Free Winter's Child by Cameron Dokey Page B

Johannes replied. “Remember that, when your journey seems difficult. Remember that I will be thinking of you as I tend the garden.”
    “I will,” I promised.
    We left the rooftop just as the sun went down.

T EN
Story the Sixth
    In Which Kai Finally Finds His Voice
    I suppose you’re wondering why I haven’t said anything until now.
    If Grace were here she’d tell you I don’t talk all that much, not unless I really have something to say, anyhow. Which makes me sound like some strong and silent type. Totally untrue, of course. And Grace isn’t here. That’s part of the point. If the two of us hadn’t quarreled, if we’d stayed together, neither of us would have much of a story to tell. Or at the very least, they would be different from the one—ones—you’re now holding in your hands.
    You may also feel as if I owe an explanation. Why did I do it? Why did I follow the Winter Child? This would be difficult to put into words even if I were a big talker. The closest I can come is to say that the moment I beheld Deirdre, I felt ... affirmed. For as long as I can remember, my heart has harbored abelief in spite of my logical mind: the belief that the Winter Child truly exists, that she is much more than a character in a bedtime story.
    So I ask you, what would you have done? If your most cherished fantasy suddenly had appeared and looked you in the eyes, offered you the chance to become a true part of her tale, would you have refused? Would you have stayed home?
    No. I didn’t think so.
    “Is this some sort of test?” I asked, that first night, as we walked along.
    Somewhat to my surprise, once I’d declined Deirdre’s invitation to fly through the air, she’d let me set both the pace of our journey and its course. My feet chose the way of their own accord: through the graveyard on the hill outside of town, heading in the direction of the mountains where my father had died. It was almost as if I wanted to say goodbye.
    “Is what some sort of test?” she asked in return. This turned out to be a habit of hers. She often answered a question by posing one of her own. Perhaps it simply had become part of her nature. She’d been alone for so long that she’d fallen out of the habit of regular conversation.
    “Letting me choose which way to go,” I explained.
    Deirdre shook her head, and I watched the way the moonlight shimmered over her pale locks. I narrowed my eyes, trying to imagine what she would look like when she was restored to her natural coloring—midnight hair and dark eyes. I simply couldn’t do it. Imagination has never been my strong suit, but it seemed to me that everything about Deirdre fit, just as she was then.
    “Of course it’s not a test,” she answered now. “Why would I want to test you?”
    I shrugged, feeling slightly foolish. “I don’t know. Because that’s the way these things always seem to work, at least in stories. The hero gets tested, needs to prove himself.”
    She turned her head to look at me then, and I thought I caught a hint of a twinkle in her eye.
    “Wait,” I said before she could speak. “I don’t think I’m a hero. That isn’t what I meant at all.”
    Deirdre bit her lip, as if to hold back a smile. “You might be. You never can tell.”
    I gave a snort. “I’m a watchmaker, not a swash-buckler, so don’t even think about me wielding a sword. I’d probably drop it on my foot and slice off a toe.”
    “Fortunately for us both”—Deirdre spread her arms wide, the cloak fanning out around her and revealing the dress she wore beneath—“I seem to be fresh out of swords.”
    “I’m just saying,” I plowed on. “I mean, just so you know.”
    We trudged along in silence for several minutes, both of us looking ahead. What Deirdre was thinking, I couldn’t tell. As for me, I was giving serious consideration to the physics that allowed me to walk, eventhough I’d just managed to put both feet in my mouth.
    “Does the path we take make a