Brightly Woven

them, I guess. It was a long time ago.”
    “And it’s the same poison?” I said.
    “It was the perfect plan,” North said. “No one recognized the poison, so they assumed it was foreign—”
    “And that it came from Auster,” I finished. “He fooled everyone. How could something like this happen?”
    “It happened because I didn’t stop him years ago, when I had the chance,” North said angrily. “I underestimated how much hatred he has…to do something like this…”
    “It’s not your fault,” I breathed, my eyes drifting shut. For a moment he didn’t say anything, but I felt his dry lips press lightly against my cheek.
    “Rest, Syd,” he said. Another dreamless sleep washed over me.

    After sleeping for so long, I sat up slowly, my limbs stiff and aching. I knew another day had passed us by—a day we could have been traveling.
    I felt surprisingly alert as I glanced around the room. The cool air was a welcome replacement to the unbearable warmth of the blankets.
    “North?” I whispered.
    I heard a muffled crash outside. My legs buckled beneath me as I stood, but I forced myself over to the window. I pushed it open, thrusting my head into the freezing air.
    It was barely light outside, but the wizard and his formerstudent were standing side by side, knee deep in a blanket of snow. Around North lay dirt and grass in stark patches of brown, but for the most part, the snow remained undisturbed and piled high.
    I reached through the window’s opening, barely able to contain a grin as I scooped up a handful of snow and let it fall between my fingers. It clung to my skin in a way sand never would have, and it was soft. I brought my lips together and blew. A thousand little specks of white flew off the window ledge, floating to the ground.
    Under the cover of snow, small, smoking chimneys were the only parts of the roofs visible to me in the valley. I missed the endless sea of billowing green grass, but there was something beautiful here as well. I turned to look for my boots and a blanket in order to go outside, but Pascal’s voice stopped me.
    “If you want to track him using magic, you have to be willing to open yourself up fully to the magic.”
    “But doing that is agony,” North said. “I can’t hold on to it like the others can—how am I supposed to track him when I can barely hold myself up?”
    “I know, Wayland, I do,” Pascal said. “I know how difficult it is for you, as it was for your father and his father before him. But you must try.”
    North knelt in the soft dirt, pressing a hand to his face. “I see a line of red, pulled tight…and…a ribbon of white, hot to the touch…”
    “Keep going,” Pascal said. “You mentioned he specializesin ice—see if you can find a gathering of blue. He’d be calling that magic to him most strongly.”
    “I can’t.” North rubbed his face.
    “Don’t be afraid,” Pascal said. “You’re holding yourself back by anticipating the pain.”
    “Does it ever go away, even just the slightest?” North asked quietly. “I don’t remember my father ever being so weak.”
    “You’re just as strong as your father was,” Pascal said. “Weldon was only better at hiding the pain.”
    I shut the window, feeling as if I had already heard more than I should have. He had only brought up his parents once—and that was enough for me to see how deeply he felt their loss. Resting my forehead against the glass, I watched the two figures circle each other, North’s cloaks flying around him. As always, he wasted precious time untying and retying each cloak. More than ever, I realized how important my work could be to him.
    The loom was still waiting for me, its rough wooden frame balanced carefully against the wall. I sat down in front of it, pulling my bag toward me. My mind was fully absorbed in every detail of the cloak, straying only once to acknowledge the sunlight filling the room.

    I was halfway done with the cloak before I forced myself to stop and relight the fire. Sometime after I finished thecastle walls of Fairwell and before I had begun the green of Arcadia’s mountains, the embers had died out completely. The wintry air that saturated the room had stiffened my fingers to the point that they could no longer move.
    I must have watched my mother light the kitchen fire a thousand times with an ease and fluidity brought by constant practice. But she had let me try only once, and that one time—with the spilled stew and ruined