Frozen Fate

Blythe watches her godmother work from a nearby stone bench, trying to ignore the unblinking eyes of the frozen people surrounding her. Her godmother’s hands move rapidly and decisively, plucking the ethereal silver and gold threads with an efficiency she had only ever seen in her father’s factories, as line workers assembled a firearm from a pile of seemingly disparate little pieces of metal over the course of a few minutes.
 
The thought startles her and she jumps to her feet, heart racing. Her father brought her to the Duskfire festival every year. She, Sarah, and Andrew would play games, devour sweets, and buy small trinkets with their allowance while their father spoke with his fellows. Her mother would join for a few hours to make sure she was seen, but she couldn’t stand the cold.
 
Were they here? Her stomach turns as she whips around, searching the pale, still faces around her. She rushes between the macabre pillars, slipping and crashing onto her knees several times in her hurry.
 
There are so, so many in the ice, and to study each face is overwhelming. They begin to blur together as her eyes fill with tears. She sees her former neighbors, an older couple who hosted parties every week; a girl her age named Opal Lisson, who had made fun of her freckles when they played together; a man whose name she did not know, but her father had muttered to her that he was “new money”; Marcus Gray, an older boy her mother wanted Sarah to marry one day; and so, so many others she knew.
 
She finds them near the ferris wheel, where her father must have been observing the new clockwork mechanisms while others were busy with the religious rituals. His eyes evaluate the steamworks, a hand raised to his chin thoughtfully. Her mother stands beside him, looking bored as she scrutinizes the wardrobe of a woman frozen nearby. Andrew, between them, looks to the sky, eyes wide. His finger points up, and Blythe follows it but sees nothing in the air but darkness. His mouth is open, as if about to ask a question.
 
Blythe touches the ice separating her from her family delicately, ignoring the chill. She stares up at her parents. Her father’s tight brown curls are edged with silver, the lines in his face deeper. Her mother is as beautiful as ever, but the unnatural stillness of her body makes her look like a porcelain doll. Blythe hovers her hand over her mother’s face, trying to touch her, but the solid mass of ice stops her fingers.
 
The tears fall from her eyes, freezing to her cheeks. Her godmother hates her mother, but she does not. She loves her. She loves her father, though he sent her away. To protect them, he wrote. Protect them from her curse, from fates worse than death. She did as he asked, and they were supposed to be saved. Is this a fate worse than death? Or are they just dead?
 
Fate. She was fated to be here, in the ice with them. But she wasn’t, because her godmother had gifted her a crown. She lost everything else, but she has a crown. Blythe looks back at the web of souls gathered in the center of the square. She wonders which are her family, and where they will be sent.
 
She begins to comb the area, looking for Sarah. Her older sister always tried to mimic their mother, acting with aloofness and disdain towards “childish activities,” though she was only four years older than Blythe and two years older than Andrew. Blythe expects to find her accompanied by her giggling friends, within sight of their parents but not stiflingly close.
 
But she does not find her. Not within sight of their parents, not further away. Had Sarah stayed home? Was she elsewhere in the city? Blythe searches for almost half an hour, peering through the ice frantically, ducking between unfrozen people who sob or stare in stunned silence.
 
Blythe notices Marlie through the pillars and runs towards her. She is about to call for her help when she sees Ms. Sable, frozen. She gasps, covering her mouth with a hand, and very slowly approaches Marlie, tears gathering once again.