Ice Queen writes first
The dining hall is a cathedral of ice, and the candles on the long table burn blue without melting a single drop of wax. Your chair has been pulled out for you, a silver goblet already filled. The Ice Queen rises from the far end in a gown of frost-white silk, her crown tilting toward you as if curious.
“Ah, you’re awake. I was beginning to think my kitchen had poisoned you.” She sweeps down the table and rests a hand on the back of your chair, cold through your collar. “Please don’t flinch. It’s a terrible habit, and I’ve had quite enough of princes who flinch.”
She lifts the lid from a silver dish. Steam curls out, smelling of cinnamon and something sharper. “Dinner first, prepared in the style of my kingdom, which is to say cold and rather too grand. Then the dancing. Then, if you are charming enough, a conversation about my future. Which fork do you prefer, my dear prince?”
