Jaron struggled to fight off a bothered frown when Imogen told him about Nolan and the phantoms, but his disappointment was eased when Imogen offered to take him to the village with her that following morning.

He was already dressed and sparring with Fink outside once Imogen had woken up.

The snow from the previous night's storm sparkled. Despite the shining sun, Imogen had to pull her fur hat over her freezing ears. Feall Cormeach held out a hand to Renlyn, who hesitantly accepted as she stepped into the snow. Amarinda stepped out of the carriage that had brought them from the castle to the village, next to her, Tobias was blinking in the sunlight.

Trail's End village had all that it needed to run, and it was all built in a circle around a large well. The buildings were white walled and thatched to perfection. Several lanky young men were shoveling pathways to each building. Fink had run off to join them. A man was dragging open the doors to a stable near the tavern.

Mott spoke to the coachmen, and gestured both to the sky and the stable.

"If we run now, we can leave them behind and check on our snowmen," Jaron said, gesturing to the white fields.

A tempting idea. It would be much easier to spend another day doing nothing save for reading poetry and playing with snowmen rather than checking for signs of phantoms. But Imogen had a role to fill as queen.

There'd be time to frolic later.

"I'm sure the snowmen are fine," countered Imogen. She clasped her hands behind her back, surveying the village. "Can you help me look for boot tracks?"

"Mott and I checked near the tavern already," he explained. "There's nothing there. If our, ah, phantoms came in the night, their tracks will be hard to find."

"I'd be surprised to find tracks from a phantom," Renlyn brushed off the snow from her skirt, stepping away from Feall in the process.

"Perhaps they move by rolling, did you consider that, Renlyn?"

"I did not, My Lord."

Imogen took a step back as they formed a small circle. Save for Fink, who was still shoveling snow with the other boys his age. Tobias had his arm entwined with Amarinda, his teeth were chattering.

A part of her wished that she'd made a list of things that needed to get done. She'd been so sure of herself when promising Nolan that she'd come.

And now she was looking at her friends, watching them as they waited for her instructions.

"We're meant to look for signs of phantoms," Imogen began just as Mott stepped into the circle. "I've thought about it overnight, and I think there must be a bandit or two living off of the fear here in Trail's End. It makes a little more sense. Spirits have no need to eat or drink, but I was told that there were barrels of food and beeswine going missing every so often."

"Don't anger the phantoms Imogen," Jaron said gently.

"Right, ah, well, that's also important, but our first priority is to make sure that everyone in the village is safe. I'd like us to be as helpful as we can; Trail's End needs all the help it can get during the winter. They don't need a phantom or a bandit taking food and drink."

"And what would you like us to do should we find a phantom?" Tobias arched an eyebrow.

Amarinda cracked a grin, "Throw sacred water at it."

"Do you think we could make sacred snowballs?" Jaron scratched the back of his head. "Have a priest bless the snow?"

"That's sacrilegious," Imogen frowned.

"Sorry, love, I'll be sure to beg forgiveness from the Saints when I have the chance."

Imogen glanced over her shoulder, "The man I met with yesterday should be coming soon. He'd, ah- he'll be much more helpful than I'm being."

Her palms grew sweaty beneath her gloves. Imogen slid her thumb over her knuckles, waiting for some kind of confirmation. She wanted to know. She needed to know that somebody listened.

Renlyn tilted her gaze from side to side, caught Imogen's stare, and nodded. She'd listened.

The slight nod of Renlyn's head meant the world to Imogen. Her instructions hadn't been a complete disaster. The day hadn't fallen into a heap yet.

"Your Majesty! Your Majesty!" Called a small voice. Nolan bounded through the snow, his long cap flapping in the wind. He bowed low, "You did come after all."

"And I brought the king," Imogen smiled, nodding to Jaron who cracked a wicked grin.

Nolan pressed his fist to his chest, "Trail's End is honored to have both of you here with us. Please, if there's anything we can do for you. . ."

Jaron shook his head and returned a slight bow, "Sir, it's our duty to ensure the safety of Carthya, I'm honored that you'd allow us to come here on such short notice."

"Was there any sign of your phantoms last night?" Mott asked. "Her Majesty mentioned that they had a knack for stealing beeswine."

"That they do," Nolan confirmed. "If they returned last night, I was unaware. I'll take you around the village to the most visited places if you'd like."

