The Witch's Name
Ice chips cracked and fell, gleaming dust, littering the floor. A wedge moved over the block of ice; the carver worked swiftly.
Once, he paused to look at his work, quietly turning to study her profile. He gazed slowly, a glacier moving across still waters.
Light shone on her forehead and on the small line of her nose; her eyes were depths unfilled. Shadows hid in her curved lips and in the dip of her chin and her hair curled under her face. Her neck was an elegant sway of light.
He picked up the wedge to gore her statue's face.
