Page 28 of The Enchanted Frost

I shook my head. “It’s only begun since I entered your realm after we frosted the windowpanes together.”

He was silent a long moment, eyes flickering between my hand and the thin layer of ice lingering against the frozen surface. “Perhaps,” he murmured, more to himself than to me, “you’re beginning to absorb the magic of winter. Though my power is fading, yours...” He trailed off, but the unspoken possibility lingered in the air between us.

We spent several minutes discussing why this power might be manifesting and experimenting with the strange new magic, but neither of us were sure what it signified, a fact which was both intriguing and troubling. Eventually wesought a distraction from the strange mystery in the treat we were concocting. I pushed through the sense of foreboding pressing against my chest and forced a cheery tone.

“Comfort is not just about the taste—it’s the warmth, the memories, and the feeling of being safe and cared for.” Though I’d had little experience with this elusive emotion prior to coming to his winter realm, thanks to him I’d been able to discover it, even amongst all of the ice and snow.

His cool fingers brushed against mine as he took the whisk. As I leaned closer, the heat from the hearth paled in comparison to the warmth that bloomed in my chest. My shoulder brushed his as I adjusted his grip and a shiver traveled down my spine—not from the cold, but from the undeniable attraction I felt in his presence. I could feel his gaze on me, intense and searching, as if also aware of the charged atmosphere between us whose small distance felt like a fragile barrier, one that I wasn’t sure I wanted to maintain.

My shallow, flustered breaths came a little quicker as I leaned in his direction to demonstrate how to mix the cocoa with the warm milk, adding just the right amount of mint for that refreshing yet soothing flavor. I couldn’t help but laugh at his intense concentration as he stirred, his brow furrowed as he approached this simple task like he would conjuring a snowstorm, seriousness I found increasingly endearing.

“You’re whisking too hard,” I teased, reaching out to guide his hand, our fingers briefly intertwining; a spark of warmth spread through me at the touch. He relaxed, his expression softening with a rare, genuine smile, though the chocolate mixture was in danger of spilling as we found ourselves gazing at each other rather than our work.

“The creator of infinite snowflakes, and yet I cannot brew a simple drink,” he mused, his voice touched with humor.

“Give it a few millennia and I’m sure you’ll have the hang of it,” I teased in response.

With every turn of the whisk, I realized he was stirring something much more powerful than the comfort brought by a soothing drink—feelings I couldn’t quite name, but which deepened in my heart with each passing moment.

As if to remind me of Frost’s kindness that melted my heart, I felt a cool nose nudge my palm affectionately and looked down to see the muzzle of my ice fox, Shiver, nestling my hand as its crystalline eyes stared up at me pleadingly, hoping for a taste.

“We haven’t even baked the cookies yet.” I ruffled its fur with a laugh, bemused as always by the musical tinkling that sounded as the icy strands rubbed against each other.

As I sifted through the bags of ingredients Frost had gathered, my eyes caught sight of a familiar stamp on one of the sacks. It was a simple, circular mark, slightly faded with age but unmistakable—the emblem of a small bakery I had frequently passed after finding myself on the streets.

The memory surged back with startling clarity—another cold winter evening measured by my gnawing hunger when the scent of fresh bread drifted through the frigid air. I stood outside that bakery, face pressed against the frosted glass, staring longingly at the loaves lined up on the shelves, each one feeling impossibly out of reach.

As if my desperation had drawn her attention, the kindly older baker noticed me lingering. The warmth from her shop followed her as she stepped outside. I shrank back, prepared for a harsh admonition to leave the premises, but without a word she handed me a brown paper sack with flour-dusted hands, the contents still warm and fragrant.

“Leftover bread,” she’d said, her voice gruff but kind. “Can’t let it go to waste now, can we?”

I clutched the bag to my chest, tears springing to my eyes as its heat seeped into my cold fingers. It wasn’t just the bread that warmed me—it was the unexpected kindness, thesimple act of generosity I hadn’t anticipated…one I felt I didn’t deserve considering how little I’d extended it to others back when the circumstances had favored me. In a world that had often felt harsh and unforgiving, her small act served as a beacon of light, a rare balm in the poverty-stricken life I’d endured.

Now, as I stood in Frost’s kitchen tracing the worn stamp on the flour sack while the memory of that cold winter evening played vividly in my mind, I was filled with a deep sense of gratitude. The memory of the baker’s simple act of kindness stirred something within me that I hadn’t felt in a long time—a desire to be better, to see the world and the people in it not just as obstacles or threats, but as individuals with their own needs and struggles.

For the first time, I saw the baker in my memory not just as a nameless figure who had shown me mercy, but as a person with her own hardships who had chosen to help a hungry girl when she easily could have turned me away.

In my life I’d met very few people—myself included—who acted out of anything other than selfish desire. My parents were known for their supposed charity, but it only served to curry favor and boost their image. My peers had all been in open competition for the highest positions in society, using favors only as a means to help themselves climb higher. I winced at the memory of how I myself had rejected a potential suitor the moment a more eligible gentleman looked my way.

But the baker was proof that not everyone was so self-centered and cruelly ambitious. My heart swelled with both thankfulness and the realization that I wanted to carry that spirit of kindness forward, a desire that contrasted with the person I used to be but which felt more like the Blanche I had been searching for.

I had spent so long focused on surviving each daywithout being swallowed by the world’s cruelty that I’d forgotten the world wasn’t entirely dark. Like crocuses whose resilience pushed through snow each spring, there were people who chose kindness no matter the circumstances. The memory of those warm buns, given freely without expectation of anything in return, had stayed with me all this time, helping me realize how much I wanted to be that source of warmth for others.

The memory of the past gradually mingled with the present. I turned to Frost, still absorbed in measuring flour with an adorable concentration. Though I wasn’t quite ready to share all the painful memories of how I’d ended up on the streets, I wanted to at least share this portion of myself in hopes of deepening the growing relationship between us.

He looked up as I softly called his name, his icy blue eyes meeting mine, a flicker of curiosity in their depths. “Where did you get these ingredients?”

A faint flush crept up his neck, and he looked momentarily flustered. “I…might have snuck into a shop that I saw in your memories. I waited until after closing and I borrowed the ingredients, but I left more than enough coins that I’d found to cover it. I returned the recipe book before dawn after copying the page with instructions for gingerbread.”

I blinked in disbelief, then a laugh bubbled up before I could stop it. “You snuck into a shop just to get these?”

He shrugged, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips. “I wanted them to be just right.”

My heart swelled at the thought, urging me to open up to him and share why this shop held a prominent place in the memories he’d seen. I showed him the faded stamp on the sack. “This came from a bakery I used to visit.” Emotion caught in my throat as the memory tugged at my heart.

Frost’s gaze flickered to the sack, then back to me, hisexpression thoughtful. “What happened there?” His tone was gentle, as if he sensed there was more to the story.

I took a deep breath, letting the warmth of the memory wash over me. “It was during my first harsh winter on the streets. I had nothing—no money, no shelter—and I was starving. I stared at the bread through the bakery window, knowing I couldn’t afford even a crumb, and certain that no one would spare me a coin to buy anything.

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