1. Dove

1

DOVE

M y old boot crunches through the thick layer of snow as I try to free one last carrot from the frozen ground.

Gripping the green stem in my gloved hand, I brace myself and pull hard. The carrot breaks through the ice with a resounding crack, and I nearly fall on my backside. It wouldn’t matter much if I did. I’m already soaked to the bone from the icy wind. My toes went numb an hour ago. My wool socks are squishy—wet from the hole in the toe that still desperately needs mending.

Mama has had much on her plate recently, and I haven’t had the heart to add fixing my worn boots to it.

Therefore, I grit my teeth against the blistering cold, push my discomfort from my mind, and toss the last meager carrot into my fraying basket. Five carrots and two potatoes is a meager haul. I can only hope my sister has had more luck. Glancing across the snowy field, my eyes land on Sophia’s small frame as she fights with her own stubborn vegetable.

My sister’s long scarf whips in the wind. Snow settles on her coat-covered shoulders. Tendrils of her dark hair cling to her pink cheeks. Glancing towards the sky, I sigh as the thick white clouds roll overhead. The dusting we are getting is about to take a turn for the worst.

The scent of fresh cinnamon bread tickles my nose. I drop my gaze down towards our cottage. Smoke billows from the crumbling chimney and orange light beams through the two front-facing windows. My stomach growls, reminding me I haven’t eaten today.

Tucking my basket in the crook of my arm, I cup my hands around my mouth.

“Sophia!” I call, watching her turn towards me. “Come. Let’s head inside before you turn into an icicle.”

She picks up her basket and stomps over to me—the deep snow rising nearly to her knees. The skirt of her wool dress is sodden. Once she is next to me, I take in her shivering body. Before we head inside, we must commence with our usual ritual.

“Two potatoes and four carrots,” she says proudly, holding up her basket.

Her scarf is wrapped around the lower part of her face, muffling her soft voice. Her blue eyes sparkle with pride. She, Mama, and I all share the same dark hair, but only Sophia was blessed with Papa’s light eyes. Whenever I look at her, warm memories of him flood me.

Smirking down at her, my cheeks sting from wind-burn.

“Two potatoes,” I say, raising my basket in triumph. “And five carrots.”

Her dark brows pull down, and I know she's frowning even with her mouth covered. Her small hand tips my basket as she peers inside.

“No fair,” she huffs. “Mine are bigger!”

“The game has always been about quantity—not size.” I wave a dismissive hand.

Sophia pouts as she sets off towards the house. The numbness in my toes has now spread to my whole foot. Unsticking my legs, I trudge along after her.

The game helps Sophia see this chore as something fun, even if the task is dreadful. Papa used to play it with me, showering me with praise when my hauls were bigger than his. Those were the days when our harvests were much more significant: ten potatoes instead of four, fifteen carrots instead of nine.

Ever since Sophia was born ten years ago, and we lost Papa to illness in the months following her birth, the weather in our small town of Snowdale has gotten worse. I fear Sophia will only know hardship if it persists. The snow and ice have to let up. We won’t survive much longer if our bounties continue to be this meager.

That is why tomorrow is so important.

I quickly catch up to Sophia, and we huddle under our wet coats to share body heat. Sophia is quiet as we walk—lost in her thoughts as always. I don’t mind the silence, especially when each deep breath shreds my lungs with icy claws.

We make it to the front door of our cottage just as the wind picks up. Kicking the snow off our boots, we enter our home and latch the creaking door. Sophia and I hang our wet coats and mittens on the pegs near the door before taking off our shoes. Bright orange flames snap and flicker in the hearth. The heat lures Sophia and I towards it. The warmth licks over my cold cheeks and returns feeling back in my hands.

The oven door slams shut and I glance towards our tiny kitchen. Mama rises from her crouched position with a fresh loaf of cinnamon bread. She was able to barter for the elusive spice in the market a few weeks ago, and I’ve been patiently waiting for her to make it ever since.

It’s not surprising she chose today.

Flour decorates the front of her simple, dark gown. Gray hair curls around her temples, and her dark eyes glow warmly as she takes us in. She smiles, and the wrinkles around her mouth stretch with the movement. It’s warm, if a little brittle—the weight of tomorrow lingers between us in the cottage.

Picking up our baskets, I set them down next to her on the counter.

“Four potatoes and nine carrots. Sophia found the most.”

My sister turns from her place at the fire with wide blue eyes. I send her a quick wink and am rewarded with her toothy grin. Mama goes through our baskets, sifting through each vegetable.

“Thank you, girls. These will do well in a stew. We still have some meat from the butcher.” Her eyes roam over my face. “We should eat the last of it tonight.”

