The morning light filtered through the frost-covered windows of Isabelle’s room, casting soft, crystalline patterns on the floor. The air carried a sharp chill, though the warmth of the estate’s magic kept the cold at bay. Isabelle stretched, her fingers brushing the thick fur of Mr. Darcy, who lounged contentedly on her bed.
Over dinner the night before, Virgil had apologized for being unavailable that day, mentioning something cryptic about needing to visit an old friend in town. With no lessons scheduled, Isabelle was left to her own devices, a freedom that filled her with both curiosity and a touch of unease.
After her morning tea, she left Mr. Darcy in the room, the cat curling lazily into the pile of blankets on her bed. Setting out into the estate’s labyrinthine halls, Isabelle resolved to explore the corners of the Winter Court she hadn’t yet seen.
The estate revealed itself in pieces as she wandered: grand sitting rooms with frosted chandeliers, studies and libraries of all manner, and corridors lined with icy sconces that burned with cold, blue flames. Each turn seemed to offer a new wonder, though the stillness of the halls made her footsteps feel unnervingly loud.
Eventually, her wandering brought her to a room unlike any she had seen before. The heavy, ornate door creaked as she pushed it open, revealing what looked to be a gallery or vault. The space was lined with portraits of the Olberon family, each framed in silver filigree that caught the faint light. The faces in the paintings bore a striking resemblance to Olberon—high cheekbones, pale skin, and eyes that seemed to gleam with hidden knowledge.
The room carried an air of reverence, as though it had not been disturbed in years. Isabelle moved cautiously, her fingers trailing along a table displaying intricate trinkets: a frost-covered music box, a dagger with a crystalline hilt, and a set of keys that looked far too delicate to serve any practical purpose.
“What an unexpected guest in such a private place, how curious” came a voice from behind her, smooth and even, yet carrying an undercurrent that made her skin prickle.
Isabelle turned sharply, her heart skipping a beat as she saw Dorian standing in the doorway. He leaned casually against the frame, his dark coat blending into the shadows, though his sharp, calculating eyes stood out, fixed intently on her.
“I… didn’t realize this room was private,” Isabelle said quickly, taking a small step back from the table. “I was just exploring the estate.”
Dorian stepped into the room, his movements deliberate and unhurried, like a predator assessing its surroundings. “Of course,” he said, his tone polite but laced with something she couldn’t quite place. “Exploring is a natural inclination, especially for someone new to the Court. But one must be careful where one treads. Some doors are meant to remain closed.”
The words were innocuous enough, yet they carried a tone that set Isabelle on edge. She straightened, meeting his gaze. “I didn’t mean to intrude. The door was open.”
“Was it?” Dorian asked, tilting his head slightly as though the thought amused him. He moved closer, his sharp eyes flicking briefly to the table she had been examining. “The Olberon family vault,” he said softly. “A room of memories and secrets. Fascinating, isn’t it?”
Isabelle hesitated, unsure if he was waiting for an answer or simply enjoying her discomfort. “It’s… beautiful,” she said finally. “The paintings especially. Are they all Olberon’s family?”
Dorian smiled faintly, though the expression didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Indeed. Each portrait tells a story, though not all of them are meant to be shared.” He gestured toward a particularly striking painting of a woman in her early twenties with dark, piercing eyes. “Take her, for example—Olberon’s aunt Erisandria. A formidable woman in her own right, though her ambitions ultimately led her astray. A cautionary tale, you might say.”
The way he said it made Isabelle’s stomach tighten. “Is that why they’re kept here? To remind the family of their past?”
“Something like that,” Dorian said, his tone vague. He turned back to her, his gaze sharper now. “And what about you, Miss Isabelle? What brings you to the Winter Court? Curiosity? Ambition? Or something else entirely?”
She felt her pulse quicken, though she forced herself to keep her voice steady. “I’m still figuring that out,” she said. “This world is… a lot to take in.”
Dorian nodded slowly, his expression unreadable. “Indeed. The Dream is not for the faint of heart. But I must admit, I find your presence here intriguing. A mortal stepping into the Court—it’s not something one sees every day.”
Isabelle stiffened, sensing the subtle probing in his words. “I’ve had a lot of help,” she said, keeping her tone polite but guarded.
“From Virgil, no doubt,” Dorian said, a flicker of amusement crossing his face. “He’s always had a soft spot for lost souls. Though I wonder… how much of what you’ve seen so far do you truly understand?”
The question was delivered with the same polite veneer, but Isabelle couldn’t shake the feeling that it was a challenge. “I’m learning,” she said, lifting her chin slightly.
“Good,” Dorian said, his smile returning, though it felt more like a baring of teeth. “The Winter Court is not a place for ignorance. It demands clarity, endurance, and, above all, awareness.”
Isabelle met his gaze, refusing to look away despite the unease curling in her chest. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
Dorian regarded her for a moment longer, then stepped back, his demeanor once again casual. “I’ll leave you to your exploration, then. But do tread carefully, Miss Isabelle. This estate holds many secrets, and not all of them are as beautiful as these paintings.”
