We make a bloody strange group, I think, as we make our way across the tundra. Wolves that take orders from a witch, the boy that speaks to them, a warrior with a guarded past, and a princess who's been - so far - nothing but a scandal and an embarrassment to her parents.
Even as I think it, I can hear my father's voice in my head.
"You're not an embarrassment," he'd say. "You're my daughter, and you're more perfect than all the gods combined." The thought brings a smile to my face, sheltered under my fur wrap, but hot on its heels are other voices, other words.
"Drinking at all hours, and with all sorts of low people. Probably sleeps with them too." They sound like the ladies of court, they sound, uncomfortably, like my mother. "Can you have forgotten the incident?"
I look down at the boy at my side, trudging silently across the snow. He's about the age I'd imagined - ten or just a bit older - and the sight of him makes my heart thump painfully. He must feel my gaze, for he looks up, eyes squinting against the reflected sun.
"How come you can speak to the wolves?" I ask, to hide my previous musings.
"My mother taught me." He shrugs, as though it's nothing special. I suppose, considering where he's leading us, and to whom, that maybe it isn't. After all, my mother speaks to bluebirds. At least wolves are cooler. Less twittery and sentimental. Bluebirds would have been no use whatsoever against a polar bear.
The boy chats on happily about his lessons, about his friends the wolves, about the books he's reading. His chatter happily fills the time, and before long the palace of ice looms in the distance.
It's slim, tall, the crystal peak towering into the heavens. It seems to catch and magnify the sunlight, so that it's almost blinding to look at. It reminds me of the stories of the Emerald City, that shimmered and shone with green, but this is no illusion. No coloured glasses are needed here. It's a proper piece of art, the kind even I can appreciate, and it amazes me that something this beautiful was built by trolls.
The boy and Mulan slide to a graceful halt. I manage to stop at roughly the same point, and stand beside them, leaning on my poles.
"Here we are," says the boy. "Visitors have to go in the front way." Then, like in the forest, he raises his hand in farewell, and leaves. The wolves follow after him, circling round his heels like puppies, eager to be fed and played with.
We leave our skis and packs piled up at the foot of the grand palace steps.
"Not very good for a quick escape," Mulan says, frowning.
"No." I turn to look up at the towering ice, squinting against the reflected brilliance. "But then again - if this goes wrong, I highly doubt we'll be able just to run away. This is the Evil Queen, you know."
Mulan looks uncomfortable, hand instinctively seeking the pommel of her sword, gripping the metal through her gloves. I, too, can't help but feel afraid. Under my furs, close to my skin, the gypsy's necklace sits warm and heavy against my skin. I press my hand to it through my clothes, willing myself to be brave. At least I've a little protection against spells, I think.
The entrance hall is sparsely decorated. A few frozen tapestries line the walls, the figures in them grossly distorted, the colours leaching into one another. This is troll fashion, I realise with a start.
"Hello?" It's probably stupid to call out, to announce our presence to our enemies, but the whole place has a feel of desertion. My voice echoes round the room, bouncing hollowly off the walls.
"Perhaps the witch isn't here, after all."
I take a few steps further into the room, loosening the furs from around my head, exposing my face to the cold air.
"Perhaps not." There's a rustling behind me, and then cold, sharp metal is pressed against my exposed throat.
"Perhaps other things lurk in the dark."
The breath in my ear is fetid, fishy, and the cold fingers that slide across my cheek don't feel human. I can feel the bulk of my attacker behind me, the solid, lumpish form. The pieces slowly click into place as I watch Mulan gawk, open-mouthed, in front of me.
"You're the troll princess." The one with the nose three yards long. "The daughter of the king who built this place?" The hand at my neck tightens, and she hisses in a surprised breath.
"Come on a quest, have you? How sweet. Proving your valour by killing a troll." The troll's voice is rising, full of scorn and mockery. "How traditional. How noble." She pauses, and I can feel the sneer that forms just inches from my own face. "How stupid."
The blade cuts into my neck, just breaking the skin. Mulan leaps forward, as I struggle to get my words out.
"No," I gasp, "we're here for the Queen."
"The witch?" The pressure of the blade eases slightly, away from my skin. I can feel the hot rush of blood to the wound, and bring my hand up to stop the flow.
"Yes," Mulan says, voice gentle and reassuring. "We're here for the witch."
