Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

‘Dad?’

‘That’s me!’

‘Can I talk to you for a sec? In your study?’

‘Of course, pumpkin. Lead the way.’

Lucy keeps the first Saturday of each month free for her parents -- helping with the house, the garden, and the ever-growing list of "when you have a moment, dear" jobs they’ve put by. The DIY projects her father can’t quite manage on his own anymore, not with his knees the way they are, and the heavier cleaning her mother’s been postponing because of her sciatica. Lucy is gently but firmly told to stay far away from the kitchen, though. Her knack for burning even the simplest of dishes having long since earned her a polite ban.

She sets down the box of old sporting equipment she’d been carrying to the loft, following her father into his cramped office space; a room as endearingly eccentric as its occupant.

Every available surface groans beneath the weight of haphazardly stacked books, many of which bear cracked spines and yellowing Post-it's like ageing battle wounds. Anatomical models abound — brains, skulls, an entire nervous system suspended in resin — jostling for space beside faded mugs and half-drained teacups. The walls are a gallery of mismatched frames: Diplomas hang askew beside children’s drawings and surrealist prints.

The scent of bergamot and incense lingers faintly beneath the sharper tang of old paper. A tweed blazer hangs on the back of the chair like molted skin, and atop the desk, pride of place, sits a framed photo of the whole family, flanked by a lava lamp that hasn’t worked in years and a Newton’s cradle with only three functioning spheres.

‘How can your old man be of service, kiddo?’

He’s looking so grey these days, she thinks wistfully. But the effect is offset somewhat by the presence of his customary sweater vest (today’s offering: Forest green with burgundy diamonds).

‘It’s something work-related.’

‘Oh?’

‘A client I’ll be seeing next week. Tricky one, I'm willing to bet. Just from glancing over his particulars.’

‘I thought you weren’t practicing anymore.’ He perches on the arm of his sleek leather couch, raising a wiry brow at her.

‘Erm. It’s... freelance.’

‘Ah, I see! Well then, fire away.’

She proceeds to explain the upcoming case, in as few words as possible. Pruning any extraneous detail.

‘So you believe him to be hiding something, do you?’ her father asks, when she’s finished. ‘This tricky man of yours.'

‘I do. Well, I— it’s a hunch, anyway. But getting him to open up isn't going to be easy, I'm anticipating.’

A long pause ensues. Neil rubs his chin thoughtfully. 

‘Osmosis,’ he says, finally.

‘Osmosis?’

‘Osmosis. Net diffusion of molecules, through a selectively-permeable membrane, from a--'

'--A region of high potential to a region of low potential. I know what osmosis is, dad.' A soft laugh escapes Lucy, accompanied by a look of gentle indulgence. 'I'm just struggling to understand how it applies here.'

He shifts forwards on the chair-arm, proceeding to speak with his hands. ‘Your man is the water. You are the solute. You need to raise the permeability of the barrier, and create equalising conditions on either side.’

‘Alright, that makes sense.’ She bobs her head staidly. ‘And how would you recommend I do that?’

‘Well, for starters, build up trust. It won’t happen quickly. You have to be patient. Create the right conditions, and he will open up naturally. You must also remove your own authority. Not to the extent that he disrespects you, of course, but enough that he feels secure in your presence. Speak to him as you would a friend. Ol’ pals, catching up over dinner. Now, if he’s the histrionic type—’

‘He is. From-from what I gather, anyway.’

‘Well, then, lean into that. It’s his show, his story. You are merely there as a prompt. But don’t be afraid to contribute something of your own to the conversation now and then, so that it doesn’t feel like an interrogation. Feed him the odd detail about yourself, your life. Nothing he can weaponise, mind. But you know that. 

'You’ll also be wanting to focus on body language. I mean really focus on it. Unspoken cues are oftentimes more valuable, more revealing, than spoken ones. Don’t be surprised if he lashes out now and then. And remember to keep your own reactions in check.'

'Reactions in check. Got it.'

'Wonderful. Oh and, finally, silence is golden. If he’s being unyielding, exercise your right to not say anything at all. He sounds like the type to want to fill awkward (or what he deems awkward) pauses.’

'Killer, thanks dad,' Lucy says, getting up to kiss him on the cheek. 'Great advice.'

'Anytime, bubble. Good luck with it! I know you'll do great. Remember: Your positive action, combined with positive thinking--"'

'"Results in success",' she finishes, diligently.

'That's my girl!'

It is smaller than she’d been expecting. The Solitary. Though no less austere. 

She’d pictured perfectly stringent lines, an impenetrable hasp. And that’s exactly what it is.

Just, less. 

Lucy’d even go so far as to call it humble. Not at all in-keeping with the flair for which he's so renowned. Not that she’s been privy to many conversations where he’s a main topic, mind you. Just enough to form a vague outline in her mind; to know that modesty doesn’t exactly top the list of his defining traits.

His name is spoken like a curse. Hissed, muttered, spat. As if saying it too loudly might defile the air. And perhaps it would. Because what he did was obscene. Not just the original crime, but everything that came after: The evasion, the calculated indifference, the theft of legacy. The second attempt at murder.

Yes, murder. That is the consensus, regardless of the sanitised conviction fed to the press.

Even now, Lucy can’t entirely explain the urgency driving her. Only that it’s real. And relentless.

All her life, he has beleaguered by thoughts of him. The vengeful spectre, wandering the outer margins of her subconscious. The monster under her childhood bed. The man who nearly succeeded in orphaning her. But there comes a time, she knows, when demons must be addressed, nightmares thrust into stark relief, their lines and sums laid bare. Much overdue, in her case. 

And so she stands now in the eternal Autumn of the East, brittle leaves crunching beneath her heels, ready, finally, to meet her maker.

But this time, she’s armed.

She wobbles a bit upon re-materialisation, but recovers nicely, despite the lack of someone to brace herself against. It had occurred to her to request accompaniment; any one of her friends and/or family members would’ve been happy to provide it, she knows. Melusine, Charlie, Buddy.

But no. This is something she has to do on her own. 

‘And you are?’ the shorter of two sentries asks. 

‘Oh, uhm, Miller.’ She pulls her cloak a little more snugly around her frame, bracing against the early evening chill. ‘Dr. Lucy Miller, PhD. I have a warrant, from Mother Nature.’

‘Your proof?’

Lucy proffers her credentials, and those issued to her by the Council. The sentry’s flinty eyes narrow was they skim the tight, smudgy scrawl.

After a moment he nods, and, in an unexpected turn of events, takes out his wand and conjures a handful of snow. Without a word of explanation, he packs it into a snowball-shape. 

Lucy blinks, half expecting him to throw it at her. But no. He utters a brief incantation, and—

‘What?’ a male voice snaps; disembodied and sharp with pique.

‘Visitor for you, Frost.’

She hears an indignant sniffle. ‘Yeah, and? Whoever they are can go f—’

‘I think you’ll be wanting to take this one.’

‘And why’s that?’

The sentry brandishes the snowball in Lucy’s direction. For the briefest of moments she sees a thin, sallow face staring out from inside it. A pair of startlingly blue eyes.

‘Send her in,’ comes the belated reply.

And just like that, Lucy finds herself inside the world’s highest-security prison.

Getting there, however, proves anything but simple. The process is maddeningly protracted, involving a meticulous dismantling of layered wards and a series of coordinated, magically-assisted teleportations. At one point, she’s required to surrender her wand, an order she complies with only after a moment’s tense hesitation. It leaves her feeling exposed, vulnerable in a way she doesn’t care for.

Eventually, after what feels like far longer than ten minutes, she is ushered down a winding corridor, through a succession of bolted doors, and into a small, bare room.

It is hewn by a strange substantiality. A thickness to the air, a shimmer, like a heat-mirage made solid. It hums faintly with restrained energy. Lucy recognises it at once: A containment barrier, crafted from overlapping magical fields, folded tightly upon one another until they hold fast like steel.

Two chairs stand sentinel on either side. One white. One black. Hers and his, respectively.

The orderly pats her on the shoulder, saying, ‘Rather you than me, sweetheart. Y’got fifteen minutes. Make ‘em count’. And all of a sudden she is alone.

She waits, breath condensing in the frigid air, mittened hands tucked beneath her thighs, feeling like a bawdry of colour in her magenta cloak and matching witch's hat.

Finally the door on the other side of the barrier swings open, and in he struts.

He’s smaller than she remembers. Shorter, lither. Less. Clipped by a strange sort of vacancy. Lucy can’t quite put her finger on it, but it’s as though parts of him are missing — hollowed out, or muted. Some vital facet excised, like an amputated limb.

Something essential that once animated him is simply… gone.

He drops into the chair, throws one leg over the other and fixes her with an even and unremitting stare that makes the hairs on her forearms stand up in warning.

Defeat has drawn him, she muses. Hollowed his cheeks, etched further lines around his eyes and mouth. Where once he’d been clean-shaven the lower third of his face now mingles with shadow. He is still wearing that suit. The pinstriped one. Though the jacket is absent and the waistcoat unbuttoned, the rich fabric all but invisible below stratums of ice and frost.

‘To what do I owe the intrusion?’ 

The velvet of his voice has coarsened with disuse.

‘Intrusion?’ she repeats. ‘You were in the middle of something?’

‘I was composing.’

‘You play an instrument?’

‘Piano.’

‘They let you have a piano in here?’

Jack Frost’s mouth twitches. ‘They don't.’

Lucy removes her hands from under her thighs and places them in her lap, taking care to keep them still.

‘I suppose,’ she licks her lips, ‘the cold would damage the—’

‘You’re not the first, of course,’ he cuts her off, in a tone so deceptively light they might’ve been discussing the weather. ‘Nor, I expect, will you be the last. Though I’ll admit,’ his gaze goes from her face to her feet and back again, ‘you are one of the more agreeable ones.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘How do you wish to proceed? What is it you covet? An autograph? A photograph? Or, something more?’

Lucy finds herself torn between amusement and appal as the realisation hits her. He thinks her an admirer. One of those women who develops ill-fated infatuations with murderers and deviants and their ilk. It is both funny and… a little sad. Has he really had no visitors, beyond the odd crazed “fan"/garden-variety weirdo? 

‘You don’t recognise me, do you?’

He doesn’t like that, she can tell. Not being In The Know. 

‘You think yourself noteworthy.’

'You were the one who just called me "agreeable".' 

'Hmph.'

