author's note: Thanks for the reviews, once again. I have some very clever readers. I feel like some of you are waiting with pitchforks until I bring Jack Frost in, and some are hesitantly suspicious, like, "I dare you to make me like a Stabbington brother." And to that I say, CHALLENGE ACCEPTED. And please don't impale me until Jack arrives.


Chapter Three

Elsa

I catch Stabbington's approaching figure out the library window as he moves across the courtyard. Where is he coming back from now? Without meaning to, I rise halfway out of my chair so I can track his progress. I sit down abruptly, irritated at myself. I don't care where he was.

After two weeks there's emerged an odd sort of routine between us, and I expect him to disappear for long stretches of time, reappearing conveniently when I least want him around. He's usually there when I eat, and manages to find some corner to stand in whenever I have court business, hovering like a sullen bear. Where he goes when he's not bothering me, I have no idea. I never ask. I can picture his face if I ever did; that look of his that manages to be both unreadable and convey a distant contempt.

Not that I'm particularly pleasant to him either. For even his most innocuous comments, I have a sharp retort. I'm not proud to say that I have a knack for twisting anything he says or does so that he seems stupid. It's not my intention to be so harsh . . . well, no. Actually, it is—but not out of meanness or because I think he's actually stupid (though I'm not entirely innocent of that crime either). I just want him to leave, and he remains impervious to everything I try. Half the time I think the reason I poke at him so hard is because I can't believe he's as undaunted as he seems. My entire life I've perfected the art of driving someone away if I don't want them there, and nothing works on him.

Anna must have paid him very, very well.

Either that, or he really is a man of honor. Unlikely.

Thanks to his annoyingly persistent presence, I get to study him up close. It seems almost an act of determination on his part not to do anything that might make him look respectable in proper society. His auburn hair grows in a shapeless mess. His blue eyes are lined—with exhaustion?—and their dark, hooded quality, combined with the ruddy hue of his nose and cheeks and the jagged scar on the left side of his face, makes him appear like he just finished with a fight before coming to meet you. He looks like maybe he kills people in his spare time, frankly. I try not to ever look into his eyes, only to note the general direction of his gaze, but once or twice, when I've glanced at him and he's looking at nothing, I've been distracted by their hollow quality, as if he's a few steps removed from the world around him.

A defense mechanism? I wondered the first time I noticed, perhaps recognizing an expression I'd worn myself—when the only way to cope with your life is to pretend it's not happening.

I sigh, leaning my chin into my hand. Two more weeks. Two more weeks and then I'll have plenty of other company so I'm not so desperate as to give rogues like Stabbington precious minutes of my thinking time (or hours, if I'm being honest, and if we're adding them up). This, unsurprisingly, doesn't make me feel better.

I'm not ready for the coronation anniversary, especially now that news has filtered past our gates that I only warded off suitors because of my ice powers and since I apparently have those completely under control, I'm back on the market.

In my brave moments I let those rumors stand. I do have my powers under control—or if not under control, at least figured out. In my not so brave moments I freeze innocent inanimate objects in spurts of panic worrying I might have to commit to a relationship.

I turn back to the books I was studying as if they hold my salvation—which in a way they might.

Jack Frost is said to be a friendly spirit, but can be very dangerous. If one were to insult him he would cover that person with snow or turn them into frost. Jack is the personification of crisp, cold, winter weather. Some legends portray him as an old man, Father Winter. Others say he is young, a mischief-making sprite, carefree and happiest when he can behave as he pleases. To some Jack Frost is friendly, but if provoked, he kills his victims by burying them in snow and ice.

I raise an eyebrow. "Tsk—Jack. You wouldn't do that."

Nothing answers me, of course.

I check over my shoulder to make sure the door is locked. Satisfied, I turn back and lift a hand. Next to my desk a snowy figure swirls up from the ground and solidifies in front of me. My Jack is young, graceful, and has a handsome face. He's also entirely made of snow. His blank white eyes blink at me.

"Lovely to see you," I say with a courteous nod.

He smiles and dips in a low bow.

As hard as I try, I can't make him talk—not like what I did with Olaf. Just more proof that love really is at the root of my power. Olaf sprang from the fertile ground of my relationship with Anna; this little Jack Frost dummy springs from my miserable loneliness.