“Mama,” I say, reaching for her hand.

Her slender fingers come down on top of mine in a reassuring squeeze.

“I just never thought this day would come,” she whispers, shaking her head.

I glance at Sophia, who’s too busy warming her toes by the fire to hear us. I’ll never forget having to explain to her what tomorrow was. As much as we all pretended it wasn’t happening, we knew from the moment I turned twenty-five, it was a matter of if not when I’d be sent out into the snow and offered to him .

By being unmarried and childless at what our town deems an old age, I am forced to submit for the Offering . It is the price I must pay if I wish for myself and my family to remain in Snowdale. There are stories about the families who don’t comply—how they were turned out of their homes by a mob and left to freeze out in the barren, icy wastelands surrounding our town.

My eyes linger on Sophia a moment longer. With our age difference, many would expect us not to be close. Even more would believe I should already be married with at least one child of my own. I knew at fifteen my life plan wouldn’t look like many of the other young women around me.

With Papa gone and Sophia still a baby, Mama needed my help raising her. We have spent every day together—working together and loving each other fiercely. The three of us rely on each other for everything, and that’s why—no matter how barbaric I think this ritual is—I will partake without fuss to keep them safe.

I wouldn’t be opposed to a family of my own, but as we live in one of the most remote cottages, our trips into town are sparse. Besides, it’s not as if Snowdale is brimming with eligible suitors. We rarely get travelers passing through, and the ones we do are frost-bitten old men.

Marrying Jon would’ve taken me out of contention for tomorrow, but I’d rather swallow a kitchen knife than be his bride.

He is one of the only men in our village who has ever paid me much attention—unwelcome as it is. Our last interaction still burns in the back of my mind. Jon had caught me on my way home from the market. Cornering me against an old barn with his breath reeking of ale, he declared his intention to put forth an offer of marriage to my mother. Stating with a smug sneer, he knew how much we could use the coin.

I can still recall his gloved hand sliding over my cheek and his coat opening to show the ornately carved handle of the knife strapped to his hip. Looking for a way out of the conversation, I had told him I was going through with the Offering; my deadline to be married and avoid it had already passed.

“Hmm,” he had purred against my ear. “ The Offering is a simple delay. Once it is over, I will have you. I take it you are familiar with my reputation?”

I had nodded reluctantly—the stories of his cruelty and brutality were well-known. A smile graced his cracked lips, exposing two rows of yellowed teeth.

“Good. Then you should know I always get what I want.” His beady eyes ran down the length of my body as if he was looking at me unclothed. “Using a little force is something I’ve never shied away from.”

Bile swam up my throat then, just as it does now. A man like Jon Nine-Fingers—a nickname he claims was bestowed on him while doing something heroic, but everyone in Snowdale knows he lost his thumb during a bar fight—would trap me in a marriage of pain and misery. The thought of bearing his children makes my stomach turn.

I allow the roaring fire to melt away the remnants of the icy memory. Mama squeezes my hand once more before I drop hers. She stares at me another moment, eyes rimming with red. The sight of her tears encourages my own to form.

We share a soft smile before she shakes herself and wipes her palms on her skirt.

“Why don’t you two change out of those wet clothes, and I’ll get started on supper.”

Sophia and I head to the bedroom, and I help her out of her wet gown. Even her shift and wool socks are soaked. There must be a hole in her coat somewhere. If I can find our old needle and thread, I’ll try to patch it for her. Slipping a fresh, dry nightgown over her head, I unbraid her soft hair knowing it will dry faster unbound.

“Thank you, Dove,” she says, kissing my cheek before setting off for the table.

Our cottage is small; Mama sleeps in a loft above the main room while Sophia and I share a bed behind a curtain just off the front room. I love my mother and my sister—I’d happily spend my life with them, but this constant existence of working hard for mere scraps is no life.

What kind of future will Sophia have? How can I start a family when their future is nothing but hardship? What will it be like for Sophia’s children?

We’ll be lucky if this cottage survives until Sophia becomes an adult—I doubt there will be anything left to inherit by the time she gets married. The roof leaks, a draft trickles in from every window, and the floorboards have started rotting from the snow.

Things have to change—I believe they will somehow. I have to, or else I would never get out of bed. Even if change in Snowdale seems as impossible as a day without snow.

Sitting on the creaking bed, I peel off my wet stockings, knowing they’ll need to be set before the fire. I untie the laces at the back of my gown until the fabric gapes. I rise slowly to my feet. The material hits the wooden floor with a wet thud. Stepping out of it, I inspect my toes, happy to see no traces of frostbite.