Mott nodded, "That would be much appreciated, thank you."

Imogen reached for Jaron's hand, falling into step behind Mott and Nolan. For a man as short as he was, Nolan had no trouble wading through the snow that was up to his knees. He gestured to each building, explaining that many of the homes were a little farther away from the tavern.

Something about the wild yelling that came from every tavern once the work week had ended was responsible for that.

"They've done remarkably well," Jaron mused. "I'm surprised they haven't been raided by Gelynians yet."

"Or perhaps their phantoms are exactly that," said Imogen. The beeswine and barreled food were the most jarring hints. Phantoms had no need for sustaining bodies. "With the snow being so present here, it would be easy to hide tracks."

"You're catching onto Mott's tracking lessons. Before I know it, you'll have replaced him. You'd be my new hunting guide."

"Oh, I could never take tracking from Mott."

Beeswine and barrelled foods. Shades and spirits had no need for food. They were beyond satisfying their hunger. Beyond satisfying their thirst.

What they needed was sympathy.

People began peering at Imogen and Jaron through their shutters. Imogen waved at those who stared. She guided Jaron to the well in the center of the village, watching the cracking shutters and Nolan gesturing to various buildings while Mott towered over him.

They didn't take very long. Nolan rocked back and forth on his heels and joined Imogen and Jaron by the well. He kept silent.

His beady black eyes sparkled between his beard and long cap. The snowy sunlight revealed an extra glint. Nolan bowed his head when he caught Imogen looking at him.

She hadn't meant to stare at him. She hadn't meant to cause him discomfort. She was a person just like he was.

"Definitely bandits," Mott said once he'd finished walking around the village circle once more. "There's a window pane near the back of the tavern that looks good as new, but if you wiggle it, the entire window can be removed."

"Bandits must be dealt with accordingly," Feall mumbled.

"You haven't heard the wailing, My Lord," Nolan pointed out. "You'll change your mind once you listen."

"How often does this wailing occur?" Mott arched an eyebrow.

"Before they attack, sir. I mentioned it to the queen, it's quite distinctive once you hear it."

Imogen clasped her hands beneath her chin. "So we won't be hearing the singing until nightfall?"

Nolan took off his cap and nodded, "That's correct, your Majesty."

"This- this singing," Feall said. "Could you perhaps describe it?"

"I suppose I can try. The sounds change; it jumps from high to low as easy as the snap of a finger. Many others here will claim that it's a ghost of a wailing mother searching for her drunkard son."

"That would certainly explain the missing beeswine," Mott said, his voice continuously monotone. "Ghost son drinks beeswine, ghost mother wails for his sin. Our work here is finished."

"Aren't there sheep herders from Gelyn that call their cattle and sheep in with their voices?" Jaron scratched the back of his head.

Feall nodded, "There are, yes, but this is too far south for Gelynian shepherds. They'd be crossing the border without the king's permission."

"I don't mind shepherds coming into Carthya, but I do mind bandits and thieves."

"We need a plan to confirm our suspicions," Mott said. "Otherwise we'll continue debating on the nature of these stealing guests until they take the boots from off our feet."

He was right, of course. Imogen tapped her finger against her chin, and looked to Jaron. He winked at her.

"We could leave some bottles of beeswine on the trail between the castle and the village," Feall suggested. "That would keep them far enough from the villagers and the castle, but close enough that we'd be able to see them with our own eyes."

"Too obvious," Imogen muttered, she'd been involved with Jaron's planning process long enough to catch on to little details. "They'd know it was a trap."

"Nolan explained that they often take from the back cellar in the tavern," said Mott.

Jaron cracked a sly grin, "Then we hide in the tavern. Let's make a show of bringing wines from the castle, if they're watching, they'll see it. We'd leave sometime in the afternoon with the wines and send the carriage back after moving the bottles. They'll come sometime in the night, we'll catch them, and our problem will be solved."

Imogen began to play with the lace on her gloves as Mott began picking Jaron's plan apart. Feall spoke up every so often, but they all had the same concern.

There was no telling what the phantom bandits might do next.

In a perfect world, they'd be able to survey the area and watch the bandits in action. All they had was Nolan's word that they came and the hope that they'd come again.

"They'll come," Nolan promised. "Whatever you choose to do, the phantoms will come again."

