looks at them then her. ‘Kirsten—’

‘Shh. Let me advise you.’

‘That’s lovely, but—’

‘Shh.’

The others look at each other and laugh. Wisteria approaches from behind, quick and sure, like a hunter.

‘First, as Micha’s wood carving, or whatever it is he does, I plan to ask if I could watch. He is not quite familiar with this religion, so I can teach him. It would make conversation. And as an unprincipled man, of weak flesh and desire, he is an even easier target than the ones at the shrine.’

Wisteria has stopped. She can hear. Aya opens her mouth, but Kirsten shoots her a dark look. Amira smiles at how Pearl’s stretched a paw, like she’s trying to point out the High Priestess’ presence to Kirsten, and cradles him closer.

‘Thane, of course, could overcome his guilt, in a while. But a man with no spiritual ties? He has no guilt but for the most basic humanities. It is a man like that who I would barely need to wave a finger at before he’s at my beck and call. And he would be less wary around a shrine maiden. He has no clue of the wiles we can—’

‘Kirsty,’ Aya snaps, and before she can shut her down again, she spins Kirsty around, face to face with the High Priestess.

Kirsten freezes.

‘What about your wiles?’

‘My… my heavenly wiles,’ says Kirsten. ‘Of graciousness and piety that we all strive for.’

Hana and Aya struggle to quiet their laughters. Darcy deals her elbows into both their sides.

‘It is a shrine maiden who should guide,’ Kirsten continues her spiel, ‘and become a paragon of righteousness for those who have not yet interlocked faiths with the principles of Cerasus.’

‘It is also amongst a shrine maiden’s duties to become a lady who can employ those principles to detoxify the unprincipled and guide them from further ruin.’ Her eyes bear down, the redness in her irids signifying someone who eats the Fruit every day. ‘For the next week, read the Prunus, from chapters Avium to Serrulata.’

‘High Priestess, I—’

‘Starting now.’

‘What about my… important duties to complete at the yard?’

‘Your work will be indoors. In the women’s quarters, where you will thrive.’

‘Please, High Priestess Wisteria, a delicate flower will wither in captivity!’

‘Do you liken the Cherry Shrine to a prison, now?’

She calculates her next words. ‘No, High Priestess. I will begin my studies, now.’

The High Priestess flutters a dismissive hand. ‘Go cleanse your mind of this prurience.’

Kirsten ducks into a curtsy and dashes off into the Cherry Shrine. The round doors click shut behind her. As soon as the High Priestess turns to them, they flatten themselves, too.

‘Good morning, High Priestess Wisteria!’ they say together.

‘Tomorrow, we will all meditate two hours longer to compensate for this lascivious conversation.’

‘Yes, High Priestess Wisteria!’

‘Tara, your task was to relight the candles indoors?’

Tara nods.

‘You and Kirsten will switch tasks. I trust you not to infirm your own principles with the unaffiliated.’

‘Of course, High Priestess. The Cerasus is in my heart.’

A lapse of silence rounds them like sheep dogs. It disperses and they release thier breaths.

‘Everyone inside now. Breakfast has been served.’

As soon as the High Priestess strides out of view, Aya bumps Tara. ‘Lucky girl. Do us proud.’

‘Did you learn nothing?’ Darcy hisses.

‘I learnt we need to watch our surroundings when speaking of womanly wiles.’

‘A woman is pure and saintly. Those wiles were entirely Kirstenly.’

‘I’ll tell her you said that,’ Hana says.

‘Not if I tell her first,’ Darcy replies.

Pearl yowls as they reenter the shrine.

——————

Tara emerges into the yard after a hearty breakfast, bows to the Cherry tree, and a ripe cherry plops down. She pops it out of the air and into her mouth. The juice spills over her tongue and burns her throat like ceremonial kirsch.

Pearl licks the bark, her way of curtsying, and prounces into the snowy yard. No snow comes in the radius of the tree—surrounded by a year long vibrant grass that fades back into natural snow.