I slide off my wet shift and put on an old nightgown and fresh wool socks. Bundling up in a thick robe, I pad out to the main room and take my usual spot at the kitchen table. Mama ladles thick brown stew into our bowls. Steam curls over the lip of the cracked ceramic, and I lower my face to absorb the warmth.

My stomach growls as Mama slices off thick pieces of cinnamon bread. The sweet scent invades my lungs.

“If only we had butter,” Mama says softly, shaking her head.

“You know I’ve always preferred it plain.”

She smiles softly at me and sets a slice on my plate—the cinnamon and sugar swirl throughout the pale-colored bread. The crust is a perfect golden brown. Somehow, Mama always manages to turn frostbitten scraps into a delicious meal. The meat in our stew is a bad cut, tough and inedible most of the time, but Mama has a way of making it unbelievably tender.

Sophia picks up her spoon, a large chunk of potatoes resting on it, and brings it towards her mouth. Mama clears her throat and casts a pointed look.

“Sophia, you know what we must do before we eat.”

Pursing her lips, Sophia returns her spoon to the bowl with a soft clank.

“Sorry, Mama,” she sighs before bowing her head.

I follow suit.

“ Mother of the Snow ,” Mama prays. “We thank you for this harvest—even in these harsh conditions, you find a way for us to survive. We thank you for our health. We pray that Nick, who was a loving father and husband, has found peace with you and is no longer in pain. I thank you for my two beautiful girls—without them, I would never have known the true meaning of love. I beg you to please look out for them and?—”

Her breath catches on a sob. Both Sophia and I snap our heads up. Tears pour over her pale cheeks and collect in the hollow of her throat.

“Please,” she sobs, “ please spare my Dove tomorrow.”

Reaching out, I take her hands. They are warm and as familiar as my own. Tears slip from my eyes, but I quickly wipe them away. Nothing can be done now; sadness over what’s happening tomorrow won’t change it. Of course, I am worried despite the history of the Offering.

There is always a chance he will come—finally choosing one of us to fulfill our part of whatever curse he’s put upon this land. Not that I have any particular desire to be selected. One of the others up there with me tomorrow can be the chosen one—undoubtedly, one wants to be remembered as the person who stopped the snow.

A soft sniffle makes me look over. Sophia’s blue eyes are red, and wetness courses down her round cheeks. Dropping Mama’s hand, I push back from the table—my wooden chair scraping against the floor.

“Oh, Soph,” I sigh, opening my arms. “Come here. Don’t cry. Everything will be alright.”

Sophia rounds the table and rushes towards me. Barreling into my arms, I hold her petite body in my lap, not liking how cold she still feels. Rubbing my arms up and down her sides, my heart pangs.

I love them—I’d never wish to leave them—but if I am chosen tomorrow, perhaps there is comfort in the fact that I will have improved their lives somehow. I don’t want to be a savior, but my sacrifice wouldn't be in vain if it meant granting Sophia the future she deserves.

However, now is not the time to voice those thoughts. Besides, there’s a real chance that all this worry is for nothing.

“ He may not even come. No one’s ever been chosen,” I remind her.

Sophia scrunches her nose.

“Not true, Mrs. Pendleton says someone was chosen. A long time ago, he picked a boy and they found his bones scattered?—”

“Enough, Sophia. You know Mrs. Pendleton is a dreadful lair.” Mama shakes her head. “Regardless, it is a vile custom. Even if one of you is taken, how do we know that dreadful creature will keep his word? The curse was laid on this land long before any of us were born.”

It is true. Whatever caused him to curse our land in the first place was not our doing, and yet we are still being punished for it. It is all dreadfully unfair, but we have no choice. I will do my duty to Snowdale and hope I don’t freeze to death in the process.

“Mrs. Pendleton is a dreadful liar,” I agree. “There’s no reason to think this year is any different than all the others.”

Mama nods reluctantly.

“He hasn’t shown at an Offering since I was a little girl . I don’t know whether that’s a good or bad omen. If the weather is any indication, I’m inclined to believe the latter.”

“No matter how poor the weather gets, at least we have each other.”

Clasping my mother’s hand, Sophia tightens her hold around my neck.

“Forever?” Sophia asks.

My eyes connect with Mama’s—our matching eyes share our matching worry. I let my mask fall, if only for a moment. I let her see the fear in my eyes that I’ve shoved down so that I don’t do something foolish and run away—damning my family in the process. I let her see that I am worried this time will be different. Even if I were to be the one to save them, I’d never see them again, and somehow, that seems worse than being made to tend our icy fields.

My mother squeezes my hand, absorbing everything I’ve laid bare in my gaze and bestowing me a look of love only a mother can give. I swallow down the lump in my throat before pressing a kiss to Sophia's head.

“Forever.”