With that, he turned and strode toward the door, his footsteps unnervingly quiet on the frost-covered floor. Isabelle exhaled slowly, the tension in her shoulders easing only once he was out of sight.
As she looked back at the portraits, the room suddenly felt colder, the air heavy with the weight of the past and the present.
_____
Shaken but determined not to dwell on her unsettling encounter with Dorian, Isabelle made her way back through the winding halls of the estate, her footsteps echoing faintly against the frosted stone floors. The tension in her chest began to ease as she neared the dining room, drawn by the comforting murmur of voices and the enticing aroma of something warm and savory.
Florence was bustling about when Isabelle arrived, her sharp, efficient movements a comforting contrast to the strange, otherworldly stillness of the Winter Court. At the far end of the room, Cookie—a stout, ruddy-faced woman with arms like tree trunks—was stirring a pot of soup with a ladle that looked comically oversized.
“Miss Isabelle,” Florence greeted, glancing up from where she was arranging a tray of bread and cheeses. “There you are. You look a bit pale—did something trouble you on your morning wander?”
“No, nothing,” Isabelle lied, forcing a small smile. “I just… got a little turned around, I think. Needed to find my way back to something familiar.”
“Hmm,” Florence said, her keen eyes narrowing briefly. “Well, nothing fixes a wandering spirit like a good meal. Cookie’s got lunch ready—potato and leek soup, and the bread just came out of the oven.”
“It smells amazing,” Isabelle said sincerely, her stomach growling in agreement.
“Sit, dear,” Florence instructed, gesturing to a chair by the grand dining table. “I’ll bring it over.”
Isabelle obeyed, settling into the plush chair and letting the warmth of the room seep into her bones. The clatter of dishes and the hum of Florence and Cookie’s quiet conversation were soothing, grounding her in the present after the strangeness of the morning.
A steaming bowl of soup and a plate of buttered bread were placed before her, and Isabelle murmured her thanks before digging in. The first bite was heavenly, the simple, earthy flavors warming her from the inside out.
She had just begun to relax when the dining room door creaked open. Isabelle glanced up to see Thaddius entering, his sharp, foxlike features softened by the warmth in his eyes and the faint curve of a polite smile.
“Ah, Miss Isabelle,” he said, inclining his head as he approached the table. “May I join you? I hate to intrude on your meal, but it’s rare to catch you without Virgil hovering about.”
“Of course,” Isabelle said, surprised but not displeased. His presence, unlike Dorian’s, didn’t set her on edge. If anything, the sharp wit she had glimpsed in him before made her more curious than wary.
Thaddius seated himself across from her with a graceful ease, helping himself to a slice of bread from the tray Florence had left behind. “I trust you’re finding the Winter Court to your liking?” he asked, his tone conversational but genuinely interested.
“It’s… a lot” Isabelle admitted, setting her spoon down. “Beautiful, but a little overwhelming at times. There’s so much I don’t yet understand.”
“That’s to be expected,” Thaddius replied, his dark eyes watching her intently but without the predatory gaze she’d felt with Dorian. “The Dream is a complex thing, and stepping into it as a mortal is no small feat. I imagine it’s left you with more questions than answers.”
“You could say that,” Isabelle said with a faint laugh.
Thaddius leaned forward slightly, his hands steepled. “If I may be so bold, Isabelle, Why step through the Gate at all? Most mortals never take that step, not because they don’t see the opportunity, but because they fear what lies on the other side or having to leave things behind.”
Isabelle hesitated, unsure how much to share. But Thaddius’s tone was gentle, and there was an openness in his expression that made her feel… safe. “It wasn’t entirely my choice,” she said slowly. “Virgil was in trouble and I had to help. But now that I’m here… I suppose I didn’t want to turn away. I’ve spent so much of my life wondering about something more, something beyond the ordinary. This world… it feels like a chance at it”
“A noble answer,” Thaddius said, his smile widening slightly. “But you should be careful, Miss Isabelle. The Dream offers many wonders it’s true, but it also demands much in return. Each Court has its own expectations, and choosing one will mean giving up certain freedoms.”
“I know,” Isabelle said quietly. “Virgil’s been helping me understand that, it’s a lot to consider.”
“It is,” Thaddius agreed, his voice softening. “But I think you’ll manage just fine. You have a certain… resolve about you. It’s rare among mortals, and rarer still among those who choose to stay.”
Isabelle felt a faint blush rise to her cheeks at the unexpected compliment. “Thank you,” she said, her voice almost shy.
Thaddius leaned back in his chair, his demeanor easy and relaxed. “Of course. And if you ever find yourself needing advice that Virgil cannot provide, you know where to find me. After all,” he added with a wink, “even the most well-intentioned guides have their blind spots.”
The conversation drifted into lighter topics after that, Thaddius’s charm and easy manner putting Isabelle completely at ease. By the time he excused himself, leaving her to finish her lunch, the weight of the morning’s encounter with Dorian had all but faded.