Lucy decides courtesy is a prudent enough tool here. He could stand to use it himself, of course, but that’s besides the point.

‘Miller,’ she proffers, holding his gaze like something delicate. ‘Lucinda Miller. Though I tend to go by Lucy, outside of work. We met when I was a little girl? At the Pole?’ When he doesn’t answer, she adds, ‘You froze my parents and locked me in a closet with them? I thought it was a fairly memorable meet-cute, personally, but that's just me.’

The effect is instantaneous. Frost makes a noise that is equal parts surprise and derision, his face twisting unpleasantly.

‘Of course,’ he spits, rising from his chair with such speed a fire might have been lit beneath it. ‘The red-headed brat. Nasty little tattletale. And you’re here to read me the Riot Act, I suppose? Regale me with tales of “childhood trauma”? Well, you can save it, I’m under no imperative to listen, let alone give a damn. Guards!’

His voice carries, despite his small frame. Lucy hears footsteps out in the corridor. She knows she has but seconds to change his mind.

‘I’m not here to tell you off,’ she says quickly, refusing to move from her chair even as the door swings open.

‘And I’m the summer herald. Bu-bye now. Toodle-oo.’

‘I-I’m here,’ she is thinking on her feet, ‘I’m here to thank you!’

That does the trick. Frost pauses in the doorway, his back to her. He stills the sentry with an upraised hand. 

‘…Thank me?’

‘Yes.’

‘Thank me for what?’

‘Sit back down and I’ll tell you.’

There is another long pause. Finally he turns, and Lucy can see that she has piqued his interest. Now all she must do is sustain it.

‘What’s the magic word?’

Now?

‘Please.’

‘What was that?’

Right now?

‘Please.’

‘Atta girl. Lesser courtesies, at the very least, are not lost on you, I see. If only the same could be said of greater ones.’

‘And by that you mean?’

‘You stole my snow globe,’ Frost continues, dismissing the guard with a lazy flourish. His lip curls, revealing perfectly straight, white teeth. ‘Helped your profusion of an uncle back onto his throne.’

‘That's true, I did do that. Or at least, so I’m told. I don’t actually remember it.’

‘So why should I give you the time of day?’

‘Good question.’

His eyes flick to her hands, and Lucy fights the urge to stuff them in her pockets. ‘You wanted to thank me.’

‘Yes,’ she answers carefully. ‘I did. Do.’

‘I ask again: What for? Teaching you a lesson? Honouring you, with the offer of becoming my elf? An offer that is now very much off the table, by the by.’

‘I’ll tell you. But first I’d like to ask you a question, if that’s okay?’ 

‘You may ask.’ May she? How magnanimous of him. ‘Whether I choose to answer or not—’

‘Is up to you, I know.’

‘Don’t. Interrupt. Or I shall take my leave, are we clear?’ His voice is slow, measured, each syllable expertly distributed.

Lucy nods.

‘Lovely.’ And suddenly he’s all charm again. ‘Well then. Fire away. I am at your disposal.’

‘Years— centuries, of being out on the lam. Why? Why run?’

‘I’d wounded my sister -- grievously wounded, at that -- and did not wish to be apprehended in it,’ he rattles off calmly. It is a bid to establish control, Lucy deduces. He has made reference to Jacqueline Frost before she can; thereby removing or at the very least diminishing the girl’s potentiality as a weapon. ‘I would’ve thought that obvious. Now—’

‘Interesting.’

‘What is?’

‘The way your phrased that.’ Lucy takes out a notebook, jots something down. She can feel him bristling; so much so that the room actually grows several degrees colder. 

‘Oh? Please, enlighten me.’

‘You said “wounded”.’

‘Yes?’

‘I just. Find that interesting is all.’ She smiles at him faintly, determined to give nothing away.

'I... see.'

A frosted brow arches in reluctant curiosity. 'Tell me, do you also find watching paint dry interesting?'

'Depends in the colour. Your turn.’

‘My turn?’

‘To ask me a question. It's only fair, wouldn't you say? Quid pro quo.’

Frost seems to buffer for a moment. He leans back in his chair, studying her carefully. 

‘For what did you wish to thank me?’

‘Different question.’

‘I want you to answer that one.’

‘Oh I will. Just not yet.’

He’s far too self-serving to decline, Lucy knows. It is the chink in his Armani, so to say. His cold eyes narrow, and he looks apt to throw a tantrum, but refrains.

‘What have you been doing with yourself, all this time?’ he chooses, after some deliberation. ‘It’s been… what? Twenty-two years? Since last we met?’

‘Twenty-four, actually.’

‘Twenty-four, tsk. My, my. How fast the time flies when one is rotting in a prison of one’s own manufacture. Pretty, isn’t it?’ He glances around mildly. ‘A little drab in places, maybe. I was of course working with a fairly limited palette. But the talent, I believe, is manifest in those minute details--’

‘You want to know what I’ve been doing work-wise?’ Lucy cuts across him, ignoring the self-aggrandisement. ‘Or in my personal life?’

‘Both.’ 

‘I live in Manhattan.’

‘Alone?’

‘With a housemate.’

‘No spouse, or children?’

Try a small British woman and a poltergeist with pathological rage.

‘Not as such, no.’

‘I see,’ he drawls, and Lucy notes that his breath doesn’t freeze the way any normal person’s would. ‘Career?’

‘You won’t like it.’

‘Try me.’

‘I’m a chartered psychiatrist.’

That fetches a mirthless cackle, crisp and sharp as the ice in his hair.

‘Of course. Now it all makes sense. And I suppose my parents and/or grandmother sent you here to vivisect me, did they? Lay bare the depths of my immorality. You’ll have no more luck than the last one, I can tell you right now. I drove him to tears, Ms--'

'Doctor.'

'--Dr. Miller. Can you believe that? A grown man, blubbering in the corner. I’ll do the same to you, if I must.’

‘I’m not a man. Or a crier. But you’re more than welcome to try.’

‘Oh, I shall.’

‘And no one sent me; I came here of my own volition. Meaning I wasn't commissioned.’

‘And yet you’ve been therapising me since your arrival. Subtlety,’ Frost enunciates lingeringly, looking her up and down, ‘isn’t exactly your strong suit. Just FYI.’

Lucy resists the urge to tug self-consciously at her cloak. ‘Force of habit.’

Something sparks to life in his expression then, though it isn’t there long enough to examine in any great detail, retreating into the depths of his gaze like torchlight down a tunnel.

‘Mmno. No, not quite. An under-exercised muscle, more like. The itch of a phantom limb.’ His lips curve upwards. Lucy feels her left eye twitch. ‘You’ve given it up. Why?’

‘That’s three questions now. My turn again.’

‘I want an answer.’ 

‘And you’ll get one. You just have to be patient.’

‘I am many things, my dear doctor, but patient isn’t one of them.’

‘And yet here you are, serving a life sentence.’

The winds batter the outer ramparts, whistling through high-set widows. 

From his silence Lucy infers that she has tripped him up. It is not as satisfying as she might've expected.

‘How often do you see her?’ she asks, softly.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Your sister. How often do you see her?’

It is a leap. A big one, at that. He looks surprised, and then enraged.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘No?’

‘No.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Patently.’

Lucy nods, scribbles something in her notebook. She looks at him expectantly. ‘Your turn again.’

For a moment, just a moment, he seems lost. In a manner almost childlike. 

'I-- what?'

'I said it's your turn. Remember? Per our deal?'

He stares at her, eyes narrowed, lips gently parted. Finally, seeming to gather himself, he says, ‘I don’t “see" my sister, Dr. Miller. No more than I see the back of my own head.’

‘I know. You just said so.’

‘Well, y… you-you don’t look convinced.’

‘Because you keep glancing over there,’ she indicates the far lefthand corner of his cell, ‘and every time you do, you get this look on your face like…’

‘Like?’

‘Like you’re seeing a ghost. It's alright,’ she adds, before he can respond. ‘Clearly I was mistaken. Apologies. Go ahead, ask me something.’

‘Don’t-don’t— ahem.’ He pauses. Draws in a long, stabilising breath that seems to fill his entire frame. ‘Don’t you have two questions remaining? I did ask three, after all.’ 

‘That’s fine, I don’t mind,’ Lucy says sweetly. ‘Go on, shoot.’

‘Magic.’ The word bursts from his lips, seemingly unbidden.

‘Mm-hm?’

‘You’re magical, I can tell by your aura. A witch, no less. How and when did that happen?’

‘How and when? I'm not entirely sure. It kind of crept up on me. No one in my immediate family is magical -- apart from Charlie, of course -- so it came as a bit of a surprise to all of us.’

‘Is that why you stopped being a shrink?’

‘…Yes.’ Her hands are aching. Shaking, too, ever so slightly. Because of the cold or her condition, she isn’t sure. ‘Yes it is.’

Frost looks triumphant. ‘And so, now what? You’re learning to become a caster? Little late in the day, isn’t it? How old are you, even? Thirty-six? Thirty-seven?’

‘Surely you know better than to ask a lady her age?’ 

‘In any case, you’re a late bloomer,' he purrs, saccharine. 'Struggling to catch up.’

‘Making open statements like that, with the aim of getting me to answer further questions, isn’t going to work, Mr. Frost.’

No matter how much she might want to inform him that she is not, in fact, "struggling to catch up". Not in the least bit.

Frost raises supercilious brows at her, apparently impressed.

‘Well, well. Sharp little thing, aren’t we? I see you've developed a bit of sense, since our first meeting. Congrats.'

It is at this point that the guard reappears, and Lucy is ushered from the room. A good thing too, for she's been finding it increasingly difficult to hold her tongue in the face of Frost's querulousness. Telling him off, she knows from experience, will earn her little more than an angry outburst. Besides, there are much more effective ways to gain the upper hand.

As she crosses the threshold, Frost calls out to her in a high, lilting voice, ‘Oh, Dr. Mil-ler? I believe we've yet to settle our sco-ore. What did you want to thank me for? Chop-chop.’

She pauses, turns to look at him.

‘You did promise to tell me, did you not?’ The words are like silk.

‘For your time.’

‘What?’

‘I wanted to thank you for your time,’ Lucy repeats, drawing herself up to her full height. ‘Just now. For taking the time to speak with me. I’d hoped you might.’

Frost opens and closes his mouth a several times, resembling a goldfish deprived of water.

‘Thank you, Mr. Frost,’ she enunciates clearly; if only to drive the point home.

