"He's supposed to be here today," said Anna in an awed whisper, eager eyes roaming the familiar parking lot as their beat-up VW Beetle pulled into one of the numerous empty spots. The sun only barely peeked out from under the cover of the tall pines that encircled Arendelle Ice Rink. "Elsa, we're actually going to meet a celebrity!"

"He's not a celebrity," the older sister muttered tersely, clenching her hands against the wheel. She drove with the utmost care, whether in summer or winter, whether the roads were bedecked in ice or as benign and black as a baby Labrador.

"He is! What do you know?" insisted Anna. She pulled her royal purple jacket tight around her neck when her sister killed the gas and the interior of the car seemed to drop ten degrees instantly. "He was in the Olympics! Probably millions of people have seen him on TV."

"And now," Elsa said tiredly as she hoisted a pair of white ice skates across one shoulder. "He's here." That said it all. The pair looked around at the desolate landscape. Arendelle was a medium-sized town perched atop the fjords, notable mainly for its extreme lack of anything notable. The cliffs and icy-blue water ought to have made the place hauntingly beautiful, but mostly they just reminded its inhabitants of all the young men and women who had jumped to their deaths when the backbone of the town had broken.

Arendelle had once been a welcoming and bustling community until the slow demise of the local fishing industry that had begun thirty years prior. Overfishing, apparently. Or pollution from factories upstream. Whatever the cause, now the rows and rows of cheery seaside houses were just empty shacks that smelled like old fish. Finally, when Anna was twelve and Elsa fifteen, the marginal yields of tiny creatures were deemed unworthy of the trouble, and the corporation closed its operations in Arendelle.

That was where their mother went. She journeyed south, to warmer waters with more colorful and plentiful yields, to earn and send back enough so that the girls could live comfortably. But it was raining heavily on that late spring day, and the other driver was wearing glasses with an out-of-date prescription.

A few months later, their father went, too, of grief.

Arendelle was no longer a place one went intentionally, not for a holiday, no longer a quaint seaside village bedecked with fudge shops and friendly old women with their hair tied up in scarves. It was a place one might end up.

So, why, then, was Anders Christiansen gracing the little hellhole with his presence? Sure, he had only been a minor prospect in a sport their nation was not known for, and hadn't even come close to the medals, but he was an Olympian.

Elsa was not excited by the prospect of meeting him. Then again, Elsa was not excited by much.

Anna, however, was about to pee her pants.

The rink was almost as dark as outdoors when they entered; a few wan-looking strips of fluorescent lighting flickered above the invitingly smooth expanse of freshly-resurfaced ice. No matter how many times Anna came here, the sight of cold steam rising off the rink in the early morning never failed to make her breath catch in her mouth.

Her sister was unmoved, bearing her customary scowl as the girls slipped past the unmanned admissions desk. They would pay later – maybe. At this point, they were probably half of the rink's business, so Mr. Oaken never harassed them too much about on-the-house ice time.

"Look, he's already here," whispered Anna, pointing a gloved hand at the figure leaning against the box on the far side of the ice. Anna was an effusive young woman, prone to physical displays of affection, but she tamped down her natural instinct to grab her sister's arm in excitement; it was well known to everyone in the family that Elsa did not like being touched.

The younger sister practically threw on her skates, forced to re-do the laces when she missed one hook in her haste. She dashed onto the ice and glided across to the Olympian (Olympian! she thought with glee) blearily sipping his coffee.

"You must be Anna," he said, wiping sleep from his eyes. She beamed. "I remember your email."

Anna giggled nervously, now remembering that self-same email full of extremely unprofessional gushing. "Oh, um, sorry about all the –"

"It's fine." Anders held up a hand to stop her. "But I really was never a big deal. There's no need to get excited over me. Where's -?" He looked about the ice, confused. Across the diameter Elsa was stepping carefully out onto the surface, dressed simply in black leggings and a tight-fitting cornflower blue T-shirt. Like many skaters, she wore mittens to protect her hands from the chill in the air and the possibility of cutting her fingers on her blades of her skates; hers were navy, woven through with threads of silver. Anna had forgotten her own pair of mittens that day, as she frequently did; her elder sister never forgot.

Elsa began taking long, plunging strides to skate around the perimeter of the rink with a rhythmic swish. The cut of her leggings, which looped over the boot of her skates, accentuated her long legs. Anders's eyes followed her for a long moment before he said, "That's not – who's –"

Anna was used to the way the blonde girl made men stumble over their words; the way they ignored her in comparison barely even hurt anymore. "Oh, that's just my sister," she said. "My partner will be here in a minute." Inwardly she sent angry thoughts in the direction of her tardy friend. He was late every morning, but this morning mattered.