"Bitch, more like. Ousted my family, stole my palace, stole my food, stole my pretty things." The troll lets out a kind of strangled sob, fat tears rolling down her face and into my hair. "All my pretty, pretty things."
She lets me go, pushing me forward. I stumble on the icy floor, and almost lose my balance. My companion catches me, and I turn in her arms to face the troll.
"Let my companion and I go," I say, "and we'll get rid of the witch for you." It's a promise I can't possibly hope to keep, but trolls are not known for their cleverness.
"If I'm not to eat you," the troll says, an undisguised look of attempted cunning flashing across her face, "then you need to make it worth my while."
Mulan and I exchange a look, before I remember what I have to give her. I reach into the inner pocket of my coat, searching for the metal leaf.
"Here," I say, holding it out to her. "Is this pretty enough?"
The leaf is grabbed from my hands, and she turns it over and over in front of her face, watching it shine.
"Pretty enough, for now." She waves her hand in the direction of the far wall. "Through the door and keep going. If she wants to, the witch will find you."
Once we're through the doors the air begins to warm. Corridors and staircases lead off in all directions, and Mulan and I stand, confused, in the middle.
"Which way now, Princess?"
I'm about to say I haven't the faintest idea, but that's not true. She'll find us, the troll said, and so presumably any direction is the right one. I turn, looking about, until a corridor to our right catches my eye.
I set off confidently, following a winding passage. Mulan trails behind me, staring at the tapestries that line these walls too. If the Queen is here, she's made little effort with the interior decorating.
"Is it just me," Mulan asks after a while, "or is this corridor sloping up?"
She's right - the corridor does seem to be climbing. We pass window after window, and I begin to think we're circling the whole outside of the palace, slowly climbing as we go. The circles we're walking seem to be getting tighter, the views coming round more quickly.
We're in the tower, I realize. The tower of ice I'd so admired from the ground. And of course - it makes sense: the highest room in the highest tower. That's how heroics goes, right?
Finally, we round a corner and the floor levels out. At the end of the corridor, a guard stands in front of a door.
"Look at that," Mulan whispers, "you actually brought us to the right place. I'm almost proud." I elbow her in the side, and stride towards the door. The man guarding it doesn't move, and nor does the wolf sitting calmly at his feet. His eyes watch my approach , disinterestedly.
"Open up," I say, my years of ordering castle servants around standing me in good stead. I school my face into one of bored indifference, and stand, weight on one foot, waiting for him to jump to my bidding.
When he stands there, impassive, I straighten up.
"Open the door, I say."
Still he doesn't move, so I march forward, hand outstretched for the handle. I'm expecting his pike to bar my way, but he lets me through.
The door swings open easily, with minimum effort. The room beyond is full of light, the ice this high enough thin enough that the whole room seems walled with frosted glass. There must be magic in the air, for the room's warm, homely, not at all what I had expected of the Evil Queen's lair.
The boy and his wolf are stretched out in front of a fire, the boy's head buried in a book. Next to them, in a high wing back chair, sits a woman.
Well, at least I think it's a woman. All I can see are legs.
I stop abruptly, and Mulan crashes into my back. I barely notice - all my attention is on the legs.
Long, shapely legs encased in what looks like skin-tight leather. I'd definitely say those were the legs of an Evil Queen.
God, am I glad my mother's not here right at this moment.
"Really, dear," she'd say, "do get a hold of yourself. They're just legs." Her voice is so real I can almost hear it.
I'm suddenly nervous about facing the Queen in a way I wasn't before. Before, all I'd had to worry about was fire and magic and the imminent prospect of my looming death.
"They are nice legs, I'll grant you that, but they're just legs."
Now I have to cope with the unavoidable fact of my overwhelming attraction to what were in all probability...
"My legs."
I blink, shaking my head. For a moment, I thought my imaginary mother had...
The figure in the chair stands up, coming round the edge of her seat. The rest of her is also dressed all in black, right down to the buttons on her sleeves. That's definitely an evil look, one way or another.
"Well, Princess," she says, "if I'd known it would have this effect on you, I might have dressed like this earlier."
I wrench my eyes up from her clothing, totally, definitely, absolutely avoiding the hint of cleavage on show, and actually look into the face of the woman we've been seeking all this time.
The smirking face, in fact, of my gypsy.