She’d been expecting rage. Or at the very least irritation, followed by some form of threat. What she gets instead is stunned silence. Then, surprisingly, a chuckle. Low and resonant.

‘Oh, well played, Dr. Miller. Well played, indeed.’

‘Thank you. See you next time.’

‘You think there’s going to be a next time, do you?’

‘I do.’

Check and mate.

Miller: 1. Frost: 0.

She didn’t. Or hadn’t, rather.

That there actually is a next time comes as something of a surprise. Lucy had half expected him to bar her from the premises. Not that he has the authority to impose such sanctions, technically speaking; but she’s under no illusions. He has the gaolers trapped beneath his immaculately powdered thumb.

Perhaps she’s left a mark on him, with her little ruse. Surprised him, even. 

Perhaps he’s merely humouring her.

The latter is preferable. She’s banking on him finding her benignly entertaining, as one might some small, ungainly animal. Something to toy with, in boredom. A cat with a mouse. A fox with a rabbit. 

But she’s not a rabbit. Not really. Although she might look like one, from the outside.

She’s a fox too, just like him. Just as wily, just as clever. Only subtler in her dealings, and considerably gentler. She prefers to use those powers for good; for... mending rather than mauling.

At the same time, she’s grateful that he is a man of significant (if misapplied) intelligence. It means that she can speak at length without alienating him. A luxury not often afforded to her.

When she walks in this time, it is to find him already sitting in his chair, and holding—

‘A notebook?’

‘Yes,’ he answers, plainly. ‘Please, have a seat.’

‘Why do you have a notebook?’

‘To take notes, of course.’

‘Notes on what?’

‘You.’ An unpleasant smile stretches his mouth. ‘Dr. Miller. You psychoanalyse me, I’ll psychoanalyse you right back. Quid pro quo.’

‘That’s not how— ...actually, you know what? Never mind. Sure, fine. Analyse me all you want, Mr. Frost -- I’m an open book.’ 

Lucy tries not to wince as she takes her seat. Her body is protesting the increased magical activity, but she’s scarcely going to stop now.

‘We adjourned on your turn, I believe,’ Frost drawls, clicking his pen. ‘Commencer, s'il vous plaît.’

And so it begins again. 

Every time Lucy replies to a question, he pauses to make Thoughtful Noises, scribble something in his notebook, with the occasional cryptic comment like: “interesting, verrrryyy interesting”, or "of course, makes total sense”.  

Lucy finds it equal parts amusing and annoying. He really is the most ridiculous man she’s ever met. She suspects he’s doing exactly the same thing she is, and only pretending to take notes (her own notebook contains little more than a few nonsensical scribbles and one or two games of hangman). 

‘Here’s one I’ve been wondering for a while,’ Frost says, placing the pen against his pursed lips. ‘How did you get out of that closet?’

‘Uncle Scott’s Bean Closet, you mean?’

‘Just so. That is, unless there are any other “closets” you’ve emerged from in the intervening years?’

Lucy straightens her back primly. ‘I picked the lock. With a bobby pin.’

‘Really now? And who taught you to do that?’

‘My brother.’

‘Ah yes, next in line to mount the red and white pillar,’ Frost sneers. ‘Might improve his posture, at the very least. Doesn’t exactly bode well, though, does it? The prospective paragon of “goodness” and “niceness”, picking locks?’

‘Seeing as breaking and entering is a fairly integral part of the job I’d say it bodes extremely well,’ Lucy shoots back, easily.

The corner of Frost’s mouth twitches. He continues to scribble in his notebook, and doesn’t challenge her.

Miller: 2. Frost: 0.

The second time gives way to a third. And then a fourth. A fifth.

She’s learning a lot about him, during these visits. What he does with his time (read, sew, compose); what the last few centuries of his life have looked like. And in exchange Lucy feeds him manicured details about her own life, including, but not limited to, the mode and calibre of her magic.

A reproving voice in the back of her mind -- one that sounds uncommonly like Bernard -- warns her to be wary of letting her guard down to any great extent. Lucy brushes it off. She has a goal in mind here, a theory she wishes to test, and she can only do so on the plank of a steady rapport, and having collected sufficient data. 

She’s a scientist, after all. It’s what she does.

‘Fuck science, Luce,’ Charlie says, taking a swig of milk straight from the carton. He wipes his mouth on his jacket sleeve. ‘The guy's a murderer. Not to mention a class A asshole! Or don’t you remember the whole Closet Thing?’

‘Oh come on, Charles, you’re a teacher. Where’s your intellectual curiosity? What was it Einstein said about questioning things?’

He shifts his weight to the opposite foot, looking irritable. ‘To do it. Basically.’

‘I know you know the quote.’

‘…“Never stop asking questions. Curiosity has its own reason for existing”.’

‘Exactly. Surely you’re at least a teensy bit curious about what’s really going on here?’

‘Curious as to why my baby sister is spending all her free time with a convicted child killer, you mean? Lil bit, yeah! But beyond that? I really couldn't care less.’

‘I knew I wasn’t going to get a sensible answer out of you,’ Lucy huffs, tossing her hair so it whips lightly against his chest. 

She is sitting at the kitchen table, head propped on her hand. The light outside is fading to tones of dust-grey and powder-blue, the Park’s orangey lanterns flickering to life, one by one.

‘Oh, you wanna talk “sensible”? Luce, what you’re doing is the furthest thing from sensible. It’s downright stupid. Dude’ll just get inside your head, use you as a pawn. You should be staying far, far away from him. He tried to kill mom and Neil, for Christ’s sake!’

She is about to challenge this, when a loud crash upstairs makes the two of them jump. On its heels is a lingering wail of—

‘LUUUCE!’

‘Oh, my G— What?!’ Lucy clamours back.

‘He’s stolen my toothbrush again!’

‘You know the deal! You have to trade it for something!’

‘YOUWOT?’

‘DO A TRADE! A TRADE!’

‘Why can’t you guys just text each other, like normal housemates?’ Charlie grumbles, hands over his ears. ‘Or do that cool water-FaceTime trick. Like from Enchanted.’

There is a lull, punctuated by a few errant bumps and scrapes from the floor above.

‘Anyway,’ Lucy says breezily, when it becomes apparent that her best friend/housemate has the situation (somewhat) handled. ‘I think there’s something in this. And I’m rarely wrong, so there.’ She blows a raspberry at her brother.

Charlie rolls his eyes, grinning despite himself. The expression is quick to fade, however, to be replaced with one of gentle concern.

‘What? Why’re you staring at me like that?’ 

‘You're, uh... looking a little peaky there, squirt. How’re you feeling?’

‘Fine.’ Lucy shrugs, avoiding his gaze. ‘Today’s a Good Day.’

‘Have you eaten anything? Not that I care.’

‘No, but I'm thinking of ordering Postmates later, if you want in?’

‘Postmates delivers to invisible, enchanted trees in the middle of Central Park?’

‘We usually just tell them to leave it by the Boat House. Works out well enough. Although, one time a bunch of birds got there first, which was a bit of a bummer. Watching Mel take on an entire army of swans and geese was fairly entertaining though.’

‘Did she win?’

‘Stalemate, if I remember correctly. Pretty sure it’s still ongoing — they own one half of the Lake, she owns the other. There are factions, a feudal system. Political intrigue galore; very Game of Thrones. Minus all the sex, dragons and ice zombies, that is.’

Charlie snorts.

‘Well, swan skirmishes aside, I’m not letting you get take-out,’ he says, decisively. ‘You basically live off the stuff.’

‘Because I can’t cook without risking a house fire.’

‘Good thing your awesome big bro’s here then, isn’t it?’ he says with a wink, moving toward the stove. ‘What d’you want? Toasted bagels and vegan cream cheese?’

‘Ooh.’ Lucy is only just now realising how hungry she is. ‘That does sound pretty great, now that you mention it.’

‘Toasted bagels and vegan cream cheese it is.’

That her brother takes the time to look after her like this never goes unappreciated.

‘Do you want that “Everything But the Bagel” stuff on top?’

‘Siblings for over three decades and he still can’t remember that I’m allergic to sesame.’

‘Ses— I thought you were allergic to soy.’

‘Really, Charlie—’

‘What happens if you have sesame?’

‘She explodes,’ says a voice from the doorway. Melusine has just entered the room, wearing a dressing gown of flowing teal sateen. 'From both ends, no less. Quite the spectacle.'

‘I break out in hives.’ Lucy rolls her eyes.

'And then she explodes.'

'There is no exploding! I really wish you'd stop telling people that, hun.'

‘Hey Mel,’ Charlie chuckles.

‘Hello—’ Mel pauses, looking stricken. ‘I'm inclined to say… Mike?’

‘Yup. Still hilarious.’

‘David?’

‘I’m busting a gut here.’

Melusine clicks her fingers. ‘Hot Santa.’

‘You’re really on a roll today, huh?’

The shit-eating grin on her face is testament to how much she enjoys riling him like this. ‘Charles.’ She ruffles his hair on her way past, having to go right up on her tippy-toes to reach.

‘It’s Charlie, actually, but close enough.’

‘That's what I said.’

‘How long are you going to keep pretending not to know my name?’ he asks, half in exasperation, half in amusement. 

‘As long as you have the unfortunate remains of a hedgehog on your face.’

It is a joke that came about in reaction to his growing a beard. A prematurely-bearded Charlie is a peculiar sight that absolutely nobody consented to. 

‘Got your toothbrush back then, babe?’ Lucy asks, noting the minty hum that has followed Mel into the room.

‘Aye.’

‘What did you trade it for?’

‘Your toothbrush.’

Lucy gasps. ‘Why, I've never felt so betrayed. And by my best friend, at that!’

‘A more than reasonable tariff, if you ask me. Need I remind you, Lady Lucinda, that it was you who brought that little nuisance into the house in the first place. Your sister vexes me, Charles,’ Mel huffs. ‘My pet policy here is fairly lax, by and large: She could’ve had a kitten, could’ve had a bunny rabbit; a magical, shapeshifting familiar, even.’ She indicates the crested newt perched upon her shoulder, which licks its own eyeball charmingly. ‘I was wide open. My one (1) caveat: Something living. But oh no. No, no. Miss “Not Like Other Girls” here goes and adopts a bleedin’ poltergeist. An old, smelly one at that.’

