Page 8 of A Killing Cold

I flush. Maybe I’m imagining how pointed the remark seems to be, but it’s true—I am young. I never imagined myself getting married before thirty, much less twenty-five. I never imagined myself getting married at all.

“Oh, this one isn’t so young,” Mrs. Dalton says. She meets my eyes. “You can tell when someone has had to be grown-up. It’s different when someone is coddled. Allowed to remain in a state of irresponsibility.” Her sharp tone suggests she has someone particular in mind.

“I’ve been on my own for quite a while,” I say, choosing my words like I’m picking my way past a snare. Every sentence feels like it’s waiting tospring a trap on me. “I don’t know if that makes me more grown-up or just more tired.” I try for humor, but she doesn’t smile.

“Yes, I imagine you’ve learned to look out for yourself,” she says. I open my mouth to reply, but I can’t think of anything to say.

Then a gray-haired man steps into the room, and I don’t need to think of anything at all. Connor gets to his feet. Magnus Dalton surveys his family. He’s a thin man—wiry, really, nothing frail about him. He has Connor’s strong jaw and thin lips, the same piercing blue eyes. His skin is sun-weathered, and in defiance of the semiformal dress code, he wears a flannel and jeans.

“Well,” he says, “I see you’ve already terrified the poor girl.”

“We’re having a conversation,” Mrs. Dalton says stiffly.

“We ought to be having dinner,” Magnus says, his hands in his pockets. “Irina tells me it’s ready.”

“Not everyone has arrived,” Mrs. Dalton says.

He grunts. “I’m too old to wait on the young for my supper.”

Her lips press together briefly. “Let us decamp to the dining room, then.” She gets to her feet, her movements just deliberate enough to betray the weakness of age.

Everyone files out. I stand, but don’t move yet. I feel sick. I catch Connor’s eye, and he hangs back.

“You did great,” he says.

“I didn’t expect it to be such a literal test,” I say. “I can’t believe I said I’m going to grad school.”

“You could,” he says.

“I think I might have to now.” I hide my face in my hands. “I can’t do this. I’m not—I shouldn’t be—”

“Breathe,” he tells me. “You belong here because you belong with me. The rest doesn’t matter.”

“What if it does?” I ask him. “What if I do screw this up, and they tell you I’m not good enough?”

“I don’t need their approval,” Connor assures me. He takes my hand,running a thumb over my knuckles. His eyes search mine. “You are good enough. I love you. If they can’t see that, it’s on them.”

I take a stuttering breath. He tilts my head up, kisses me softly.

“It’s going to be all right,” he murmurs. “You’ll see.”

His life has so rarely had a misstep. He doesn’t understand how easily things can fall apart.

“Your mascara is running,” he says, touching a knuckle to the corner of my eye. I’ve teared up again.

“I should go get cleaned up.”

“I can wait for you.”

“No, you go ahead.” I wave him off. He gives me instructions to the bathroom, and after I promise him one more time that I don’t need him to wait, we part ways.

In the bathroom, I wash my hands just to feel the cold water over them and dab at the smeared mascara with a piece of toilet paper. My eyes are a little red, but not too bad, I decide.

I’m not ready to go back out there. I’m running over everything I said, second-guessing.

Mrs. Dalton wants to know where I come from. The answer is nowhere. The answer is I have no idea. Theodora Scott is a fiction, but it’s the only story I have. The rest is fragments. Less than that. The woman in the red scarf; the echo of a voice that never resolves into words.

A dream of winter and branching antlers and the urge to run.

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