Before the Snow Read Online Free Page B

front of the window. Outside, the sun was coming up glorious and warm. Inside, it began to snow.
    â€œNepenthe . . .” Ora looked at her for a long beat. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
    The boy stood unmoving. This was the Prince, the boy she had once comforted, all grown up.
    Nepenthe looked at the boy. She thought about the ice statues that weren’t statues the last time they’d met. A time he’d never remember.
    â€œMaybe I have,” she whispered.
    â€œNot a ghost, per se. Father coined the term. I am Lazar, the Snow Prince,” the boy said without turning around.
    â€œLazar, we have guests,” a voice said behind them.
    Nepenthe turned around to find the King at her heels.
    As the boy spun to face them, Nepenthe could not shake her own ghosts: her mother and father. But her brain was also on the Prince. Had his memories come back? Did he remember her?
    She heard another gasp from Ora. Nepenthe nearly gasped herself. Lazar’s features were no longer round and soft. His jawline, cheekbones, and brow somehow came together in the most appealing way. His handsomeness was clearly not wasted on Ora. She had been dreaming of fairy-tale princes, and here he was in the flesh.
    Ora knelt down suddenly. For a second, Nepenthe thought she had fainted, but then she realized that she was curtsying.
    â€œHe’s not our prince. We don’t bow to him,” Nepenthe countered under her breath.
    But she could tell that Ora was enjoying the curtsy for the curtsy’s sake. Once again, they were as opposite as night and day. Ora was made of something soft and fine like the tapestry that hung from the wall now encased in ice. Nepenthe knew she was made of water, but not the calm kind—the brackish waves right before a storm.
    â€œWe don’t serve the King, Ora. We do not bow to him,” Nepenthe repeated.
    â€œI know that, but it’s out of respect for their customs. For who they are.”
    â€œ Respect is a mutual thing. They have to respect that witches don’t bow to anyone.”
    Ora made a small sound of protest, but just then the Prince broke into a smile, ending the debate. His eyes landed on Ora, just like every other man in Algid’s did. Ora was like human sunshine while Nepenthe considered herself comparatively a storm cloud.
    Nepenthe did not expect Lazar to notice her at first, but when he did, Nepenthe saw his were the same eyes she remembered: inquisitive and a shocking blue. But there wasn’t an ounce of fear in them now.
    â€œYou are right,” the Prince said to her. “She is clearly not one of my subjects, so therefore she is not subject to the same rules. I would not want you to do anything that wasn’t in your nature. I apparently know so little of my own.”
    Lazar gestured around the room. “You look so familiar. Have we met?” he said, his eyes narrowing on Nepenthe, not unkindly.
    â€œI don’t presume to think myself memorable.”
    â€œYou did not answer my question,” he countered, studying Nepenthe again.
    â€œForgive my sister. Manners are of little interest to our kind,” Ora said with a light laugh.
    They weren’t actually sisters by blood. They were sisters by magic. If Nepenthe hadn’t seen the Witch of the Woods’s blood she would believe that sap flowed through her.
    Ora saved Nepenthe from answering, but Nepenthe lost his attention at that moment. Lazar’s eyes were only on Ora, and his questions melted away as they skimmed over her perfect form, the bodice of her dress, and her face.
    â€œBut they matter to you, Miss . . .”
    â€œWitches do not bother with such pleasantries,” Nepenthe injected automatically.
    She didn’t know what she was hoping for. She had been there for probably the worst moment of Lazar’s life. Did she expect him to hug her? To thank her for helping him forget? What did she want from him?
    Wasn’t it better