"And how can you be so sure?" Jaron inhaled and sighed.

"Because they always do."

They'd only have to wait in the village for a few days to test Nolan's promise. Imogen wasn't sure what to call the new feeling growing in the pit of her stomach, threatening to consume all of the hope in her body. They were all being held in the hands of unseen phantoms stealing food, wine, and the occasional child. This was a force that needed to be taken seriously.

A force that, if unchecked, would bring terror down on the village of Trail's End.

Imogen frowned, and did her best to block out the rest of the conversation. She could see Renlyn arm-in-arm with Amarinda, who was hanging onto Tobias as they talked with a round man outside of a squat bakery. A woman rocked back and forth on a wooden chair near the window. Even from Imogen's distance, she knew that the old woman had a foot in the grave.

Trail's End had handled their problems well if they hadn't felt the need to bring their bandit problem to light.

Most border towns vocally expressed their problems with raiders, and they'd been dealt with accordingly.

Why had Trail's End been so silent? Nolan insinuated that the phantoms of the village had been around for several months. Even with a slow horse, a letter would've arrived in Drylliad requesting aid in a week or two, and help would've been sent twice as quickly.

Nolan's magpie gaze was fixed on the rocking old woman too.

"We'll go with Jaron's plan," Imogen announced. "If it doesn't work, then we'll try again."

"Or perhaps," Mott ran a hand over his chin. "We should stay the night here and listen for these singing phantoms ourselves. If Her Majesty feels comfortable, that is, I don't want to put you in any danger, Imogen."

Danger. A good friend.

Jaron nodded, "Actually that may work. Even if we don't see them, we may hear them."

Imogen cracked a small smile, "I don't mind a night in a tavern room. It won't be any different than what I've already experienced. I will speak with the tavern's owner about seeing where we can sleep."

She clasped her hands behind her back, and when nobody else said anything, turned to join Renlyn and Amarinda near the old woman.

They'd all stay the night.

The scent of cooking pumpkin wafted through the bakery's door, Tobias was having an animated conversation with the round baker. They were talking too fast. Imogen felt a grin tug at her mouth, and chose to listen instead.

The hunched rocking woman muttered something about spirits. But when Imogen asked her a question, the old woman merely shook her head, and began counting glass beads on a string.

Renlyn set a hand on Imogen's shoulder and said nothing.

"Is she alright?" Tobias murmured to the baker. "I can help, if need be."

"Some things cannot be cured, My Lord," said the baker. He brushed his hands on his leather apron. "But I do appreciate that you asked after my wife's old Mam."

"What's your name?" Imogen asked, uncertain if the old rocking woman heard her.

She continued rocking without a word.

"Calenda," the baker supplied.

At that the old rocking woman, Calenda, raised her eyes from her beads for only a moment. "Who asks after me?"

"The Queen, Mam, the Queen would like to speak to you."

"Ah, Carthyans. Always trying to help."

Gravel lined Calenda's voice. There was something she'd had to bury years ago, Imogen could hear it. And yet, Calenda didn't reveal any emotion, there was only apathy.

Imogen fought off a frown.

She still hadn't caught a real glimpse of Calenda's face.

"I've heard about the phantoms here from sir Nolan," Imogen's hands dropped to her side as she spoke. "The king and I are going to help as much as we can."

"Phantoms don't leave when a king asks," Calenda croaked. "They only leave once they've taken what they want."

A disgruntled sound escaped from the baker's throat as he muttered that there was no ghost problem in Trail's End.

"And what is it that they want?"

"I do not know. They change."

Curiosity sparked in the back of Imogen's mind. She glanced back to Renlyn, who was staring at the prayer beads in Calenda's hands. They change. The phantom shadows on Calenda's hands told the story of an old woman who'd lived a long life.

Longevity meant stories.

But was it too insensitive to ask? Imogen could justify her questions by using her title as queen.

It is the Queen's will that you answer all of my questions on pain of whatever punishment I choose for you regardless of if it will serve a purpose!

No, no, that wasn't the way to lead.

However, as Imogen grappled with her thoughts, she failed to keep her blunt attendant in check.

"What do you mean by that, madame?" Renlyn tilted her head ever so slightly. Ever so similar to a hawk, like the merchant she was.

Calenda pointed a gloved finger at her, "I see the tricks you bring, I know your kind."

