The Snow Queen's Shadow

enough to brave the rocks and waves? “Your full name?”
    Gerta was shaking so hard she had to try three times to answer. “Rose Gertrude Curtana. But I prefer Gerta.”
    Talia yanked her dagger from its sheath. “Rose Curtana is dead.”
    “I know. Snow destroyed her.” Gerta’s cracked lips managed a weak smile. “I’m Snow’s sister.”
    “That’s impossible. Snow had no sister.”
    “Half-sister.” Gerta shivered again.
    There were similarities. Rose’s hair was shorter, but it framed a face with the same narrow features and high cheekbones as Snow’s. Gerta’s large brown eyes were almost a perfect match for Snow’s own. She was attractive, though not as beautiful as Snow. “She would have told me.”
    “There are many things Snow preferred not to remember,” Gerta said.
    “A forgotten sister? One who happens to arrive in Lorindar this very night?” Talia kept her dagger ready as she backed away to retrieve another blanket. She tossed it to Gerta, who wrapped it around herself with shaking hands.
    “Our mother, may she burn forever, sent me away when I was a baby,” Gerta said. “At least, that’s the story Snow liked to tell herself when she was older. When she was young, she believed I was her true mother, come to save her from Queen Rose.”
    If this was a trick, Talia couldn’t begin to guess its purpose. “Get to the point where you explain who you really are and how you ended up here.”
    Gerta shrugged. “I’m who she made me. In the beginning, Snow wanted a mother who would protect her. Later, she longed for a friend. She used to lie awake at night, imagining what it would be like to have a sister. She made up stories. We explored the woods together, having marvelous adventures. Fighting evil dwarves, rescuing cursed princes, and doing everything she was forbidden to do.”
    “Imagining . . . so you’re not real?”
    “Don’t I look real?” Another faint smile. “Would you like me to prove it to you, Talia?”
    “I hate magic.” Talia circled Gerta. “You know who I am.”
    “I have fragments of Snow’s memories. She gave them to me before she pushed me through that door.”
    “She pushed you . . .” What in the hell had Snow been playing at? “She made you?”
    “I think so.” Gerta glanced around the room. “It’s hard to remember. There was pain. Pressure, as if my body was being kneaded and shaped like wet clay. My first clear memory is of Snow looking down at me. She was frightened and hurt. What happened to her?”
    Talia remembered her first view of Snow on the staircase, blood still dripping down her face. “We don’t know yet. Can you find her?”
    Gerta shook her head. “I’m sorry. I’m not powerful enough. In her fantasies, she was always the stronger sorceress.”
    “Why did she leave you here?”
    “I could feel her fighting against something, trying to hold on to herself.” Gerta turned toward the empty frame of the mirror.
    Talia’s throat tightened. “I know.”
    “She told me to help you.” Gerta stared at the wall. “I could feel her ripping memories from her own mind. She hid me from herself as she closed the door, sealing me into the darkness. Even through the door, I felt her lose the battle. She stayed down here for a long time. I couldn’t use magic to warm myself until after she left, for fear of drawing her attention. I waited as long as I could, and then . . . the door wouldn’t open. I tried climbing down the steps, but the cold grew worse.”
    Talia sheathed her knife. Keeping Gerta in her vision, she retrieved a small, locked chest from the corner of the room. She pulled a silver key from a chain around her neck and opened the lid to reveal a dirty red cloak lined in wolf fur. She bundled the cloak under one arm. “I should get you upstairs where it’s warmer.”
    “Thank you, Talia. I wouldn’t have survived much longer.”
    “Come on. You can tell Danielle and Father Isaac what you’ve told me.”
    And hopefully Isaac would be able to tell them all exactly what Gerta was.
     
    Danielle had spent her childhood learning to shield herself from the torments of her stepmother and stepsisters, building armor that their cruelest jabs failed to penetrate. But exhaustion had weakened that armor, and Armand shattered what remained without even raising his voice.
    His hands were shackled, and two armed men stood watching him. Father Isaac’s magic would prevent him from physically harming anyone so long as he