Before she can let greed best her and ask the tree for another cherry, Pearl screeches with more fury she thought the feline capable of. She turns and finds Micha, sat at the near edge of the yard gate, hammering away at metal work. He stops to stare down at the cat and pulls away his clunky metal mask.

Bare-faced now, Tara can see Kirsten did not exaggerate about Northern men. Her breath catches.

‘What’d you tell your cat about me?’

He sounds so serious Tara doesn’t recognize it as a joke until she processes it five more times. ‘That you weren’t of the Cerasus.’

‘Principled. Make sure he stays close to you, yeah? Working with dangerous things here.’

‘Oh, no. He doesn’t stray.’

‘From his faith or from you?’

‘Both.’ Tara smiles before she can help it. Pearl hisses again.

‘Bye kitty.’ Micha waves, and Pearl shifts back, baring fangs. ‘How about we talk properly later, alright? One-on-one?’

‘Me?’ Tara asks, like a croak. ‘No. Absolutely not. I—’

‘I’m talking to your cat.’

She clenches gloved hands and tries not to die of shame. ‘Well, he’s principled. You’d have to convert before you can get on his good side.’

‘He’s always this rough with outsiders?’

‘Not really. Maybe he thinks you’ve committed more sin.’

Micha stands from his post and drifts towards them. Tara holds her ground, asserting it, but he’s really not coming to her, or flirting with her, or anything like that. He’s focused on Pearl.

‘Where’d you find her? White cats with blue eyes are incredibly rare.’

‘She showed up one day.’ Tara steps in front of Pearl, protecting her from sight. ‘And came with good fortune.’

‘Does that “good fortune” relate to her name?’

Tara stares him down. ‘Maybe.’

‘She went to the High Priestess, and—’ Pearl’s screeching so loudly you’d think she was dying—‘I don’t know. Spat out a pearl?’

Tara looks at his dark eyes, stark against white skin. His bushy brows are relaxed. His mouth tight, shrunk around the next word. ‘She did. I didn’t know you were a religious acolyte.’

‘Something like that, to be an artisan in this era.’

‘Not just an artisan, though?’

‘No. Not just.’ He pushes Tara aside. Or tries. But the Cerasus train their hands. She steals momentum and whips him backwards with her, away from Pearl, whose blue eyes have widened humanly.

She has never seen that expression on a cat and it startles her so much she lets Micha rip away. He runs up to Pearl. She lunges after and grabs his shoulder, as her other hand gropes for the blade beneath her dress. Finds it. Presses it up to his neck.

‘You would dare harm a child of the Cerasus before me?’

A decorative blade glints weak winter sunlight. It swipes to catch against her neck. Micha’s hand is steady. Both of them are hostages. On equal ground. Yet it feels like she’s floating.

‘Do you love the cat or the money it brought with that pearl?’

‘Excuse me?’

‘You named the cat the one thing it did for you.’

‘Yes, because it was miraculous. It deserves acknowledgment.’

He scoffs. ‘All you shrine girls are the same. You preach about renouncing material goods but would welcome a demon into your midst if it gives you a pretty ball.’

‘That pretty ball renovated this place. The walls were rotting before Pearl.’

‘Now it’s only the old artifacts, the old ways, pages in the Prunus. But anything to repaint a wall, right?’

‘What are you saying?’

‘I’m saying you should look at that cat and tell me it loves you or this shrine. Look at that thing and tell me it’s a cat.’

So she looks. And the eyes are human eyes. Blue human eyes embedded on a cat’s triangular face. Like nature forgot it was one, forgot everything. ‘It’s…’

‘Go on. Say it. It’s a cat.’

Her hand is trembling, bad. She whispers, ‘What is it?’

Before he can answer, a crimson smoke bursts out of Pearl’s fur and stains the air, bleaching her nostrils with the stench of ozone. What remains of the cat crumples into an empty sack of white fur that softens into snow. The smoke settles in front of them and screams.

Micha isn’t an artisan. Pearl isn’t a cat. All of these things are true.

‘A snowskin. And if you let me go now, maybe it won’t kill the both of us.’