Snow-Jack jumps up, landing lightly on the corner of my desk, crossing his legs under him. He cranes his neck, peering at my books with curiosity.

"Would you like me to read one of the stories about you?" I ask.

He nods.

I clear my throat. "Once upon a time," I begin. "There was a woman who had a daughter of her own, whom she loved, and a step-daughter, whom she hated. One day the woman orders her husband to take her stepdaughter out into the winter fields and leave her there to die, and he obeys. Jack Frost finds her there; she is polite and kind to him, so he gives her a chest full of beautiful things and fine garments. The family dog says that the girl is coming back, and that she is beautiful and happy.

"When the stepmother sees what her stepdaughter has brought back, she orders her husband to take her own daughter out into the fields. Unlike before, this child is rude to Jack Frost, and he freezes her to death. When her husband goes out to bring her back, the dog says the girl will be buried. When the father brings back the body, the old woman weeps."

Snow-Jack stares at me with an adorable, horrified look on his face.

"I couldn't agree more," I say, shutting the book. I give a small shudder. "Fairytales. They're so grim sometimes. You wouldn't freeze an innocent girl to death, would you Jack?"

He resolutely shakes his head.

"No, I suppose you wouldn't. But then I would have said the same thing and I almost did freeze an innocent girl to death—a girl I loved very much." My head lowers.

He reaches out a hand to press against my cheek. The small crystals of snow in his solid touch scrape against my skin. I look up and he puts his ice cold lips against the top of my hair in a soft kiss.

"Queen Elsa?" Someone knocks at the door.

I splay a hand against Snow-Jack's chest and he shatters into a million confectionary pieces that sprinkle in a cloud around me. I rise to my feet and hastily wipe snow off my dress as I hurry to the door. "Coming—just a moment."

John, the butler, is on the other side of the door. "I just wanted to remind you there is a trade affairs hearing in ten minutes."

"Right. Of course. Outside?"

He smiles, reading my dismay all too well. "I'm afraid so, Your Majesty. But if I may say so, you are the queen. If you wish the proceedings to occur inside, they shall."

"No. No, that would be silly. I'll be there in a minute." I won't force everyone else to shiver just so I can be comfortable.

. . . . . . . . .

I can't be the only one suffering in this heat. Next to me, Stabbington's temples are damp, though his face retains an unaffected coolness. I can't believe he's wearing gloves in this weather, and long sleeves.

In the summer months, the inner courtyard is turned into a sort of receiving hall. I have a nice regal platform to sit on against one wall, with a swath of fabric draped over the top to provide some shade, but it doesn't do much. For hours I must remain polite, welcoming, and diplomatic to dozens of ambassadors that wait in line to sort their affairs with Arendelle. Different days mean different groups of people, but at least once a month, representatives from Arendelle's multiple trading routes are given the chance to voice complaints or discuss issues that have risen in our contracted dealings.

I will say, there's not much to be grateful for with Stabbington, but it is rather nice to have his imposing figure standing just to my side. Anytime one of the sea-weary envoys gets too hostile or impatient, Stabbington switches from distant to very much present, and they back off. It's uncanny; Stabbington barely even moves, but I see these men glance at him after he's made the decision to intimidate them, and they immediately pale and begin to stammer.

For fifteen minutes we've been listening to the representative from the kingdom of Florin whine about a pirate raid that, first of all, I can do nothing about, and secondly, happened far outside of Arendelle's boundaries. They lost a cargo comprised mostly of tea, and he keeps saying, in this nasally voice, "Very odd to brew the tea with salt water, very odd indeed."

Stabbington releases a low, groaning breath. "Shut up . . ." he mutters, too quiet for anyone but me to hear.

I don't think. A stifled snort escapes before I can stop it.

Embarrassed, I slide a sidelong glance at him from the corner of my eye. He heard me, of course. He smirks, eyes crinkling a little, and I get the disconcerting sensation of having shared a conspiratorial secret with him.

Unnerved, I turn back and listen to the rest of the Florinese man's speech, and attempt to advise him to choose safer waters the next time around.

