author's note: Thanks for being patient, guys! I had to finish a couple of other writing deadlines before coming back to this.

Check it out, PROOF that this is not really a cross-over. Rapunzel and Flynn attended Elsa's coronation!

http (colon-slash-slash) blogs (insert-dot) disney (insert-dot) com /oh-my-disney/2013/12/10/spotted-rapunzel-and-flynn-at-elsas-coronation


Chapter Four

Stabbington

"Please sit down, Mr. Stabbington."

I don't sit, or do anything, actually, except stare at Queen Elsa. One part of me wants to answer her likes this: Listen, Your Majesty, I'm not a dog, so don't tell me to sit. Saying please doesn't make it any better.

The other part of me is thinking: what does she mean sit down?

Next to her? On one of the high-backed mahogany chairs, pulled up to her insanely long dining table, with the white tablecloth, china plates, and ivory inlaid silverware?

. . . why?

There's a trick here. Somewhere. The queen waits in her spot at the head of the table, watching me. Typically she does a good job avoiding people, keeping herself at a careful distance, but when she feels so inclined, her attention is direct, and she meets your eye in this really unnerving, unblinking way.

"What?" I wave a hand irritably at the space next to her. "Sit—like, on the chair?"

"That's what I would choose to sit on, yes." Her face is deadpan.

"Cute," I say, to let her know that after two weeks of careful observation, I know exactly when she's making fun of me. But I sit, awkwardly lowering myself into the chair on her left. Touching all this fancy stuff makes me itchy. I shift, ignoring her amused smirk. "So, what? You want me in closer range so you can slap me? Why do I have to sit?"

"Because it's hard to enjoy a meal standing up," she says.

Oh. Now I get it.

I cringe. "Um—no. I don't think that's—"

Too late. The queen—Her Royal Pain in the Arse—is already dishing up a plate from the luxurious spread her chefs laid out in front of her. I'm sure it's delicious, and I'm sure her slender frame isn't going to be able to fit even a third of it in, but that's not the point. The point is, she's the queen, and I am only recently a sorry step up from hired thug, and this whole arrangement is weird. Really weird.

So I tell her.

"This is weird," I say.

"You're making it weird," she says, rolling her eyes. "We're the only two people in the room."

"Until they bring in dessert."

"I'm beginning to doubt you'll last that long."

"But—why?"

She looks surprised. "Oh." She puts her hands in her lap. She's doing that thing she does, where instead of simply reacting like a normal person, she draws herself up, cool and elegant, and then delivers a calculated response as to what she thinks will appease the other person. "Well, you did something very kind for me yesterday. I appreciated it. And I realized I don't even know your first name, so I'm . . . extending a gesture of goodwill."

I stare at her. She stares back—not intimidated, but now also uncertain. After a moment, her cheeks blossom with spots of pink.

"Kay," I tell her.

"Excuse me?"

"My first name is Kay."

Her shoulders drop with relief. "Oh. Well. That's much nicer than Stabbington."

"Unfortunately for you, you don't get to use it."

She lifts an eyebrow. She's probably not used to people telling her what to do.

"I don't get to call you Elsa."

"No, you don't."

"Well then. I guess we'll stay Her Majesty and Mr. Stabbington."

Her lips quirk. "That sounds like a terrifying children's book."

"I wouldn't read it to my kids."

"Do you have any?"

"Kids?" My eyes narrow. "How old do you think I am?" I'm twenty-seven. But years of rough living do make me look tattered beyond my years.

"You look young," the queen says, not missing a beat. "You just seem the type to have gotten an early start on that sort of thing."

Right. Is that a compliment, or an insult? Delicately worded or not, I can't believe something even brushing the subject of s-e-x just left the Queen's mouth. Frankly, I'm surprised she knows what it is. "I did," I say, with a slow grin.

"Of course." Her lips curl as her attention goes briefly to her food. She cuts a piece of salmon and I realize I haven't even touched mine.

"Do you have other family?" she asks.

The question hits me hard. I'm not prepared for it, though I should have been. It is, after all, a normal thing to ask. Luckily I just put a forkful of cold chicken in my mouth so I can take my time answering as the Pit yawns black and heavy inside me. I'm reminded that no amount of food, no matter how fine, will ever assuage the feeling of emptiness in the place where my heart once was. I swallow—both the mouthful of chewed meat and the urge to give in to the consuming sense of loss.

"No," I answer shortly.

But Elsa saw whatever darkness I'm sure flashed over my face. She watches me, brow gently furrowed, but to my great relief, doesn't push the subject. Instead she takes a pot off the tray by her elbow and pours me a mug of tea.

Tea isn't going to make me feel better, but I take it because I'm desperate to be distracted. I sip, and then immediately spit it back out. "Ugh—gross."

"What?" Elsa's eyes widen. "What's wrong with it?"

"It's barely room temperature. Bleck." I stick out a tongue. Nothing like lukewarm weed water to make you forget your inner woes.