‘He’s not a nuisance,’ Lucy shoots back priggishly. ‘Or smelly, for that matter. And he’s not a pet, either. He does more housework than the two of us combined.’ As if on cue the spectre glides into the room, wearing a bright orange apron with the words “Stay Spooky” stamped on its front, and brandishing a scourer and dish soap in his hands (wisps), ready to set in on the washing up.

‘He’s a squatter, is what he is,’ Mel sniffs, though Lucy knows full well that she doesn’t really mean it.

‘Well, you can’t exactly expect him to pay rent, can you? He doesn't have pockets. And you should keep your voice down. You know if you keep insulting him he’s gonna start throwing things.’

‘A violent squatter, even better! Why on earth you’ve taken such a shining to the little bugger is entirely beyond me.’

‘She’s nothing if not consistent,’ Charlie says affectionately, as he bustles about the narrow kitchen. ‘I remember when we were kids, and she’d bring home the weirdest, nastiest, most pitiful little home-projects you could possibly imagine. Abandoned baby birds, snails with broken shells, a three-legged sewer rat, a squashed caterpillar, a rabid opossum (we all had to get shots) a giant fuckin’ tarantula, a mange-ridden jackal, an old skunk. And that terrifying, one-eyed slimy thing that, Jesus Christ, I swear, to this day, came from outer-space. We never did find out what it was before it escaped down the toilet. And this was after it’d eaten the neighbour’s terrapin.’ He looks thoughtful for a moment, then shakes his head. ‘Point being: That’s what Lucy does. She finds the most miserable creatures in existence and makes it her mission to “fix” them, no matter the personal cost. To her, they’re all precious and redeemable and worthy of love. She’s basically Steve Irwin, reincarnated. Except shorter, and. Y’know. Less Australian.’

‘Well, you’re not wrong. I am one such home-project, after all,’ Mel sighs. ‘As, I dare say, is her little friend in the East. Frosty the Snowman.’

‘That’s completely different,’ Lucy defends herself shrilly. ‘He’s not some poor, downtrodden soul I’ve rescued from the roadside.’

‘Yeah, Mel. I mean there’s a bit of a discrepancy between mangey opossums and convicted murderers.’

‘Is there?’ Melusine challenges mildly. ‘I’m not so sure. In this case, at least. Let’s examine the facts, shall we? Has be been rejected by society?’

‘I suppose.’ Lucy's brow furrows.

‘Is he small, raggedy and pathetic, but in an oddly engaging way?’

‘Yes?’

‘Then I rest my case.' Mel bangs the saltshaker like a gavel.

‘Mel—’

‘—Mangey as charged.’

‘He killed his own sister.’ Charlie says, as he hands Lucy her bagels. ‘Like. Permanently.’

‘We all have a past, Charles. Don’t pretend like you haven’t fantasised about doing the same to this one, on occasion,’ Mel japes, giving Lucy a one-armed hug. ‘I certainly have, when she leaves her detritus lying around for me to trip over. Which reminds me, Luce, don’t touch your glasses for at least an hour. Sticking charm’s still fresh.’

‘So you’re telling me you’re not in the slightest bit bothered about your best pal spending this much time with a convicted felon? In a non-work capacity, I mean.’

‘Oh, I’m bothered all right.’

‘Thank you. Finally, some common sense.’

‘But only because I’m jealous she’s not spending it with me.’

Charlie throws his hands in the air. ‘Must I be the only sane person here!?’

Osvaldo, disgruntled by the noise, lobs a wet sponge across the room. All three parties duck lithely, and it hits the opposite wall with an comical “splat”. 

‘Charlie, my dear, sweet, hedgehog-faced friend, you’re blowing this way out of proportion,’ Mel says, around a hearty mouthful of Lucy’s bagel. ‘I agree with ol' Stevie here, that there’s more to all this than meets the eye. That much is obvious from the fact he keeps allowing her back.’

‘How so?’

‘Clearly, he wants to have the last word, and hasn’t quite figured out how to do that yet. Whatever you’ve said to him, Luce, it must’ve hit its mark. He obviously can’t stand being on the back-foot, and is therefore attempting to psych you out. To win, essentially. You’ve well and truly caught his attention.’

‘You know, you’d make a good psychiatrist, Mel,' Lucy says, admiring her friend's perceptivity.

‘Not at all; haven't the patience for it. I just watch a lot of Dr. Phil. Which, incidentally, is where you’re going to end up, one of these days. I can picture it now: “On tonight’s show: I Married an Incubus”.’

“‘I’m Addicted to Fixing People”,’ Charlie joins in.

‘“I Rehabilitated Satan”.’

‘Mom and Neil’ll be so proud.’ 

‘They're not to know about any of this, capeesh?’ Lucy rounds on her brother. ‘They think I’m spending my free time taking cooking lessons.’

‘You could use them, honestly.’

‘God, don’t I know it. And now they want me to make Christmas Dinner. For “practice”.’

‘Oo-hoo-oof. Good luck with that.’

‘I have just over a month to learn how not to nuke the kitchen. And also, how not to give everyone food poisoning.’

‘Mmyes. Nothing says “Happy Holidays” like bacillary dysentry.’ 

'Mel, don't, please. You'll jinx it.'

Melusine cackles as she refills the kettle.

'Look, Luce,' Charlie sighs, sliding into the seat across from her, 'everything else aside, just... promise me that, whatever you're doing, you're not going to get yourself hurt? Not that I care, like I said.' Lucy smiles at the inside joke. 'But it'd make me feel better to know that you're actually being careful, for once.'

'I solemnly swear that I will not get my name added to any future True Crime podcasts,' Lucy says, ripping off some of her bagel and handing it to him. 'Have a little faith for once, would you?'

'She'll be fine, Charlie. She's had him wrapped around her little finger from day one. He's shaking in his boots.'

'Manolo Blahniks, more like.'

Mel and Charlie turn to stare at Lucy.

'I've yet to see him in anything that isn't designer,' she elaborates, with a wry smile. 'Sometimes I wonder if he'll burst into flames if he so much as touches off-the-rack.'

'One can only hope, hm? Also, don't forget, I knew him well before Lucy did. Spent years chasing him around London; and being chased in return. Frozen water trade, and such.'

'And what was he like back then?' Charlie asks.

'Oh, insufferable. Yes, total wanker. Drove myself and my associate spare,' says Mel, with a snort. 'But a murderer? He certainly didn't strike me as one. He even got me out of a bit of a sticky wicket, at one point. No, I think you're onto something, Luce. I really do.'

Bernard pulls Lucy aside, the night of the first snow. Now that she is no longer working she visits the Pole with increasing frequency.

‘You’ve been going to visit Frost.’ The expression on his face is akin to betrayal. It makes her heart sink.

‘I— maybe?’

‘Why?’

‘I just. I-I had some demons to confront. Mother Nature sanctioned it.’

‘The first visit.’ Bernard’s voice is low, restrained. ‘Not the eight following it.’

She doesn’t ask how he knows. Elf Number One has his sources.

At his skewering look she deflates. ‘Alright, fine. You got me. I've been visiting fairly regularly. But it’s all for a good cause, I promise.’

‘Luce.’ He lets out a huff of frustration. ‘Hm, kid. Get this into your head, all right? He’s dangerous. The man froze your parents, for Kringle’s sake! For someone who condemns violence the way you do, someone so good and kind, why would you want anything to do with him?’

It is a pertinent question. One she’s asked herself repeatedly over the past few weeks.

‘I just feel, Bernard, that there’s more to all of this than meets the eye. I can’t explain it,’ she adds quickly, when he opens his mouth to argue. ‘And I know it won’t make much sense to you, but I need you to understand that I’m not doing this to... to cause trouble, or to upset anyone, or—’

‘Do you have any idea what you’re wading into here? Of the depth of hurt—’ Bernard draws in a deep breath, pulls her a little deeper into the shadows. ‘Jack Frost is a cold-blooded killer, Lucy. Few people deserve your kindness, but him? He doesn’t even deserve to breathe the same air. Trust me, okay? When I say that gettin’ cozy with that man can only lead to bad things. He’ll freeze you the first chance he gets.’

He had the chance. He had the chance and he didn’t take it.

Lucy considers arguing this point, but thinks better of it.

‘Bernard, please, just listen to me,’ she says imploringly. ‘I’m not a child anymore. I’m not helpless. I know what I’m doing. Don't forget, I’ve been dealing with guys like him my whole career--’

‘I don’t wanna see you get hurt.’

‘I’m not going to get hur--’

‘Yeah, that’s what she thought too! But guess what, she was wrong; and look where it landed her.'

His sharp tone surprises Lucy, and draws the heads of nearby workers. 

She reaches out a hand, entwining her fingers with his. ‘Jacqueline?’ 

The name hangs in the air, a tangible thing. For the briefest of moments it is as if the girl’s ghost stands between them.

Bernard’s mouth is a tight line. He nods jerkily.

‘You didn’t know her, Luce. You didn’t have the honour.’ The reverential weight to his voice makes Lucy’s heart clench. ‘But if you had, you’d understand why I can never forgive—’ 

He clears his throat, and it is a few seconds before he speaks again:

‘The world is a... a darker place for her loss, that's all I'll say. And it's Frost's fault.’

‘I'm so sorry.’ Lucy says, squeezing his fingers. 'Truly I am.'

‘She put her whole trust in him. She adored him. And he betrayed her. You may be grown up now, Lucy, but you’re naive if you think the guy is capable of reform. That there’s a frozen heart in there worth saving.’ Bernard scrutinises her. ‘You know you’re like her, in some ways. Seeking out the good in people who don’t deserve it.’

Lucy supposes he would see her like that, being hundreds of years old. — Naive, innocent. Liable to harm. Even at her current age of thirty-seven. He's wrong, of course; but she won't hold it against him.

‘I won’t see you get hurt,’ he repeats, now with an air of finality.

‘How much more hurt can I get?’ she says, placing a hand on her chest for emphasis.

Bernard pales. ‘It’s getting worse?’

‘We knew it would.’

‘How much worse?’

She removes her gloves, showing him the markings on her hands and forearms. The elf makes a noise of distress.

‘How can I help?’

‘I don't think you can,’ she says. ‘Either I’ll burn up one day or I won’t. But I can’t help but feel that this,’ she gestures vaguely at herself, ‘has something to do with…’ 

‘Frost?’

‘Call it instinct, but yes.’

He heaves a heavy sigh.

