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I’m locked out.
No, no, no!
Leaning my forehead on the door, I stifle a sob.
I’m going to die here. I’ll freeze to death two miles from the castle.
Where the hell is Grandma?
This was supposed to be the greatest project in my architecture career. It was supposed to catapult me to international recognition. My crowning glory.
Now?
I might die before I make it to the front gate.
Unzipping my suitcase, I reach my stiff, cold fingers inside and dig around for my second hat and scarf. My fingers feel the knitted material of my warmest sweater, curling around it and yanking.
I pull the clothing out of my suitcase and huddle beside the building to use whatever shelter it’ll provide against the wind.
Which is not much, by the way. The wind feels like a claw that reaches through my jacket and scrapes sharp nails across my skin.
Then, with a deep breath, I strip my favorite (useless) red peacoat off, and throw my sweater on over my dress. The wind slaps my skin. I inhale sharply. It hurts to breathe. The air is too cold. It attacks every exposed inch of me, invading my lungs and showing me just how fragile my life really is.
My jacket goes back on, followed by the scarf and hat, then a second scarf and a pair of gloves.
It’s slightly better. Still cold, but better.
Sighing, I try the door one last time. Just in case.
Nope. Didn’t magically unlock itself.
This is a type of cold I’ve never felt before. It’s an attack. Like the weather is on the offensive, and I’m caught in a battle I wasn’t prepared to fight.
My gloves take the worst bite of the wind away as I drag my suitcase down the half-dozen steps and onto the snow-covered sidewalk. I shove my chin into my double scarves, keeping my eyes on the little patch of ground in front of me.
My brand-new, fancy, leather ankle boots slip on the hard-packed snow and ice. I pause, legs shaking like a baby deer, lifting my eyes to stare at the long, dark, bleak road in front of me.
I know how far it is. I’ve seen the topographical maps and studied the drawings of the area already.
Just over two miles. In Farcliff, it would take me, what, thirty minutes? I wouldn’t blink at having to walk that distance.
But now? With the wind finding every weakness in my jacket, with nothing but a pair of tights on my legs, with unlined boots on my feet?
Two miles seem like the end of the earth, and my destination doesn’t look very friendly.
Glancing down the road where the car disappeared, I shudder. The nearest town is twenty miles in the opposite direction. There’s a grocery store beside the train station that looks dark and definitely locked, and there are a handful of homesteads between here and the nearest town. There’s no guarantee I’ll meet someone along the way, so shouldn’t I choose the closest option?
My eyes follow the long, straight road that leads to the Summer Palace. It looks…cold.
The alternative to walking those two miles to the castle is standing still, which is a death sentence. I have no choice.
Tucking my chin in my chest, I start the long walk to the Summer Palace, hoping I won’t freeze to death before I get there.