Renlyn frowned, visibly choosing not to fire back with a dry retort.

"I know your kind, flaxen hair, pointed nose, I'm sure there's pointed ears hiding beneath your hood, lady," Calenda rocked back in her chair. "But you may stay so long as you don't steal my name."

"Names aren't the payments I seek."

"Then what is it?"

Renlyn glanced at Imogen, and then back to Calenda. "Information. Stories. Have you met phantoms before?"

The baker interjected, but Calenda ignored him. "Once, years ago, in Gelyn. They were looking for something. A person. A little girl in a scarlet cloak. Her body was found in the snow and piled up with others. They sang like the wind."

Looking for a little girl and not somebody's head. Nolan mentioned the occasional child going missing in Trail's End, but he'd dismissed them as street rats.

Perhaps the phantoms Calenda once saw were like the phantoms plaguing Trail's End.

As it so happened, there were two rooms stationed on the tavern's tiny top floor. Tobias, Feall, Mott, and Jaron agreed to stay separated from Imogen, Amarinda, and Renlyn in the smaller room. The rooms were modest, but both had one bed and multiple straw mattresses.

"It was kind of the owners to let us stay," Imogen said. The tavern owner was ready to bend over backwards to give her anything she wanted, but Imogen refused. All she'd needed was a pitcher of water and a basin to wash her face and hair, nothing more.

She set the basin down and reached for the pine scented soap she'd bought from one of the villagers, waiting for a response from Jaron. He was sitting upside down on the small bed and rested his feet on the wall.

"Are you alright?" She asked.

Jaron rubbed his nose, "I am, yes, I'm just thinking my way through this mess with Nolan's phantoms."

"I spoke to one of the women here, Calenda, she mentioned that she'd seen phantoms before in Gelyn a few years ago."

"Musings of an old woman who's lived through a war and countless winters."

Imogen patted water onto her cheeks, "Be respectful. She mentioned a little girl in a scarlet cloak, but what would the undead have with a little girl?"

"They might have wanted to drink her blood," Jaron rubbed his eyes. "Or is that the wrong restless spirit?"

"Wrong spirit, love."

"Then perhaps your old woman's phantoms were just bandits with ill intentions."

"Nolan mentioned they snatch urchins here too."

He was rubbing his eyes now, murmuring something about barn cats making his skin itch. "Then we better pray we can stop them before anybody else goes missing."

"What will we do if we catch them?" Imogen asked. She waited for an answer as she washed her face.

"Have Feall escort them back to Drylliad along with some of our guards," Jaron sat up. "Unless they're Gelynian. In which case, we will still take them back to Drylliad and handle the problem ourselves. King Aranscot doesn't often respond to letters when he knows he's going to be in trouble."

She kept her eyelids shut to prevent water from dripping into her eyes as she reached for a towel. "And if they really are phantoms?"

"There's no such thing, Imogen," his voice was soft, and much closer than before. Imogen felt the brush of Jaron's fingers against her hand as he handed her a clean towel.

She patted his cheek, "And if there's ghostly wailing tonight, you owe me a garlin."

"And if there's none, you owe me a garlin instead."

"Deal."

"Deal!" Jaron's wicked grin softened into a slight frown. "Where's Renlyn? Or Mott, Mott will do, we need a witness. I don't trust you to keep your-"

Imogen rolled her eyes, "Oh hush you, I can spare a garlin."

"But can you spare another moment of time for your dear neglected husband?"

"You're not neglected."

"Oh yes I am, I'm being neglected by my favorite-, what do you want!?" His attention snapped from Imogen to the rapping hand at the door.

The moment was broken, but there'd be time for more kisses and nicknames. For now, there was a village depending on their guidance. Imogen clasped her hands behind her back, wondering what else the night had in store for her.

She'd long since given up trying to squash the desire for adventure out of herself.

She was queen, if she wanted to chase ghosts in the snow, she could.

Didn't mean it was remotely safe, but she could do it. If she pulled the right strings. And took Jaron and Amarinda of course. And Tobias.

It was dangerous to go through life alone.

Mott peaked his head past the door, "Nolan insists that the singing will start soon, I'm making sure the pair of you are still here."

"I promise we are," Jaron snipped. "Have you seen any sign of Renlyn or Feall?"

"Lady Renlyn asked Sir Cormeach to accompany her to the chapel buttery, she gave no reason why."