Thankfully, her inner prayers (or damnations, perhaps) seemed to have worked. Only a minute later, as Anna was warming up, a third pair of humming blades on ice joined the first two.

"Hey, gorgeous," said Hans, gliding past Anna with a wink, his hand flickering through her auburn ponytail. Her cheeks went pink.

By the coach's box where Anders stood, Anna skidded to a stop and introduced the two men. "We've been skating together for five years, on-and-off," she explained. "But we haven't had a proper pairs coach since…well…"

"Since old Madame Pontillier decided the ashram was the place for her," concluded Hans with a smirk, ruffling his thick brown hair with a white-gloved hand. His eyes caught Anders's for just a moment too long. Somewhat stiffly, Hans took a long and audible inhale before suggesting, "Shall we show Mr. Coach Guy what we can do, Anna?"

"Mr. Potential Coach Guy to you, Hans," said Anders, a twinkle in his eye. "I haven't decided on anything permanent yet."

"Oh, we'll convince you!" cried Anna. She spun into Hans's arms and they were off.

They were energetic, but not well-contained; though neither skater had any particular quantity of grace, by virtue of their years together they coordinated automatically and seamlessly. Their lifts were sporadically cut short by a wavering of Hans's wrists or Anna's balance, but the expression of pure joy on the girl's face was genuine. Hans had an air of unshakeable confidence about him, even when he made mistakes.

The patterns of their lifts and synchronized jumps stretched into the farthest corners of the rink, and they traveled across it with such speed that Elsa was relegated to leaning against a wall, as well out of Anders's sightline as possible, until their program was finished. Then she resumed her slow, methodical practice of clean jumps and tight spins, all performed with her face set as if in a trance. It was impossible to speak to her while on the ice. In fact, it was nigh well impossible to speak to her at any time for more than a few sentences.

Elsa practically lived in her second-story bedroom, piled high with books and folders and maps, and came out only to attend school as often as she was required to, and to skate several times a week. Their grandparents did not make a fuss about it since her grades were excellent. Anna, however, could not help but worry. Not only did her older sister seem to be sleepwalking throughout her skating, but almost all the time Elsa bore a cardboard expression and moved about her tiny life with a heart-breaking reluctance.

It had not always been like that, Anna remembered. Elsa was always quieter and shier than her younger sister, but as a child she had been Anna's closest friend. Forever branded into Anna's memory was the megawatt smile her sister used to display whenever Anna persuaded her to skip chores in favor of playing in the woods. They used to spend all their time together – catching small creatures in the summer, playing in leaves in the fall, skating and sledding in the winter. All year long they chased each other, laughing, up and down trees, inside logs, through the house – anywhere their tiny feet could take them.

Thinking about it made Anna hurt. Elsa barely spoke anymore, certainly not to her sister. She could no longer remember how Elsa's laugh sounded, having gone without hearing it for years.

It was like going without dinner every night. At first the silence hurt like a stab wound, visceral and bodily. Then Anna got used to it; but always there was the dull ache of neglect in her chest, always hanging in the back of her mind hopeful, nostalgic thoughts of what had once been and what could someday be mixed together in a potent but addictive elixir.

But at least Elsa still came to the rink with her; Anna had put off learning how to drive for fear that once she could transport herself, Elsa would stop accompanying her. Sometimes they might talk a little in the car. And Anna got to watch her sister skate.

Elsa was a beautiful skater. Of course. Every goddamn thing she did was beautiful. Her spins centered beautifully, her footwork was light and almost noiseless, and her jumps were clean and tight. Technically, she was impeccable. But she lacked some quality of life to her work, lacked the fire that made the best skaters truly the best, lacked the simultaneous pain and sweetness that should have flowed through her every movement. And so, while nothing was wrong with the way she skated, nothing was particularly right, either. She never really looked like she wanted to be on the ice.

She was scored fairly well in competitions (often taking third or fourth) where it was easier for judges to take off points for visible errors than for something as transient as I just don't really feel it.

Anna was the opposite. She had emotion aplenty while her technique could be erratic; she threw herself into the music and the moves, and frequently found herself crying after a performance when the emotion simply poured out. She and Hans mostly placed in the middle of the standings; Anna suspected that her nerves and clumsiness were holding the pair back. But Hans disavowed her theory whenever she so much as hinted at it.

