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Under the starless, moonless night sky, with snow falling endlessly from above, Bradamante huddled in the well of a giant spruce tree. She was so cold she couldn’t remember when she last felt her fingers or toes.
She made a cocoon for herself out of the five woolen blankets Rogero left her, but they barely cut through the chill.
She had no way to make a fire. No flint, no spark.
And for the first time in her life, she was afraid to go to the white house.
She could be sitting there even now, inside the warm bright cottage, sunshine streaming through the windows, her long legs stretched out in front of the fire.
She could be sipping a hot mug of clove and honey tea. Then eating enough to fill her empty belly.
Her last meal had been this morning. She managed to catch two skinny brow