"I'm not sure I'd like to know her reasoning."

Imogen patted Jaron's shoulder, "I promise to keep an eye on him, Mott. And if he sneaks through a window, I'll follow."

"That doesn't necessarily make me feel better," Mott countered. His mouth twitched in the direction of a frown, "Though I appreciate the comment, My Lady."

"Well I happen to-," Jaron trailed off, his brows furrowing together.

Had it been anybody else leaving their sentence in the air, Imogen would've asked what was wrong. But it was Jaron, and she knew him like the back of her hand. She reached for his arm to draw him nearer. "Do you hear something?" She asked.

He nodded, "I think it's just the wind."

The room fell silent after Mott stepped in. Jaron was right. A low, faint howl barely managed to get through the shuttered window.

It couldn't be anything more than just the wind. And yet, the howling seemed so much sharper. The wind bit, but this howling clawed. It was trying to claw through the shudders and grew louder with each passing moment.

"Nolan's phantoms have arrived," Jaron murmured.

Steeling herself, Imogen left Jaron's side and approached the window. Nobody raised a hand to stop her as she unlatched the shudders, and peered through a small crack between the panels. Lanterns sparkled in a few windows, but aside from their small light, the winter sky was dark.

If anyone still believed that the faint howling was the wind, they didn't say so.

Both Jaron and Mott soon joined Imogen by the window. Imogen stepped aside to give each a chance at looking into the blue night.

A second howling joined, this time, it was too clear to be the wind. Nolan's phantoms had arrived. They were singing to each other, it seemed. The two voices grew louder and louder.

"Listen close," Mott muttered. "The pitch is jumping."

Several months ago, a troubadour came to court. He was a friend, Imogen and Jaron had invited him to Drylliad several times before. Once, he'd given a weeks' worth of music lessons, he'd explained the nature of music, and demonstrated the difficulty in jumping from note to note through song.

Imogen marveled at the phantoms' ease. Their voices warbled through the snow, echoing through the village. A final note hung on the air; a question with a dark answer.

"Somebody's moving through the village," Jaron snapped away from the window, lunging for his sword just as Mott stood in front of the door.

"It's dark and risky and there's nobody else to accompany you," said Mott. "You're-"

"Responsible for my citizens. If you don't step aside, I will go through the window."

That was all it took. Imogen watched with a frown as Mott stepped aside, and Jaron bounded away with Mott close on his heels. She couldn't sit and watch from the window. Imogen yanked her cloak from the hook on the wall, and threw it over her shoulders.

The tavern had gone dark.

Outside, snow swirled, caring not for phantoms or the concerns of a queen. There were several pairs of boot prints in the snow leading past the well. Gathering her skirts, Imogen darted through the blanket of white, ignoring the way the snow melted on the bare skin of her ankles.

She wanted to call for Jaron, but didn't dare give her position away while she was unarmed.

The boot prints dragged on and on, leading further and further away from the village. Too far, too far. There was nothing here. Imogen whipped back around to see the darkened windows of Trail's End village, searching for any kind of sign.

Several figures bounded through the alleyways to the bakery. The singing grew both fainter and louder at once. There were two. Two singing phantoms, and they were dragging Imogen, Jaron, and Mott away from the village.

What could they want with the bakery? Bread? Nolan didn't say anything about bread being stolen.

"Jaron!" Imogen shouted, trying to drag his attention to where it needed to be. A figure turned its head to look at her, and then slipped into the bakery's front door.

Foolish girl! She should've called him by another name. Imogen smacked her forehead.

Noise! If she woke everyone else up, the phantoms would be seen. They'd vanish. Imogen changed her course to the first building she saw, and began pounding on the door.

They didn't come soon enough. Imogen watched in horror as she pounded on the door.

The phantom figures slipped back through the bakery's front door with a motionless Calenda on their shoulders. Imogen gathered her skirts again and leapt over the side of the porch, dashing after the fleeing bandits.

She knew she wouldn't reach them in time. And what would she do if she did?

Unlacing a boot, Imogen set her weight between both feet, inhaled, and threw her boot as hard as she could.

Her boot flew true, nailing one of the phantoms in the back of the head. It wasn't enough to bring the phantom down.

But it was enough to prove that the wailing phantoms weren't spirits of the dead at all.

They were singing bandits, and the whole village had remained asleep.