When Hans and Anna struck their final pose, Anna's foot bobbling a little out of fatigue, the rink went silent with the end of their music. Anna rose to the surface of her trance of concentration, and became once again conscious of the darkness, the early hour, and her nerves with respect to their potential and very accomplished coach.

Anders did not clap, but slid out onto the ice, revealing a pair of worn black skates with silver trim. "Not bad," he said, rubbing a hand thoughtfully along his slightly-stubbly jaw. Beside her, Anna felt Hans's arm clench in anticipation of the Olympian's edict. "I like the energy. And you two work very well together."

Anna beamed, turn to look up eagerly at her skating partner. Always the more measured of the two, his face was unreadable. Much of the time Anna could not figure out how he felt, since he was without fail polite and agreeable and full of positivity. She never knew if he was nervous before a competition, how he felt about their successes and failures, how he felt about her.

Because, you see, he had these sideburns. And a strong jaw, and glinting green eyes. And a muscular chest – a muscular chest against which Anna was pressed several times a day during their practices. What was a girl to do?

"Not bad, but," Anders continued, shifting his weight and crossing his arms. Hans twitched again in anticipation. "You cut all your lifts short. Hans, you're a big guy, you should have the strength to hold them. Anna, you need to engage – don't be dead weight. Maybe it's a confidence issue, I don't know. We'll work on it."

In spite of the criticism, Anna felt her face split into a grin. He had said We'll work on it. As in, together. As in, they had a real coach.

"Your footwork is okay, but both of you have a tendency to lean forward on your toe-picks, especially Anna. I can hear the scratching from clear over here. Jumps – Hans, you're far behind Anna here. I think you need some extra work to catch up."

"Do I?" asked Hans quietly. Perhaps he was insulted, perhaps disappointed, perhaps just motivated to improve – his voice was full of tension but did not give anything away.

"Yeah, I can teach you separately if you want."

Hans met their coach's eyes, something like a challenge burning in them. "Sure," he agreed.

Anna's eyes flickered between her partner's and her coach's, trying desperately to read the tension between them. Hans had a temper, she knew, though he had never been rough with her. He was too gentlemanly to intimidate or, God forbid, physically hurt a woman. But there were rumors at school; rumors that once Hans had been pulled out of class and nearly suspended for arranging to fight a boy on the soccer team who had cast aspersions up on his sexual preferences. These assumptions and comments were part of the burden of being a male figure skater, but Hans went after his detractors with a heart set on retribution. Only Hans's charm and way with words saved him from punishment at the hands of the school authorities.

Her partner did not take criticism well. It took a certain type of straightforward yet gentle hand to guide him, and Anna began to fear that this Godsend that was Anders Christiansen did not have the requisite dexterity to manage Hans. But still her heart beat quickly with the thought that this could be it, this could be the day that, with this Olympian at the rink, their luck could finally turn around and she and Hans could at long last make the leap from okay to really good. Both she and her partner skated harder, with that extra ounce of spirit, with Anders's knowledgeable eyes on them.

Their morning practice was cut short by the arrival of the hockey team in matching black-and-maroon jerseys, announced by the rhythmic yet disorganized clanging of hockey sticks skidding against the ground in the boys' strong and careless hands. Like a conquering army they approached in synchronized masculine strides, driving the handful of figure skaters off of the ice.

"This wasn't on the rink schedule," Anna muttered, annoyed, as she began to undo her laces. "We only got an hour. I didn't even get to my reverse spins."

"I think they have a game this Sunday," explained Hans amiably, though his eyes followed the entrance of the team with hawkish sharpness.

Given that the rink's hours only overlapped with Anna's and Hans's availability for certain periods of time every week, there was a chronic animosity between them and the hockey boys that remained only barely unspoken. Elsa, however, didn't seem to care. She stood at the outer wall of the rink, still as a statue, ostensibly watching the hockey team practice. Anna gazed curiously at the back of her sister's head, at the small but neat bun wrapped at the base of her skull, and wondered what thoughts could possibly be going through the older girl's mind. Elsa was incredibly smart, Anna knew; there was never a moment her brain was not whirring busily. But for years Anna had not been privy to those marvelous thoughts and theories, those fanciful daydreams and ideas.

When do I get my sister back? Anna used to ask her parents. They never had an answer. Now that she was fifteen, maybe it was time to accept that the answer might be never. But if there was one thing Anna was terrible at, it was giving up.