Eleven

 

"...My skirt caught fire, so I opened a portal, saw snow, and stepped through. And that's how I ended up in the northern wastes on Christmas Eve with my favourite white gown in tatters," Zoraida finished. She expected more questions from Hans, who had proved to have an almost insatiable curiosity for the most mundane things about her life as a fairy godmother, but the only sound he emitted was a snore.

She smothered a giggle. She'd drunk too much mead, she was sure of it, but the sweetness and the spices and the soul-warming heat of it had persuaded her to indulge in a little more than usual. And Hans...the man was such pleasurable company. The way he spoke of his dreams for the future – for his ships, for his home, and for some sort of trade agreement that had made him trek across the northern wastes to where she'd first encountered him. Could a girl fall in love with a man for his kindness and his dreams? Oh, and his kisses. She would like more of those. But not tonight. She would let him snore in his chair, if that's where he chose to sleep, while she retired to the room Elena had assured her would be prepared for her.

As she crossed the courtyard, Zoraida paused to take another look at the crumbling towers Hans had vowed to rebuild. It was Yule, and she'd given him no gift yet. She'd told him her powers lay in the elements, in fire and air and water and earth. What was stone but the mother of earth, after all?

Wrapping her cloak around her, she lifted her arms, and cast a new spell.