A man bursts from the crowd, his shirt torn, waving a painted flag. "End the ban on Weselton!" he shouts.

At first I'm too startled to do anything. Then I realize the man isn't alone. Behind him are three other painted, armed protesters. All have a wild glint in their eyes.

"We demand justice!" the first screams.

I grip the arms of my throne and frost spreads from under my palms. I should have worn gloves. I've become too complacent, arrogant in my assumption that I can manage my powers now.

No. I can do this. I can control it. Drawing back my shoulders, I ignore the tension rippling through the crowd and look at the rabid group. They're closer now. "Please—" I begin, and one of the men rushes forward, a club held high over his head.

"Justice!"

Immediately my powers spring up; I feel the prickly release as it surfaces in my skin. I clench my eyes shut. No, no . . .

I wait for the scream as shards of ice impale him. A shadow falls over me, then a hand covers my arm. I suck a sharp breath through my teeth, resisting, and hear a grunting crash and a squealing gasp of pain. Finally I open my eyes.

"Let go, Your Majesty," Stabbington says.

I'm gripping his now frozen forearm. My hands fly off him as if he's burned me. "Oh—"

Stabbington leans back and uses his free hand to hurl a spear across the courtyard. I can't see what he's aiming at, but the resulting loud scream and Stabbington's satisfied smirk let me know he found his target.

I clutch my wrist, curling my arms into my chest, struggling to keep my breath even. My eyes widen. "Did you—"

"Nah." Stabbington rolls a shoulder. "I got him in the leg. He'll be fine—just immobile."

I feel like crying when I look at his frost-covered arm. "I'm so sorry—" I begin.

"Don't be." He flexes his arm up and clenches his fist. To my utter shock, the icy layer around his arm cracks and breaks, falling off in chunks as he shakes out his arm. He twinkles his gloved fingers. "Special leather and wool, from the high mountains. The ice harvesters put a special solvent on it that dissolves and wards off ice."

The breath I let out is half sob. My relief is so palpable I have to lean forward over my knees to stay upright. Maybe I'm hysterical, but it seems funny to me. His arms are the size of small tree trunks. I'd have a hard time freezing them all the way through anyway. I bite off my laughter. With a hard swallow, I look down and see the crumpled figure by Stabbington's feet, the wooden club that is busted in two different places.

"Did you hit him with his own club?" I ask, strained.

"Nope. He hit me with the club."

I stare at the bent mess of a weapon. "And it just . . . broke against you."

"Most things do." He's looking quite pleased with himself. Bit by bit, I'm putting together what happened. It was Stabbington's shadow I felt, his hand on my arm. He gave me a channel to direct my power and then took care of the men from Weselton. I don't know what to think.

"It didn't occur to you I'd actually be good at my job, did it?" asks Stabbington. He watches as Arendelle's guards tie up the Weselton men. He stretches out a leg and unceremoniously kicks the unconscious man's body off the platform. "For someone so sure she can protect herself, you seemed pretty helpless to me."

"You didn't protect me," I snap. I hug my arms. "You protected them." My eyes lower. "I was trying to stop myself from . . . from hurting them . . ."

He raises an eyebrow. "They didn't seem too concerned about hurting you."

"You don't understand."

He crouches down on knee, bringing us eye level. "Look, kid. Some people deserve it. Next time just ice the bastard."

I shake my head, but I'm smiling, in spite of myself.

"Your Majesty! Are you all right?" John rushes toward me, face tight with anxiety.

"I'm fine." As I stand, I realize I really am fine, if a little shaky. Thanks to Stabbington, I think, entirely unsure how I feel about that. "Guards—please take these men into our holding cells. I'll compose a letter to the Duke of Weselton to figure out what to do with them. All other trading affairs are postponed. Mr. Stabbington—" I look at him, command in my voice. "Come . . . come with me please."

"As you wish."

I use his arm to steady myself as I step off the platform, holding my dress in my other hand. I keep my chin high, my expression dignified. "And don't call me kid," I mutter at him. "I'm the Queen, not your backyard play pal."

"Right." He rolls his eyes. "Sorry."

For the second time that day, I surprise myself by smiling.