‘What could that spiky schmuck possibly do, that the rest of us can’t?’

‘I don’t know. There’s a lot I don’t know. But I intend to find out.’

Frost looks a shade less raggedy, on this occasion. He’s wearing his suit jacket, and appears to have shaved. If Lucy didn’t know better she’d even say he’s made an effort. A deeply troubling thought that she brushes aside before it can take root.

‘I didn’t know you were an artist,’ she says, in reference to his current activity.

‘Then you haven’t been paying attention, have you?’ Frost mutters distractedly, brushing a few eraser shavings off the page. ‘What are the seasons, if not a series of artworks?’

It is the kind of gnomic observation she’s grown accustomed to receiving over the last few weeks. The sort of thing he’ll say to sound clever.

After several seconds he sets down his pencil, leans back in his chair.

“I was working with a rather limited palette,” his previous words come back to her, unbidden. For some reason they’ve struck a chord, though she can’t quite place why. 

He’s right, of course. If the seasons are to be regarded as artworks, and their begetters artists, then he has — or had, before his incarceration — considerably more work cut out for him, given how little colour exists in the winter palette. Having to resort to subtler trimmings, like the internal detailing of snowflakes, for example, adds a level of complexity to the season that sets it apart from its counterparts, Lucy observes.

‘I suppose you’re right,’ she concedes, earning her a rare look of approval.

‘I typically am.’

Pfft. Okay.

‘May I see it? The drawing?’

He holds it up.

It’s… good, Lucy muses. Very good, in fact.

‘Gosh. That's lovely, actually. What’s the mountain range?’

‘Canton de Bern. The view from my condo, in Gstaad.’

‘You have a condo in Gstaad?’

‘I have a condo in Gstaad.’

Of course you do, she thinks dryly. How very in-character.

As he goes back to drawing, she ventures, ‘Mr. Frost?’ 

‘Mm?’

‘You, uh. You…’

‘I, I...?’

‘You didn’t freeze me.’

‘I’m sorry?’ His attention sharpens palpably. 

It is the question Lucy’s been working up to since their reintroduction. She bolsters her resolve.

‘When I confronted you about stealing the snow globe, and you froze my parents, you were about to do the same thing to me and you stopped yourself. Why is that?’

The sprite opens and closes his mouth a few times. 

‘I had better things to do,’ he settles on, finally. ‘You didn’t exactly pose much of a threat.’

‘No.’

‘Pardon?’

‘No. You’re lying.’

‘I can assure you, I’m not.’ His voice is pure silk, a warning woven through every syllable.

‘Well, sorry, but I don’t believe you,’ Lucy says simply. ‘I saw it, in your face. You were fighting something. I don’t know what; your conscience maybe. Or—’

‘Indigestion.’

Lucy ignores the quip. 

‘You’re in here, supposedly, for what you did to your sister. Among other things, of course.’ His gaze is becoming increasingly glacial, the longer she defers her point.

‘Correct.’

‘But, if you attacked her on purpose, why spare me? I’m not anything to you. You said so yourself — a little “brat”. Out to ruin your plans.’

He draws himself up to his full “height”, buttons his jacket guardedly, but says nothing.

‘There’s more to the story than you’re letting on, isn’t there?’ Lucy continues, now in a much gentler tone. ‘I can tell. You act all villainous, but really you’re just—’

‘We’re done here,’ Frost says, abruptly. ‘Get out.’

‘I’m not going anywh—’

‘Out! Now.’

Lucy jumps, but does not move. Don’t be surprised if he lashes out, now and then.

‘Are you deaf?!’ he asks, marching towards her. ‘I said LEAVE. I want nothing more to do with you! Why would I?! You think I entertain you because I enjoy your company? It was bad enough having to deal with you at the Pole, but now I have to endure your mawkish little face here too?!’

Having anticipated an outburst like this (she’s been strumming on his nerves for the better part of a fortnight, now, after all), Lucy regards him patiently. His face is unusually flushed, spittle forming at the corners of his mouth.

When he doesn’t say anything more, she clears her throat. ‘Feeling better?’

‘…Fe… what-- ?' he says, falteringly.

‘Seeing as I’m just about the closest thing you have to a friend right now, Jack, you might want to watch how you speak to me.’

‘Or what?’ he snarls.

‘Or I actually will leave. Simple as that. And I won’t come back. You’ll be alone again.’

A lie, of course. Yet... one that seems to register: Lucy can see him wavering in his indignation.

She waits. (Silence is golden). And waits. And waits. Until finally, he capitulates. She'd been braced for a battle, but all the resistance seems to drain from him at once. He sinks onto the arm of his chair, looking strangely boneless all of a sudden, like a marionette with its strings cut.

‘Thank you,’ Lucy says, for which she receives only a dismissive wave. 

With the same hand, he kneads his eyes, then his brow. ‘A different subject.’

‘But—’

‘A different. Subject. Please.’

Startled by the strained note in his voice, she nods.

All is quiet for a moment, while she cudgels her brains for something to say.

‘Whatever happened to frost patterns on windowpanes?’ 

‘I beg your pardon?’

'After we met for the first time, I grew super curious about your folklore,' she tells him. 'I went home and asked my teacher about “the Legend of Jack Frost”, and she referred me to a number of illustrated children’s stories, most of which were from the mid to late nineteenth century. In all of them, you were depicted as this little imp-like character, painting patterns on windowpanes with a silver paintbrush. I’d never heard of such a thing, and when I asked around only the older generations seemed to know what I was talking about. Like my grandad.’

Frost looks at her oddly, as though he can’t quite believe she’s showing an interest in his work. 

‘Blame the rise of double-glazing,’ he says, after a brief pause. ‘Increased insulation. The designs don’t stay for any length of time. A crying shame, in my expert opinion. Such enormous talent, gone to waste.’

‘Huh,’ Lucy muses. ‘I agree, that is a shame. I bet they were beautiful.’

He watches her closely, but doesn’t reply.

'Will you... will you show me, Jack? Your patterns. I'd love to see them, if you don't mind.'

Lucy is almost certain he'll tell her to leave again, which is why she's surprised when he gets up and approaches the barrier. With a deft flourish, he casts a swathe of rime over its not-quite-solid surface.

'Wow,' Lucy breathes, rising to her feet. She steps closer, tilting her head slightly to meet his eyes; he’s a good few inches taller. 'You really are an artist.'

Her eyes wandered the wispy tendrils, their spread reminiscent of ferns — not the soft, dainty sort, but bold, saw-toothed giants from some primeval wood.

'What'd I tell you?' Jack says, in a funny sort of voice. Not soft, exactly, but... softer. 'They're my own personal designs, you know. Although I'm not averse to a little serendipity, here and there. Sometimes the fractals react to imperfections on the glass' -- or, in this case, the magic's -- surface. Dust, and so forth. Like here. See?' He points to a small aberration, an area about an inch or two in diameter where the fern-fronds have changed course -- curling inwards, instead of outwards. 

'I see,' Lucy says. 

'The hydrogen and oxygen atoms form a hexagonal shape that is... kind of a six-sided ring, in essence. What you're seeing is simply a repeat of that ring, over and over, in lots of different ways. It can even,' he raises his hand, lays it flat against the partition, 'mimic shapes.'

When he lifts his palm, a ghostly imprint lingers in the wake of his touch. Without fully realising why, Lucy raises her own hand and places it gently against the same spot. The frost begins to soften beneath her fingers, bleeding slowly into warmth; but Jack’s print, larger than hers, remains visible beneath the melting sheen.

His fingertips stay pressed to the other side of the barrier. Lucy shifts ever so slightly upward, drawn by instinct more than thought, until she can almost feel them. An echo of contact through the filmy veil of magic.

She’d been expecting him to draw back. To avert his eyes, deliver some cutting remark, do something to break the moment. But instead, he remains perfectly still, holding her gaze with such unwavering intensity that it makes her feel oddly exposed, as though he is seeing straight through her, layer by careful layer. A flush creeps up her neck before she can stop it, the heat of it blooming beneath her skin. There is nothing suggestive in his gaze -- there hasn't been since she reminded him of their first meeting -- and yet, the sheer focus of it leaves her feeling naked in a way that has nothing to do with clothing.

‘Do you miss this?' she asks, softly.

'This?'

'Y-Your work, I mean. Do you miss being the Winter Herald?’ 

‘More and more each day. I was masterful, Dr. Miller.’ That he’s using her proper title, despite his palpable dislike, does not go unnoticed/unappreciated. 'My work was my passion. And I’d hoped, one day, to be able to pass it down—’

Here he falters, Adam’s apple bobbing.

Then, with a brisker air, he says, ‘And you?’

‘Me?’

‘What made you wanna be a shrink? Dear ol’ dad, I suppose?’

‘No, actually,’ Lucy answers, honestly. She lowers her hand, and he mirrors her. ‘Not entirely, anyway. He always made psychiatry seem so boring. He’d encourage me to read book after book: Piaget, Freud, Jung. All the usual suspects. Dry as a Graham Cracker, in my opinion. At least, that's how I felt at the time.'

Frost looks grudgingly amused. ‘So what changed your mind?’

‘It's going to sound odd, but it was a school trip to the National Gallery of Art, when I was fifteen.’

‘Oh?’

‘We were being shown around by this guide. I can’t remember his name now, but he was so much more interested in the colours the painters used, or didn’t use, in some cases, than their subjects. Said you could tell a lot about an artist that way. More, in fact, than from their muses. Look at Van Gough, for example. He was renowned for his experiments with colour. And Picasso had his whole Blue Period, of course. Oh, and there’s this lovely Kandinsky quote on the subject-- what was it again...?’

‘“Colour is the keyboard, the eyes are the harmonies, the soul is the piano with many strings. The artist is the hand that plays, touching one key or another, to cause vibrations in the soul,”’ Frost rattles off, smoothly.

‘Yes, that’s it. Good memory.’

‘I know. And so, how does this all relate to shrink-ism?’

‘Well,’ Lucy begins, returning to her seat, ‘I realised that people are a little like paintings. It’s their colours that really tell the story, more than anything else. Not their actual colours, you understand; the colours, of… well, their souls, I suppose. What they’re saying with their faces and bodies, as well as with their… mouths…’

And that’s when it hits her.

‘What’s wrong with him?’