"It is?" She looks honestly surprised, giving her own cup of tea a doubtful look.

I grab her cup, ignoring her spluttered protest, and bring it up to my nose to sniff.

"Don't you dare drink out of my—"

I drink.

"Yours isn't warm either," I say and hand it back.

She glares, and then after pointedly turning it around so the place where my lips touched the rim is as far as possible, she takes her own sip. She blinks, taken aback. "Yes, it is," she says quietly.

Interesting. To her, tepid is warm. Prince Hans warned me that touching her would be like bathing in ice. I can't help but wonder, if it feels like that to us . . . what does it feel like to her? If she's so cold, the smallest touch must burn like fire.

I hesitate, only a moment, then reach out and press my finger on the back of her hand. Geez. She really is cold. But she doesn't feel lifeless, like stone—it's a bit like putting my finger in a freezing, churning river.

"How does that feel?" I don't mean for my voice to come out soft like it does. Well, not soft. Nothing about me is soft, ever. But it sounds quieter than usual, kind of husky, and it gives the very tiny contact we have more gravity than it deserves.

She looks up. "It's warm—you're very warm." Her voice trembles—barely, but I notice.

I lift my finger off and then press it against my cheek, testing. The skin of my fingertip is cool.

"Am I cold?" Elsa whispers.

"Yes." I won't lie to her.

She nods thoughtfully. "I don't feel cold. I just feel like myself."

I'm not sure what to say to that, so I just stay quiet, but the silence between us isn't tense. A second later the doors open and Queen Elsa's servants enter carrying dessert. Until they swept in, dazzling reminders of her position, I almost didn't realize that at some point in our conversation she'd become simply Elsa in my head.

. . . . . . .

Two days later I get a letter. Guess who it's from?

It's nearly three pages long, but it can basically be summarized into one paragraph:

The winter solstice happens early this year. Winter solstice is the unofficial start of winter, and it's the shortest day and longest night of the year. This particularly year—for the first time in over three decades—this impossibly long night is going to be especially dark because it's also a new moon. In short, this rather ominous turn of events creates the perfect window to rob a certain Snow Queen of her powers.

With love, the Southern Isles.

Oh—no wait. I forgot. The last part of the letter is the best part, an annoyingly ambiguous P.S., which more or less says that for the Winter Solstice to even matter, I need some kind of magical winter item.

That's not a paraphrase, either.

The actual letter says "some kind of magical winter item"—as if I will automatically know what that means. There is a nice parenthetical "i.e.," however, that lists a few equally unhelpful examples:

Santa's snowglobe

Jack Frost's staff

The original Nutcracker doll

The North Wind's conch shell

Frosty the Snowman's old silk hat

I mean—does he just expect me to pop down to the local market and pick one of these up? I don't even know what most of them are!

This is typical of people who hire other people to do their dirty work. They want to micromanage you, tell you exactly the way it needs to be done, they just don't want to actually do it.

Fine by me. Not like I was gonna rummage through a library and find all this stuff out myself. Of course, that also doesn't mean I've been sitting on my ass. I work the way I know how, by appealing to my own kind. The ice harvesters around these parts are better informed than a dusty book anyway. I hike up the mountains, I join their rough, bandied conversations inside cramped wooden bars, I learn the folklore, the legends, and most important, I learn everything they know about ice and snow—which is a lot.

That's where I'm headed now, to see if they can tell me about the winter solstice or "magical winter items," which I've decided to call MWIs in my head for short. I'm not particularly hopeful, but strangely, I'm also not frustrated by my hopelessness. The more days that go by, the less excited I am by the idea of shutting Elsa down. Whenever I start to imagine what will happen to her if her powers are taken away, I make myself think of something else.

I pass by the closed ballroom door and hear a muffled female voice inside. I pause. There's a rhythm to it, like counting. Slowly, in the careful way only a thief can, I open the door a crack and peek inside.

Elsa is inside, facing away from me, and I think she's . . . dancing?

If that is what she's doing, I'm gratified to see not everything in the known universe comes gracefully to her. She's offbeat to her own counting, her arms up as an invisible suitor waltzes her around. After she missteps for the third time in a row, she drops her hands in defeat and curses. A skittering line of frost jets across the floor as a result.

She stands there, fists on her hips, for a long time. I'm about to go, as quietly as I came, when she lifts a hand and a spiral of snow erupts beside her. The wind clears and reveals a crystal white boy, a little taller than she is, with a shock of wild hair.

To my utter amazement, the thing moves. I don't know if Elsa is directing him, but he acts like he's alive, sauntering around in a manner the complete opposite of hers. He holds out a hand, and they begin to dance. Not a typical court waltz—but something that is part ice-skating, part flying, part dancing. The room gets colder and snowier the longer they twirl around.

