December 27, 1990

Her mother adored French braids. They were both casual and classy, everyday and elegant. Bellona Drager had spent two weeks learning how to properly braid one. Her mother thought it an amusing teenage whim, but the seventeen-year old had greater ambitions.

It had been those two weeks ago when her excited dog had romped into her bedroom to greet her, his wagging tail sending the candle she had lit in her room flying. In a panic not to burn down the house from a pine-scented candle, she'd lunged for it, forgetting her chestnut hair was loose around her shoulders. She had frozen when the tiny flame from the candle had jumped up towards her as though she had beckoned it. It climbed towards her locks as though they were the kindling needed to burn. Only no smell of burning hair or flesh reached her nose. She had sat there for almost an hour, marveling as flames danced their way around her hair the way moths were attracted to light. Bismarck, her loyal Shepherd, had been terrified of the way the fire fawned over her hair, whining and yapping at her the whole time. His anxious barks had struck an idea in her mind — so she had begun to braid her hair.

The clouds were the color of gleaming steel, so pregnant with frozen precipitation she could practically taste the first flakes in every breath she took. She was standing on the roof deck of her home in Boston, gazing eastwards at the approaching nor'easter. It was supposed to be a monster; the forecasters hadn't shut up about it for days. Now it was just upon the northeast seaboard, a ticking time bomb ready to explode into feet of snow.

The sun was just setting, although it was impossible to tell from the layering clouds; night, nevertheless, was sprinting over the city, darkening the streets and causing lights to flicker on in buildings, although the anxious gray clouds seemed to blanket and subdue the weak electrical lights the city held out in the face of the encroaching blackness.

The wind was a sharp blast of pure ice, which she sucked into her lungs and held there, enjoying the cold, tangy feel of it. It was like having icicles grow within her lungs only to melt with the burning heat of her body, until the next breath froze her windpipe over again.

Bellona Drager stood there until darkness wrapped the city into a cocoon of ignorance and the clouds burst open. The snow was quiet and gentle when it began. She stretched a bare hand upwards and allowed a few flakes to settle onto her skin, melting into her flesh with a slight tingling sensation. A frown of intense concentration upon her face, she kept her hand aloft and closed her eyes, expanding her senses, allowing the buzz of energy within her to leap up towards the storm above her and connect with it.

She could feel the pulse of the nor'easter the way a doctor could feel his patient's heartbeat, a vital sign of life. The clouds were throbbing with a fierce energy that was almost intimidating to the teenager on the roof. From the amount of raw power contained in the clouds, she guessed the meteorologists had been correct — the storm could bury the city, immobilizing it for days.

Exhaling the way one does to prepare for an especially excruciating physical task, with her next intake of breath, she summoned the energy from the storm's clouds, like a magician can summon fire to perform a cheap magic trick. But there was nothing cheap, nothing magical, and nothing tricky about the sudden unrelenting energy she felt flow down towards her, into her fingertips and the palm of her hand. She could feel her body temperature dropping as the nor'easter unleashed its energy upon her beckoning, it took a tremendous amount of willpower for her to pull her hands towards her hair and begin the arduous process of braiding. Her concentration was immense, as was required, as she transferred the sheer force behind the nor'easter from its clouds to her wavy tresses of hair. She didn't stop to wonder why she was even able to do such a task, only focusing on the fact that she could and that she was.

She didn't know how much time had passed when she found herself collapsed on the roof deck. Neither did she remember falling over, or even losing consciousness. She raised a hand to her braid and ran her fingertips gently down the length of it. It was smooth and tight, and she thought she could feel the energy she had locked into it. Bellona glanced up — a few flakes were still serenely drifting down onto the city, but the clouds, despite the dark, were dull and faded. Feeling their lack of energy that was required to unleash hellish precipitation, she smiled up at the weakened clouds and allowed herself a soft chuckle.