Before the Snow Read Free

could muster.
    White flames rose around him. But his skin, his clothes, seemed untouched by the flames.
    â€œWe warm the blood, we melt his curse,
    We warm the blood, we melt his curse . . .
    Snow be gone . . .
    All he touched and all who touch him will dispel from his memory like the ashes . . .
    Forget this day,
    Begin anew without Snow, a Prince remains . . .”
    The flames died down. And the boy opened his mouth. A stream of snow spewed out and up into the air. But the snow did not drift down to the ground; it swirled into a mass in the air, thrashing back and forth as if it was battling itself.
    The Witch of the Woods chanted louder, and the violent snow cloud descended in their direction suddenly. The Witch of the Woods was pushed back by the force. She clung to the snowy ground with her roots to right herself. The snow cloud reshaped itself into what almost looked like a face; its giant mouth gaped open and threatened the Witch of the Woods again.
    The Fire Witch raised her arms, and flames shot out toward the cloud. But the blast was unnecessary. The snow fell down to the ground, blanketing the witches, Nepenthe, and the boy, who collapsed in a heap next to the pyre.
    Nepenthe reached for him again, but she was stalled by her mother.
    â€œLet him be,” she whispered.
    Looking slightly terrified, the King approached and crouched over his son. The King’s hands were shaking as he leaned over and checked for breath. He nodded to the witches in thanks and then lifted the boy up into his arms and carried him away.
    Nepenthe looked up at her mother.
    â€œHe can’t see us, child; he can’t know us.”
    When it was over and Nepenthe and her mother were in the carriage riding home, the sun began to rise.
    Nepenthe stared at her mother’s profile in shadow, contemplating her. Her mother, who had taught her every day that magic was something to be reckoned with, had just made her help wipe that boy’s magic away.
    Her mother had spent every day educating Nepenthe about her choice. The River or the land? Hadn’t they just taken that boy’s choice away? How could he live fully not knowing what he had done or what he was capable of?
    â€œI know you don’t approve of what we did back there,” the River Witch said quietly.
    â€œI think it’s going to be worse for that boy not knowing what he did. I think the sadness won’t have a name, but it will be there all the same,” Nepenthe said.
    â€œPerhaps, but this way he can grow up and have a normal life—sad or not,” the River Witch replied. “It won’t be a life tainted by murder, even one done by accident . . .”
    â€œBut he’s not normal, Mother.”
    â€œAnd perhaps one day there will be a consequence for that . . . for all of us.”
    The River Witch didn’t live to see how true her words were. But she couldn’t have been more right.
    Nepenthe was more confused than ever. She had never felt power like what she saw in the garden. The only thing she knew for certain was that she would not forget that little boy, even though he had forgotten all about her.

5
    The next few days were a blur of land and water for Nepenthe. She was no closer to choosing between the two, but the water always seemed to have a slight edge. Little did she know that like the boy, the decision would be taken from her.
    Then one day when she returned home from the academy in town she knew right away that something was wrong. Water had flooded the house.
    She walked through ankle-deep water that was still rising with every step.
Has the Grotto somehow flooded?
she wondered. But the water itself told a story. It was brackish and gray, not the clear blue water of her Grotto. The water somehow seemed sick or worse.
    â€œNepenthe . . .”
    The water carried her name to her in an urgent whisper, and she waded toward its source.
    She found her father clinging to life in the study. He was on his belly