‘Lucy, dear!’ Mother Nature rises gracefully from her seat. ‘What a lovely surprise. To what do I owe the pleasu—’

‘Jack Frost,’ Lucy says, without preamble. She’s breathing deeply; it has taken a great deal of energy to teleport all this way. ‘What’s the matter with him? There’s something, I can tell. He’s different. Like me. Not quite right. Magically-speaking.’

Mother Nature studies her for a moment, a look of what might be pity stealing across her features. She releases a soft sight. 

‘You’ve picked up on that, have you?’

‘It’s like he’s muted,’ Lucy goes on, beginning to pace the length of the arbour. ‘I can’t explain it, but he’s sort of washed out. Something’s missing. Or blocked, or stifled. Ugh, none of those quite fits, but—’

‘Lucy— Lucy, honey, please, you’re making me dizzy. And you’re trampling my begonias.’

‘Oh!’ Lucy grinds to a halt. ‘Oh God, I’m sorry!’ 

She crouches down to examine the flowers. 

They’re a tad smushed, but far from unsalvageable. A deft flourish, and threads of pink-gold magic creep from her fingertips, making the petals smooth and lift as though towards a beam of sunlight.

‘How talented you are at that, these days,’ Mother Nature muses.

‘I’ve learned from the best.’

‘Indeed. Please, take a seat. Let’s parse this out. I am quite at my leisure.’

Lucy does, settling herself on a moss-covered boulder.

‘You’ve been going to visit my grandson,’ the matriarch states serenely. She pins Lucy with a gently appraising look. ‘I believe I only sanctioned the one visit.’

‘Oh, uhm. About that. I—’

‘It’s quite all right. He could use the company, I’m sure. I’m merely curious as to why, exactly, you’ve taken such a shining to him?’

‘He just seems so... so lonely, I suppose. As nonsensical as I'm sure it sounds, I hate to see him there all by himself.’

A nod. ‘Indeed. I cannot imagine what it must be like, to live in such isolation.’

‘If you don't mind my asking, then, why is he in isolation? I mean, he’s stuck in there with his own worst enemy. Surely that’s doing more harm than good?’

‘He presents a danger,’ says Mother Nature, simply. ‘To himself, to others. You yourself know this to be true, Lucy, you were an unwitting victim of it. You and your parents, both.’

‘It’s not his fault though, is it? Not entirely.'

‘Not... entirely, no.’ The other woman sighs again. ‘Lucy, what I’m about to tell you must go no further than these four verges, do I make myself plain?’

Lucy nods keenly.

…

‘And it’s completely air-tight? Absolutely zero hope of breaking it?

‘I’m afraid so.’

‘You’ve tried absolutely everything? I mean, you’re Mother Nature! The Mother Nature. Surely there must be a spell or... or a draught, or--’

‘More to the point, I am his grandmother, dear. Needless to say, I felt it my express duty to do everything in my considerable power to find a counter-curse. It has been forty-four hundred years, I am still no closer. Despite having consulted with various experts in the field. With witches and warlocks and casters alike. It is, as you say, “air-tight”.’

Lucy utters an oath. Highly unusual for her, which she suspects is why neither Mother Nature nor the Source pulls her up on it.

‘I’m sorry not to’ve been more help,’ Mother Nature says, earnestly. The withes of her bodice creak as she leans forward to take Lucy’s hand, and it is at moments like these that Lucy realises just how beautiful the Herald of All Nature is. In every sense of the word. Tiny jewels nestle in the corners of her eye, amongst her dark hair; in the light of the setting sun they glitter like stars. ‘Truly. If you wish to keep visiting him, you have my permission. Not that you really needed it. I trust you not to be suborned into anything, crafty as he is. I cannot imagine a more healthful influence, quite frankly. But, just know that any endeavours at reform are likely to be… without merit. Jack Frost’s heart is frozen solid and, as unfair and unfortunate as that may be, not a thing in this world can thaw it.’

‘So, he’ll live his whole life never knowing true love, or friendship? Being denied the depth of feeling everyone else just takes for granted? And there’s nothing that can be done?’

‘You can try, if it makes you feel better,’ Mother Nature says warmly, cupping Lucy’s chin with long, gentle fingers. ‘But ultimately, no. While I do not purport to know everything -- as far as I am aware, at least -- there is nothing you, or anyone else, can do. I’m sorry.’

Most people might’ve accepted that as a dead-end. 

Lucy Miller saw it as a challenge.

‘Alright! This is everything my geeky little brother owns on Katarology.’

‘Ouch!’ Lucy snatches her fingers away, as a number of weighty tomes are slammed onto the table top. ‘Holy Hecate, he must own more books than me. And that's saying something.’

‘We’re just scratching the surface here.’

‘Where on earth does he keep them all?’

‘He doesn’t really have furniture. Just… books. Book tables, book couches, a book bed.’

‘That explains the bad back, at least.’

‘I mean, he is almost two and a half thousand years old.’

‘Fair point.’

‘Well.’ Melusine puts her hands on her hips. ‘If you need me I’ll be strategising out on the Lake. I’ve managed to win the favour of the toads. We’re hoping to push the crusade over to the Turtle Pond. Maybe even annex the south side of Onassis.’

‘Good luck, honey. I'm rooting for you.’

…

By the time Melusine returns the kitchen is swollen with candlelight, the sky outside gloomy.

‘How did it go?’ Lucy mumbles, not glancing up. She has her forehead resting on the central-most page of Curses and Maledictions: For Everyday Use.

‘There is treason afoot.’

‘Oh?’

‘One of the factions is dissenting. The frigging newts. Little buggers. I’ve sent Styx in as emissary, peace talks and so forth.’

‘And if they don’t behave?’

‘She’ll turn into an otter and eat them all. Red Wedding style.’

‘A little extreme, don't you think? Surely a strongly-worded letter would do the trick.’

‘Needs must, Lucy Goosie. Needs must.’ Mel throws herself into the chair across from her, kicking off her crocs. ‘Anyway, what about you? Any dice?’

‘Ugh, no.'

'None at all?'

'None at all. I’ve skimmed at least thirty books now and I'm no further along than I was when I started.’

‘Hard luck, mate.’

‘There has to be something; I refuse to believe that any curse is 100% unbreakable. Oh, thank you, Oz,’ Lucy sighs, as the spectre deposits a large mug of rum-cocoa in front of her.

‘How are these types of things usually treated?’ asks Mel, reaching forward to thumb transferred print off her friend's brow.

‘It really depends. Counter-spells, draughts, litanies. A combination thereof? The best way to tackle a curse, from what I can tell, at least, is with its antithesis. Most curses are fuelled by a negative emotion of some sort. The strongest ones? By hate. So, naturally, you’d assume love-magic would work, but… tsk. I have my doubts.’

‘Why?’

‘Jacqueline. His sister,’ Lucy expounds thoughtfully. ‘He adored her, Mel. And she him. Mother Nature said so. If love were able to break the curse, it would’ve done so already.’

‘Perhaps it’s not that simple? Perhaps it has to be magic specifically rooted in love and… and healing and hope and the like. Magic without precedent.’ Mel gives her friend a pointed look.

‘You mean…?’

‘I do. I think your raggedy man could use a bit of TLC, as it were.’

‘But that would require me to actually touch him, and there’s a barrier in the way.’

‘There is indeed.’

'I've given it a little probe, here and there. It’s a compounded ward; layered, not singular. An overlapping blend of containment, inhibition, and sensory dampening charms, keyed specifically to certain magical frequencies. Very old magic, too. Archaic, but effective.'

'Dismantle-able?'

'Yes, but only with a wand. And they won't let me have mine.'

'No,' Mel says, twirling a lock of her hair with her own wand. 'I should think not. Makes perfect sense that they should confiscate... your wand.'

The two of them share a conspiring look.

The wind howls against the high, narrow windows, a low, feral sound that makes the lanterns flicker and the stone groan. Inside the visitor’s chamber, all is still.

Lucy sets her bag down on the table between them with an exaggerated thud, brushing the damp from her coat sleeves as if she’s simply arriving for tea and not braving the storm outside a prison built for the most dangerous mages in the realm.

‘I brought you a Christmas prezzie, Mr. Scrooge,’ she says, tone light.

Jack raises an eyebrow. Slow, skeptical. His usual greeting.

Glancing at the thick, wavering partition that bisects the table separating them she adds, ‘Don’t get too excited, it’s not contraband.’

That earns the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth.

She unbuckles her satchel and pulls out a long, rectangular bundle, wrapped in magenta paper. She places it gently against the partition, just at the base where the small rotating tray is fixed, ready to slide it through once she’s gone.

‘I had to ask a friend,’ she says. ‘She’s a real artist, the fancy kind, with critics and gallery wine nights and whatever else they do. She told me this was the brand serious people use. So if it turns out to be cruddy, I claim plausible deniability.’

Jack tilts his head, saying nothing. But his eyes — sharp and always watching — are fixed on the package.

Lucy hesitates, then adds, ‘You’re always sketching something when I come in. I thought maybe... you’d want some new materials?’

Still he says nothing. But his expression shifts, subtle, a crease of confusion that settles into something like surprise. Genuine, quiet surprise, like the idea that someone might bring him something kind takes a moment to fully land.

He seems to catch himself then, blinks, and clears his throat. ‘They’re... appreciated.’

She shrugs, but her smile is warm. ‘I’ll leave them with the guards when I go, then, shall I?’

Jack nods stiffly. His hands stay in his lap, clenched. He glances toward the package again, then back to her, as though trying to reassemble some internal defence that’s been slightly, annoyingly shaken.

Then, more tightly than usual, he says, ‘I haven’t got anything for you.’

His voice sounds strange. Still cool, but there’s unfamiliar undercurrent to it. Discomfort, maybe. Or even embarrassment.

Lucy shakes her head. ‘It’s no trouble.’

She might leave it there, but the way he looks down, eyes flicking away, stops her.

‘Mr. Frost.’ Her tone softens. ‘I don’t mind. Really.’

He looks up. Meets her eyes -- seems to be about to say something more.

Before can manage it, however, a sudden wave of dizziness washes over Lucy, sharp pain blooming behind her eyes. The room tilts, just slightly, the stone floor seeming to lurch upward.

She breathes out sharply and drops into the white chair, one hand braced on the table.

Jack straightens, something flickering across his face: Sharp, alert. Unnervingly close to concern. It vanishes almost as soon as it appears, smothered under that usual, polished layer of indifference.

‘Have you neglected to eat today?’ he asks, his voice flat. Almost bored-sounding.