For several moments I'm entranced despite myself. I must unconsciously open the door a little wider, because when the snow boy swings Elsa past my line of vision, she sees me. Her face registers absolute horror. She stops so abruptly, the snow boy loses his balance, spinning and flailing on one foot against the icy floor until he rights himself. He follows Elsa's line of gaze and locks eyes on me. He frowns—an unsettling expression with his blank eyes—and pushes up his sleeves like a bad-tempered villager about to start a fight.

He walks by Elsa toward me. "No—don't!" She realizes what's happening and chops her hand into the side of his neck, effectively decapitating him. His headless body stops, swaying grotesquely. With an apologetic grimace, she flicks out her other hand and he explodes.

"Sorry," she mutters. I'm not sure to which of us she's apologizing.

I wait. I have no idea what I would say even if I wanted to.

She's waiting too—probably for me to ask about her snow boyfriend, but I don't.

Finally, she lifts a shoulder in a defeated shrug. "I was trying to remember how to dance. I haven't done it since I was a child."

"And you're starting now because . . .?"

A flash of relief crosses her face. Relief, perhaps, that I sound as bored and slightly annoyed as I usually do, instead of . . . what? I wonder what reaction she's used to getting.

She pulls a small card out of her pocket. "Sir Benedick from Angria wrote me to say he's greatly looking forward to my anniversary coronation party, and that he hopes we can have a dance."

I scratch the side of my face where my scar is. "And you're hoping to impress Sir Benedick?"

"No! I don't even know him. It just occurred to me that the anniversary is in nine days, and I don't dance, I never dance, and now I'll have to."

"Why? Just tell them no."

"But I don't want to tell them no."

"Maybe you do. Maybe Sir Benedick smells and wears a toupee."

She sighs in irritation. "It's not that, it's . . ." Her face clouds. She's pulling away, hiding any real emotion to an undisclosed location. Her eyes are suddenly so lonely my own stomach clenches at the sight of them. "Never mind."

"You might as well tell me."

I don't mean to say that, and I want to smack myself as soon as the words are out. Not like it matters to me why she dances or doesn't dance, not in the end.

She gives me a glower of long-suffering irritation.

"Like you said, your party is in nine days. That's when your sister will be back and I'm gone anyway." Apparently, I have no control.

She considers this, biting her bottom lip. She hugs her arms and finally glances up at me, still skeptical, but also willing, a touch trusting. I'm not going to lie, the look undoes me a tiny bit—and that sets me into a whole new area of panic.

Elsa takes a breath. "When I suppress my emotions and stifle my power, it just ends up exploding out of me in dangerous, uncontrollable ways. When I use it to make other people happy, when I feel love, then I can control it and everything is fine. I love my sister, but . . . she's married now. That's why I need to learn to dance, not for the sake of dancing, but because . . ." Her voice drops, low and terrible, heartbreak in language form. "I don't want to be alone."

Well, what do you know. Her Majesty and Mr. Stabbington have one thing in common after all. "I take it snow friends don't count," I say.

She smiles wryly. "Since they're an extension of myself, I don't think so." She waves a hand dismissively. "He was my version of Jack Frost."

My ears prick. He was one of the MWIs, wasn't he? Or something connected to him?

"Jack Frost is real?" I ask.

"Some people say so."

"And you're one of them."

She says nothing, but I can tell looking at her face: she definitely is. I know the stories about Jack Frost, and I see the appeal. Jack Frost won't touch her and say she's cold. To Jack Frost, she even has the possibility of being told she's warm.

An idea is brewing in my criminal mind.

"But you've never seen him," I say—casually tossing the bait out.

"Well obviously I wouldn't here," Elsa says defensively. "He doesn't live in Arendelle, and I can't exactly send a letter."

"So go get him."

She glares. "I know what you're thinking—that someone who rides on the North Wind isn't exactly open to visitors, but I've read every book there is on him. You can find him, if you believe. I just . . . I haven't yet."

And there it is. I've read every book there is on him. Elsa is the perfect guide to track down her own demise. All my deeply ingrained habits are telling me to seize this chance, but for whatever reason, I'm reluctant.

As soon as I realize I don't want to trick her into helping me find the MWI connected to Jack Frost, that's when I know I have to.

If I care enough to hinder my own cause, then I clearly care too much. The only thing to do is stomp those feelings out, viciously, and without mercy.

"No time like the present," I say. "You want to awkwardly dance with a bunch of suitors you're half afraid to touch in nine days? Or do you want to ditch, before anyone has a chance to stop you, and go find Jack Frost?" I let this sink in, then I deliver the final charge. "I'll go with you. I know how to track, hunt, navigate rough terrain. You might even be back before the party, future ice-husband in tow."

I've thrown a few sparks, and fortunately, Elsa has enough fuel inside her to catch fire. "This is ridiculous," she says, but even as the admonition fades, insignificant, in the air, her eyes are ablaze. The spontaneity of the decision only feeds her excitement. Remarkably fast, she stares at me, cheeks flushed. "We leave at dawn."