Cold Spell

how he went from loving me to killing the roses.

I don’t turn on the lights as the sun begins to set. I want to be asleep, because surely, surely when I wake up Kai will be the Kai I love again. And we’ll be together, the way we’re supposed to be, and I won’t be so confused and lost.

“Is this yours?” my mom’s voice calls from the living room. I jump and realize I’m shivering from the cold— how long have I been sitting here? I rise, open my bedroom door, and see her peering down at Grandma Dalia’s cookbook.

“No,” I say. “It’s Kai’s.”

My mom looks up at me and her eyes widen, as if she’s seen something frightening. “God, Ginny, what’s going on?”

“I’m fine,” I say swiftly. I walk over and collect Grandma Dalia’s book. My mom is staring, unsure how to proceed. I head back to my room, eager to get back into the dark cold—

“Are you all right?” my mom asks. I turn in my door frame, a little startled that we’re still talking. “You don’t look all right.”

“Kai and I got into a fight,” I say, shrugging. “It’s fine.” I’m lying.

“Oh,” my mom says. “Well… maybe it’s not the worst thing for the two of you to spend a little time apart— oh, don’t look at me that way, Ginny; I don’t mean it like that. I’m just saying, I married my first boyfriend, and look where it got me—”

“That’s not it,” I say, glowering. I don’t mean to slam my door, but I’m not sorry when I do.

My mouth is in a firm line and my hands are stiff as I open Grandma Dalia’s cookbook on my bed so roughly that I tear the first page a little. I picture her disapproving glare as I begin to flip through the middle section, through her spells, her charms, her beasts. Was that your final plan, Grandma Dalia? Die just as Mora arrives, so Kai ends up with her instead of me? I want to scream at her, even though I know it’s mostly because I can’t scream at Kai.

I pull the stack of recipes bookmarking the Snow Queen page out and toss them aside, far more careless than I’ve ever been with the cookbook. When I do, the end of the paperclip sticks under my nail, far enough to sting. I yank my hand back, wincing, and watch as a drop of blood swells, spreading out in a perfect crescent shape just beneath the white part of my nail.

I cuss loud enough that I hear my mom make a disapproving noise from the next room, but I don’t care. The paperclip is rusted, old—I should probably get a tetanus shot. I tear the clip off the recipes and toss it onto my desk angrily, as if I’m banishing it. When I do, the clippings slip from my fingers and slide apart as they fall onto the open snow beast page. A recipe for cherries jubilee is on top, but underneath it is something strange— something skin colored. I brush the recipe aside to reveal a picture of a cheekbone, glossy and torn from a magazine. Beside it, a ripped-out picture of a nose.

It’s when I see two ice-blue eyes that I understand.

My fingers race across the book, assembling pieces. There are several noses, several eyes, and it takes me a dozen tries before I finally, finally assemble the clippings in the right order. In the right face. Mora’s.

The clippings weren’t a bookmark. They were the Snow Queen page. No text, no details, just Mora’s face.

I rise and back up. No, no, this is crazy. Crazy—Mora is just a girl. Just a girl who stopped to give us a ride. She may be beautiful, but she’s not the queen of the beasts. It’s a stupid idea, you’re just emotional, you’re just angry with Kai. She’s just a girl.

Don’t go with the girl.

Grandma Dalia’s last words are screaming in my brain, the magazine-clipping eyes staring at me. I shut my own eyes, try to ignore the rising panic. You’re looking too far into it, I tell myself. Besides—she pointed at me. Right at me. I remember the way her eyes narrowed, the crook of her finger, the way her hand shook—

I swallow.

I remember where Mora was standing, outside her parked car. Directly behind me.

I run for the apartment door, cutting my mother off when it slams behind me. I pound down the steps and through the courtyard—the cold is worse, the wind is worse. In the back of my head is a voice telling me this is silly. But then I think of Mora, of her slick words and icy eyes, of the costume man in the parking lot she reminds me of. Of the beasts in Grandma Dalia’s stories.

I reach Kai’s door, grit my teeth, and rap on it.

Silence.

I knock again, my breathing slow, controlled, as if I’ll be able to stop myself from panicking if he opens the door and she’s standing over his shoulder.

Silence.

“Kai?” I call softly, almost inaudibly. Still nothing. I knock again, louder this time, then again, and I finally hear movement—from the apartment across the hall. I wheel around to see Mr. Underwood, wearing a painfully see-through white shirt and chewing on a thick cigar. His hair is so white it makes the hall look especially dingy.

“You’re interrupting my news stories,” Mr. Underwood says crossly.

“Sorry,” I say. “I was looking for—”

“Kai, obviously. He’s gone. So you can stop knocking.”

“Gone?” I ask, voice catching.

“Hours and hours ago, with some pretty girl. Good for him, if you ask me. Better than sitting around moping over Dalia.”

“Where did they go?”

“Hell if I know—point is he isn’t here, so stop the commotion,” Mr. Underwood says, waving a hand at me before he shuts the door.

For coffee. To a movie—are the theaters open in all this snow? Maybe for dinner. I feel sick hoping that they’re just on some sort of date, but it’s better than the alternative—I’m sure of that, even without fully knowing what the alternative is. Still, all I can think of is what I heard on the roof, Mora’s voice all hypnotic and smooth. Come away with me.

He can’t have left. Not without me. Not with another girl.

I fumble with my key chain till I find the spare Kai gave me and slide it into the lock. The door creaks open; the apartment is pitch-black. Even though I know he isn’t here, I call his name again before reaching over and flicking on the kitchen lights.

The kitchen looks like it always does. There are dishes by the sink, and a loaf of bread sits on the counter. I see one of Grandma Dalia’s sweaters is still on the back of the armchair, and Mora’s thick fur coat is laid across the couch. Everything looks right here… I’m overreacting. I close the front door behind me and move through the house. Shoes in the hall. Toothbrush by the bathroom sink. They haven’t left yet; there’s still time to understand what’s going on, to get Kai away from Mora and whatever… spell she has on him. I round the corner to his bedroom just in case and grope for the light switch. It springs on, revealing his bed— unmade, like normal—and a pile of dirty laundry on the floor, including a shirt I recognize from Grandma Dalia’s funeral.

And then my eyes fall on the spot.

The spot where his violin is supposed to be. The spot where his violin always is. It’s a void, an empty space on the otherwise cluttered carpet. I stare at it, unsure what to think, what to feel, what to do, because I know that this means he’s gone. With her.

I call the police. It’s the only thing I know to do.

“So wait, the violin is worth how much?”

“Thousands,” I explain, brandishing Mora’s fur coat at him, as if it’s evidence. “But it’s not that. If it’s gone, he’s gone.”

“Is it insured?” he asks, ignoring the coat.

“I’m not worried about the violin!” I shriek. “He didn’t steal it, it’s his!”

“All right, all right, calm down,” the officer says. We’re standing in the courtyard, and I can see neighbors peeking out from their curtains to see what the noise is about. It’s late—the police were so inundated with snow-