Lucy winces, pressing two fingers to her temple. Better to let him think that than the truth, she supposes. ‘I might’ve skipped breakfast. And lunch. Possibly also dinner.’

Jack exhales through his nose, the sound halfway between a sigh and a scoff. ‘And here I was beginning to think you were intelligent.’

‘No idea what gave you that impression.’

‘Hmph. Shall I get the guards to fetch you something?’ 

There’s a pause.

Then, more pointedly, ‘They’ll do it. If I demand it. They’ll do almost anything I ask of them.’

That catches her attention. She squints at him, still half-doubled over the table.

‘Will they now?’ she murmurs. ‘Are you proposing to do me... a favour?’

‘Hardly.’ He rolls his eyes. ‘You’ll faint and knock your head on something and then I’ll have to spend the rest of the week explaining why my only visitor keeled over in front of me.’

His tone is so carefully disinterested, so affectedly detached. As if he’s making a concerted effort to sound like he doesn’t care.

She watches him carefully for a few minutes more, breathing steady now, colour beginning to creep back into her cheeks. Jack doesn't move, though his eyes follow her every shift with the same wary precision he might give a live grenade.

Finally, Lucy straightens, drawing herself upright with a small breath and a quiet sound of resolve. She brushes her hair back from her face and gives him a look that's almost casual.

‘No. Thank you, that’s alright,’ she says, measuredly. ‘If you really want to do me a favour, Jack… you can keep talking.’

His brow furrows, scepticism gathering in the lines of his face. ‘About...?’

She holds his gaze. ‘How about your family?’

The question hangs in the air, delicate as spun glass.

Jack’s expression doesn't change at first, but there’s a shift. A faint tightening of the jaw. Not anger. Not quite. More like an old wire humming under pressure.

Outside, the storm claws against the tower with renewed force, a violent gust that rattles the windows like bones in a box.

Lucy waits, voice soft but steady as she adds, ‘You already know all sorts of things about me, whether I like it or not. Seems only fair we even the scales a little.’

Jack’s eyes narrow. He leans back ever so slightly in his chair, gaze slipping past her for a moment to some point beyond the glass, as though checking to see if the world outside has ears.

And then, without looking at her, he mutters, just above the wind:

‘What about them?’ 

‘What’re they like?' she asks, heartened by his cooperation. 'Can you tell me about them? Something I wouldn't be able to learn from the lorebooks or the newspapers?’

His lip curls in that oh-so-charming way she’s come to recognise as his version of a polite snarl. ‘Why?’

‘I’m curious,’ she says, plainly.

‘Too much for your own good, I dare say.’

She almost gives him a point for that. Almost.

‘Probably,’ she allows, leaning back a little. ‘But you’re used to that by now.’

‘It grows wearisome.’

‘Why do you put up with it, then?’ she shoots back, lifting her chin. ‘Tell me to leave, if it bothers you that much.’

His scowl sharpens.

The book resting in his lap — one of the few items he’s permitted in the visiting chamber — begins to frost over where his fingers cradle the spine. Pale crystals blossom across the leather cover in delicate, creeping veins of cold. Jack doesn’t seem to notice.

Lucy does.

Still, she doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t retreat.

‘Your dad,’ she says, tone quieter now but no less firm. ‘He’s Governor, right?’

Flatly: ‘…Correct.’

‘I saw him go. The Christmas you were arrested. He looked so…’

‘Broken? Down on his luck? Wretched?’

Lucy bobs her head.

‘He’s good at that,’ Jack mutters, rather nastily now. 'He's been good at it ever since I froze his ass to the kitchen floor, the night I left home. You would not believe how easy that was, Dr. Miller. The Governor of Crystal Springs, thwarted by a man but half his age. Can you believe it?'

‘Don’t. Please, don’t.’

‘Don’t what?’

‘Insult my intelligence by thinking you can pull the wool over my eyes. There’s no one noteworthy around to impress or rile. Just me. And I'm willing to bet that you don't take anywhere near as much pleasure in that memory as you'd have me think.’

He pulls a face but... restrains himself. Interesting.

‘So?’

‘So what?’

‘Your family. I want to know more about them.’

Jack makes an impatient noise, snapping the book closed. He uncrosses his legs. ‘What is there to say that you likely don’t already know? It’s in all the annals. Or are you as uneducated as you are impertinent?’

Lucy levels a forbearing look at him.

‘Tsk. Fine,’ he cedes. ‘Have it your way.’ 

He proceeds to tell her about his royal lineage. About his father’s abdication, and subsequent bid to dissolve the monarchy. The battles waged and won, the marriage to Winter. His (Jack’s) birth, and what a “momentous occasion it was for all involved”.

‘What about your childhood?’ Lucy probes. ‘What was that like?’

‘Spoken like a true psychiatrist,’ Jack huffs, growing increasingly nettled now. ‘It was… normal, I suppose. As childhoods go.’

‘I expect you were doted on. Only child. Loving parents. All those aunties.’

‘For a time, yes.’

‘What about friends?’

Something flickers in his expression. He looks away. ‘Overrated.’

Lucy raises a delicate brow. ‘Are they?’

‘The other children... didn’t take to me, for the most part. Jealousy, I-I would imagine.’ Jealousy, or fear?  'I was exceptionally bright, gifted. Top of every class. How could they possibly hope to measure up?’

‘You couldn’t relate to them?’

‘Or they to me. The same could be said of my teachers. I knew too much, for my age. Asked questions I shouldn’t.’

Lucy could sympathise with this, to a degree.

‘You know, I, uhm,’ she ventures, cautiously, ‘I didn’t have many friends either, in school.’

‘No, you? I can’t imagine why.’ Jack’s tone is as dry as the Antarctic.

‘The children in my year thought I was a know-it-all. A goodie-two-shoes. They used to write things like “swat” and “priss” on my locker. “Hermione”, on one occasion. I didn't mind that one so much, though; she was one of my favourite fictional characters, at the time. Same with "Matilda".'

‘Did I ask to be regaled with your insipid little girlhood dramas?’

‘—One girl, Riley Fenwick, actually stuffed me inside it once. My locker, that is. It was just after the final bell had gone, and I was on my way to a mathletes meet-up, so no one came looking for me for hours. It was cramped, stuffy, and this was... January? I think? So the hallway was chillier than usual. I thought I’d be there all night, until mom called the school and the janitor came looking me. I didn’t like small spaces after that. I still don’t, particularly.

‘That’s why Charlie taught me to pick locks,’ Lucy adds, for clarity. ‘In case it ever happened again. He also threatened Riley's big brother, for good measure. I begged him not to; said I was sure we could work things out by just... being kind. You know? Understanding. Kindness is always the right choice, I believe. But he wouldn't listen. Ended up getting several months' worth of detention, as a result. He swears to this day it was worth it, the muppet.’

For a moment, just a moment, she thinks she sees something flicker in the depths of Jack’s gaze. Amusement? Pity? A mixture of the two?

‘Anyway, yes. I spent a lot of my school time alone. Studying in the library, or doing research in the school laboratories. I did try being friendly to people. I even set up several science-themed societies; and I was a diligent class president. But… well, it didn't always work out. Most of my friends ended up being teachers, as nerdy as that likely sounds.'

This information almost certainly falls under the Has the Potentiality to be Weaponised Category. Divulging it is a substantial risk, Lucy knows. Perhaps Charlie and Bernard are right, and she is starting to get a little too comfortable.

She’d been expecting further derision -- a well-placed jibe, perhaps -- but instead Jack asks, ‘How old were you exactly when this incident occurred, Dr. Miller?’

‘Eight. I was small for my age.’

'Hm.' His frigid gaze sweeps up and down her person, invoking that feeling of denudation again. 'I see nothing's changed, in that regard.'

'Ha. No. Guess not.'

She wonders, when he falls silent, whether he is putting two and two together. Realising that when he locked her in that closet, all those years ago, he was adding fuel to what was already a fairly deep-seated aversion.

‘And just Lucy is fine, by the way. You don’t have to keep calling me “doctor”,’ she adds softly. (Remove your authority).

‘That is your proper title, is it not?’

‘It is. But, surely we’ve moved past formalities by now?’

'I... suppose.’

‘Perhaps we’d have got on?' Lucy poses, with a roll of her wrist. 'If we’d known each other as kids. Fellow outcasts, and all that.’

Jack gives a humourless chuckle, his expression unreadable. He almost says something, and then doesn’t.

‘And after school? What happened then?’ she asks.

‘I completed my MELTS, as is plainly obvious. Yet, any attempts to further my education beyond the “normal” bounds — to cultivate the recognition I so clearly deserved — garnered… unfavourable reactions. From my parents, predominantly. The more ensconced I became in my desire to seek glory, the more concerned they grew. It all started with the bird incident.’

‘Bird incident?’ Lucy flips open her notebook.

‘When I was a boy, there was a tree outside my bedroom window. And in that tree there lived a bird. A little robin redbreast. I used to leave sunflower seeds on my windowsill, in the hopes of taming it. Eventually it grew bold enough that it would land on my arm and I could pet it.’

‘Oh. That’s nice.’ 

‘I wanted to keep it as a pet, but it would always fly away once all the seeds were gone. The solution seemed simple enough.’

Lucy thinks she knows what he is about to say, and feels faintly unwell.

‘That being?’

‘I froze it.’

Yep. Right on the money.

She keeps her expression schooled as she asks, ‘And why did you do that, Jack?’

‘I wanted it.’ His eyes glitter eerily. ‘So I took it. Simple as that. A perfect little specimen, so... delicate and complex in its design, preserved forever, by my hand. I’d exercised dominion over Nature and Time themselves.’

‘But what about the bird? It couldn’t think or feel anymore. It couldn’t fly. Didn’t you feel sorry for it?’

Jack cocks his head in thought, the motion sharp and deliberate. For a moment, he resembles a fox catching wind of movement in the underbrush — ears pricked, eyes narrowed with keen interest.

‘I didn’t hurt it,’ he says eventually, in the considered manner of a theoretician. ‘That would be obscene. No, no, I merely altered the circumstances of its existence. If I’d thawed it it would’ve flown away, perhaps even been caught by a hawk or a cat. I didn't want that.’

Lucy jots a few things down. ‘Did the bird make your child self happy, Jack?’

‘I’d say so. It provided companionship where my peers were lacking.’

‘Did it continue to make you happy, even after it was frozen?’