___
After finishing her lunch, Isabelle decided to take a walk in the gardens, hoping the cool air and serene beauty of the estate would clear her mind. The crystalline expanse stretched before her like a frozen dream, the frost-laden hedges glittering under the pale winter sun. She followed the winding path through the garden, her boots crunching softly against the frozen gravel.
As she rounded a corner near the heart of the grounds, she paused, hearing voices ahead. Peering through the icy lattice of a trellis, she spotted Olberon walking alongside a woman she recognized as Adalaide, his sister. The contrast between the siblings was striking. Where Olberon’s presence was calm and measured, Adalaide’s was sharp and vibrant, though now her demeanor seemed tempered—at least compared to the fiery spat Isabelle had witnessed between her and Virgil.
“I’m telling you, the Glacial Garden refuses to bloom,” Olberon said, his tone low and thoughtful, though his concern was evident. His hands were clasped behind his back, his gaze fixed on the path ahead. “I’ve tried everything, yet it remains dormant. The other Courts are already whispering. I fear they may soon decide to… intervene.”
Adalaide walked beside him with an air of practiced grace, her dark eyes sharp beneath the shadow of her elaborate fur-lined cloak. “They wouldn’t dare,” she said, her voice cool and confident. “The balance may be fragile, but the other Courts know better than to risk destabilizing the Dream by acting rashly. Let them whisper, brother. That’s all they can do.”
Olberon glanced at her, his expression thoughtful but unconvinced. “And if they decide words are not enough? If they see Winter’s struggle as a weakness, an opportunity to assert themselves?” He sighed, his shoulders heavy. “Spring and Summer are always eager for their turn. If they push too soon…”
Adalaide reached out, placing a gloved hand lightly on his arm. “You’ve held the Winter Court steady through harsher storms than this, Olberon. They will not act, not while you remain unyielding.”
Isabelle hesitated, debating whether to interrupt, but Olberon’s keen eyes caught her before she could retreat. He stopped mid-step, his expression softening as he spotted her. “Miss Isabelle,” he said, his voice warmer now, though a flicker of something unreadable passed through his eyes. “I didn’t expect to see you out here.”
Adalaide turned sharply, her gaze assessing as it landed on Isabelle. Her smile was polite but her eyes betrayed her disdain. “Ah, the mortal,” she said, her tone light but edged with something Isabelle couldn’t quite place. “How… enterprising of you to wander so freely and so closely.”
Isabelle stepped forward, forcing a smile as she tried to ignore the subtle barb. “I thought I’d take some time to explore” she said, meeting Olberon’s gaze briefly before glancing at Adalaide. “The gardens are beautiful, even in their stillness.”
“Stillness is our strength,” Olberon said, his tone thoughtful, though he seemed to be watching Isabelle more closely than the conversation warranted. “But it can also be its greatest challenge.”
Adalaide tilted her head, her dark eyes narrowing slightly. “Such poetic words, brother. Though I wonder,” she said, her smile sharpening, “if Miss Isabelle truly understands the intricacies of Winter—or the weight it bears.”
Refusing to look away despite the subtle challenge in Adalaide’s gaze. “Virgil’s been a good teacher so far.”
“Ah, yes,” Adalaide said, her smile thinning. “Virgil. Ever the eager tutor. I do hope he’s been… thorough with you. The Winter Court is not a place for half-measures.” her smile regaining its sharpness
“Adalaide,” Olberon said, his tone carrying a quiet warning. He stepped forward slightly, positioning himself just enough to shift the dynamic. “Miss Isabelle has shown remarkable resilience. That’s why she’s here.”
Adalaide’s expression didn’t falter, but there was a glint in her eyes that suggested she wasn’t entirely pleased. “Of course,” she said smoothly. “You’ve always had an eye for… potential, haven’t you?”
Olberon’s jaw tightened slightly, though his gaze softened as he turned to Isabelle. “The garden suits you, Miss Isabelle,” he said, his voice quieter now.
Isabelle felt a faint warmth rise to her cheeks, though she tried to ignore it. “Thank you,” she said softly.
Adalaide’s eyes flicked between them, her smile becoming almost predatory. “How charming,” she said lightly. “Though perhaps we should continue our walk, brother. There’s much to discuss about this so-called intervention you fear. I’d hate for your concerns to… distract you.” her eyes staring through Isabelle.
Olberon hesitated for a moment, his gaze lingering on Isabelle. “Yes,” he said finally, his voice regaining its usual composure. “Of course.” He inclined his head slightly toward Isabelle. “Enjoy your walk, Miss Isabelle. I hope the garden continues to inspire.”
Adalaide swept past Isabelle with the grace of a cat, her smile remaining intact as she followed her brother down the path. Isabelle watched them go, feeling the weight of Adalaide’s thinly veiled disdain as surely as if it had been spoken aloud.
As the pair disappeared around a bend in the path, Isabelle let out a slow breath, her thoughts swirling.