Winter, White and Wicked by Shannon Dittemore
Winter’s always talking. Her breath frosts the tavern window, but I can still hear the wind whispering outside. A voice slips through a crack in the pane, tugging curls from my snarled white braids. COME OUT AND PLAY, she says. But our tutor would never allow it. Not with the blizzard setting in. I trace the crystals growing on the glass and let my eyes wander across the ice rigs parked in the lot outside. If I had a rig, I could play in the snow all day long and not risk frostbite. That red truck there isn’t so large, and my ten-year-old legs have grown long in the past year. “Tell us a fairy story, Mystra Dyfan,” Lenore calls, suddenly there, tucking a dishrag into the crack, shutting Winter out.