Another pause, this one even longer than the last. ‘No.’

‘Why do you think that is?’

No answer. He shifts in his seat, looking down at his hands as if truly noticing them for the first time.

‘I’m guessing your parents weren’t best pleased, when they saw what you’d done to the bird?’ Lucy goes on, industriously.

A scoff. ‘Understatement of the century. They were “deeply concerned”. A phrase I heard repeatedly, over the course of my adolescence. Most often in reaction to some so-called “transgression”. I was tampering with the delicate balance of things, they said, imposing myself where I ought not to. Delving into areas of magical study that only the dark and the twisted forded. People like…’

‘Your uncle?’

Jack’s features might have been carved from stone.

‘What happened to him?' Lucy asks. 'After the war?’

‘Locked away. Solitary confinement. Can’t imagine how that must feel.’ 

‘Mmh.’

He looks closely at Lucy. ‘But you knew that, didn’t you? About Pyros? You’ve been speaking with my grandmother.’

‘What makes you say that?’

'You're far too easy to read.'

They hold each other’s gazes for a moment.

‘The curse—’ she starts to say.

‘No.’

‘But—’

‘Nope.’ He gets to his feet in a screeching of chair legs. ‘I’m tired, and you’re presence is — as ever — enormously draining.’

Lucy almost laughs at this the utter hypocrisy of this statement, but controls herself. ‘I’m not going anywhere.’

‘Then enjoy talking to an empty chair. Ciao.’

She’s on her feet now too. ‘If what Mother Nature says is true, Jack, then that means you weren’t entirely to blame for Jacqueline’s—’

‘Don’t you DARE say her name!’ Jack barks, his eyes flaring bright blue. The change in volume is so abrupt that Lucy is startled into silence. ‘Do you hear me?! Never speak her name in my presence!’

The air thickens palpably.

‘Leave,’ he says dangerously. ‘Now. Get out.’

‘No.’

‘Yes.’

‘No, Jack.’ Her voice is gentle, yet firm. ‘You can’t just toss me to the curb every time I say something you don’t like. That's not how this works.’

‘Oh yeah? Watch me.’

Lucy can hear footsteps out in the hallway now, no doubt summoned by all the shouting. She slides Melusine’s wand out of her jacket sleeve, using it to cast locking charms on all the exits.

‘What're you doing?’ Jack asks, voice jumping into its upper register.

‘We need to have this conversation.’

‘No. We do not.’

‘I don’t believe you killed your sister on purpose.’

‘Well that makes you just about the only one! Do you know how the rest of the world sees me, “just Lucy”? A murderer. A monster.’ 

‘But you’re not, are you? I know you’re not. And so do you.’ 

He turns away from her, hands balled into fists. 

‘Why can’t you just say it?’ Lucy softens her voice. 

The orderly is hammering on the door, spouting threats and warnings. She pays him no mind. 

Her gaze goes to what remains of the barrier -- flimsy, gauze-like; she makes a series of complex, yet surreptitious motions with her wand hand.

‘Is it because deep down you think you deserve this? Is that it?’ she asks, when he remains silent, moving a pace or two closer. ‘That this is where you belong? In which case, why run? All these years. Why not just come clean?’

‘Please, just go.’ He is breathing heavily, the muscles of his back taught.

‘Not until you answer my question.’

‘I don’t want to answer your question!’

‘You have to stop running, Jack. You have to let yourself feel this.’

‘Why do you care so much?!’ His temper flares again, and for the briefest instant, Lucy catches a flicker of the fire that runs in his blood. He'd always been volatile, she remembers, quick to spark. But isolation seems to have scorched away what little patience he once held, leaving behind only the barest whisper of restraint. ‘Why are you even here? Hm? Haven’t I suffered enough?’

When she doesn’t say anything he stalks up to her, and she has to repress the urge to take a step back.

‘Twenty-four years rotting in this hellhole and all of a sudden Little Miss Sunshine turns up, all smiles and rosy cheeks, sticking that pretty nose of her's into matters that don't concern her. Wanting to play Mr. Freud, in the absence of an actual career. And, far worse, pretending to give a damn about about poor, old, “wrongly-accused” Jack! Well you can shove your false sympathy; I don’t want it!’

‘But I do-- !' (Keep your own reactions in check). 'I-I mean, I do give a damn, Jack.'

‘Why?’

Her reasons are too complicated to articulate, she finds. Even to herself.

‘That's just... the way it is.'

Jack sneers. ‘Most enlightening. You’re sure to win a courtroom’s favour with that kind of cold, hard reasoning.’

‘I can’t help you if you’re not prepared to be honest with me.'

‘I didn’t ask for your help! I didn’t ask for anyone’s help!’

His voice cracks, like ice splitting underfoot, and the temperature on his side of the barrier plunges.

‘I know you feel guilty,’ Lucy says, steadily. She stands her ground, even as the skin of his face begins to turn blue, that unnatural pallor creeping across his cheeks, seeping into his lips. The ice lacing his suit seems whiter now, thicker, growing in jagged, crystalline ridges along the seams, the collar, the cuffs like frostbitten armour.

‘Oh, please—’ he scoffs acidly.

‘I know it. I can see it, in your eyes, every time I mention Jacqu—’

‘I TOLD you! Never to say her— !’

‘Tell me you did do it on purpose, then. Go on,’ she interrupts briskly. ‘Tell me you meant to kill her.’

Jack blusters, his expression verging on apoplectic. Above him, the air stirs. A low, whispering wind begins to coil through the chamber, faint but rising. Snow drifts down from the ceiling in spiralling flurries. 

‘You can’t do it.’ Lucy folds her arms over her chest.

‘I… I’m not— y-you-you don’t have the right—’

‘You can’t do it, because deep down you know that it’s not true. You loved your sister, Jack. Mother Nature told me as much. Said that the two of you were practically joined at the hip.’

‘Stop.’

‘You were her teacher. A role you took on gladly.’

‘Please stop!’ 

‘She made you better. Happier. Made you feel appreciated, like you were actually worth something. So how can you stand there and tell me that you would willingly do what you did. That you—’

‘That’s enough!’

But Lucy is powerless to stop herself. Something, some arcane force, is pushing— driving her to right this wrong. ‘That you weren’t just a frustrated young man, trying to make your parents proud; still learning to control your powers. And fighting a dark curse to boot. That it wasn’t just an awful,’ she moves closer, ‘horrible,’ and closer still, gazing up into his hollow face, ‘terrible accid—’

‘OF COURSE IT WAS A FUCKING ACCIDENT!’ he bellows, and Lucy feels a great surge of vindication. Finally! Finally. 

The words echo hauntingly off the icy walls. The snow in the air freezes suddenly, falls to the ground with a clatter. Even the storm outside seems to quiet.

‘She was my sister!’ The rasp in his voice more pronounced than ever. ‘My little sister! The one person who actually looked up to me, believed in me! I held her as a baby, watched her grow; I was there for her when she was sad, or sick, or hurt! She was my world! My world, Dr. Miller! One of the few good things in my life! And in one fell swoop she was g— sh-she was…’ His voice wavers. He takes a step back. ‘Gone. Just, gone. And it was my fault.’

His hands are shaking, Lucy sees. He raises them to his face, looking for a moment as though he might be sick. 

‘I thought if I kept running, maybe… maybe it would be less real. I made a game of it. And in doing so I became the thing everyone said I was. The monster…’

‘No, Jack. You didn’t,’ Lucy says, with conviction, closing the distance between them once more. ‘Even at your worst, you didn’t freeze me. You could’ve and you didn’t.’

‘A mistake, plainly,’ he mutters, but the words feel hollow. 

A long pause follows, filled only by his shallow breathing.

‘If you had the chance now, would you choose differently?’

‘...I don’t think you want to know the answer to that question, doctor.’

‘Do it.’

‘What?’

‘I’m calling your bluff. Do it.’

Lucy can feel the cold coming off him in waves. A derisive noise leaves his lips. ‘You seem to be forgetting about the barrier.’

‘What barrier?’

‘What do you mean “what barrier”? THIS barrier!’ Jack throws out an impatient arm, his gaze flickering from Lucy’s face for only a split second. ‘The barrier keeping me in my part of the room and you in your part of the room.’

‘Look again.’

‘What?’

‘Look. Again.’

He does, and falters. 

‘I— ...b-but— where…?’

‘It hasn’t been there for the last five minutes,’ Lucy explains. Her head is swimming, arms aching. She’s exerting herself to the very limits of her abilities. ‘I’ve been chipping away at it for weeks. Finding its weak spots. Today I dismantled it altogether.’

‘You… I’m sorry, what?’

‘Test it if you don’t believe me.’ She raises her hand, splaying her fingers wide. ‘Or better yet, freeze me. Like you said you were going to. Show me what a monster you really are.’

Jack blinks. 

‘I’m giving you a second chance here, Jack. You only have to reach out and take it.’

‘Your hand,’ he murmurs, looking equal parts intrigued and disturbed. It is the first time she’s removed her gloves in his presence. ‘Those scars.’

‘Not important.’

‘But—’

'We don't have time to discuss it right now.’

‘Open up!’ the orderly bawls, from the other side of the door. ‘Dr. Miller! You are facing grievous legal consequences if you do not unlock this door in the next five seconds! The Peacekeepers have been summoned! You are courting their wroth, not to mention risking your own life!’

Lucy continues to ignore him. 

‘I believe I can help you,’ she says, more tenderly now. ‘If you’ll let me. And I suggest you do. You may not get another opportunity like this.’

Jack’s face remains blue, his eyes practically aglow.

‘I don’t need your help,’ he repeats, weakly. 

‘What have you got to lose? A heck of a lot less than I do right now. I'll probably never practice again after this.’

‘Open — this — door — this — instant!’

A colossal bang indicates that the orderly has thrown something against the door, in a futile attempt to break it down. Lucy knows they have but moments.

She fights the urge to recoil as Jack draws in a sharp breath.

But then, slowly, cautiously, he raises his own hand.

‘You are in serious breach of your warrant from Mother Nature, Doctor! She and the Council are being notified of your actions! Doctor Miller!? What are you d— stop!’

It seems to happen in slow motion. The sprite’s fingers touch hers, she grabs his hand, yanks him towards her--

And hugs him. Hugs him more tightly than she's ever hugged anyone in her life. 

And that, apparently, is all it takes.

Miller: 2½. Frost: ½.