Week 1

 Day 1

I have arrived safely, and find my new homeland to be frightfully dull. The servants are easily cowed and all wear a constant expression of benign helpfulness. It is a repulsive trait that I hope to beat out of my personal maid, at the very least. In no kingdom, in the history of life, could there have been such a distressing display of simpering smiles -- so many yellow teeth were aimed in my direction that I thought I was visiting my husband’s famous corn fields, rather than attending my own wedding.

Many would covet my new position as Queen of Summer; some of the coldest hearts in Winter, no doubt, burn with envy this humid evening. I can’t help but wish that Maman were here to cradle my head in her hard lap and trace bony fingers along the ridge of embedded studs behind my ear. I would give a thousand impaled peasant heads to hear mere moments of Papan’s soft tenor, chanting ancient epics, retelling stories of long-buried Heroes rending muscle and flesh from the bones of their foes.

There can be no whisper or intimation that I am merely human, because such whispers would immediately precede my death. So the diary that I wrote in faithfully, from childhood, is left behind with my voodoo dolls and the shrunken-head beads of my broken abacus. I must be certain that my sharpened, metal-tipped fingernails scrape only the ghost of letters onto my marble bed. Before my homesick heart settles in for the night, I know that the tears that I imagine shedding, must evaporate from my eyes before the sun arises again, to spark dark and hot against the gleam of muscles and guileful grins of Summer.

Day 2 

My maid has stopped smiling, which has infused my cold stone heart with a fiery glow. However the fools at court continue to bombard me with gestures of friendship and welcoming. I can see how this brand of warfare could be effective, more so even than Winter’s in-your-face, we’d-murder-as-soon-as-look-at-you way. Summer’s warmth wants to melt all of Winter’s weapons and armor, crawling inside it‘s victim -- fire burning from the inside out. It’s an insidious tactic, which fills me with even more of a loathing for Summer than what I felt before I ever trespassed, pardon me, traversed the sinking soil of this cursed place.

My husband, at least, seems to have a touch more dignity than the majority of his kingdom. He presides over the hearings of his people, all of whom have no shame in airing every personal grievance one human can foster toward another, with a solemn line drawn between his brows. He nods at appropriate intervals (though if it were me, I would not have so much patience -- today alone, I could have killed a hundred useless peasants, thus increasing exponentially, the breeding stock -- anyway) but there is a twinkle under his heavy brow that I find most inappropriate.

He smiles and laughs too much. When he turns to share the joke with me, I try infuse a modicum of dignity into his soul through the laser beam of my gaze. He just blinks at me, with this combination of confusion and frustration. It has the odd effect of bouncing his inadequacy into my head. I wish to smile and laugh, just because he wants me to. I admit this, only so that I am aware of yet another weapon in the arsenal the Summer people hold. 

I can’t help but wonder if -- I was always one of the more emotional children. It wasn’t until I was fully free of adolescence that I was able to finally control myself. Even now, when Mother Nature visits in full force, it is all I can do -- wouldn’t anyone else have made a better choice as Queen? Ceci Sparks never had any trouble keeping her temper, even as a child, and she is only Winter-born by three generations.

This, and every other fear that occurs to me throughout the day, must remain unspoken. Here, in this faux-friendly land, I have no one to share my anxieties with, no way to express or release my fear. I used to be able to merely look at my sister Karen. I didn’t need to change my expression or even bounce the light off of my eyeballs in a particular way, for her to understand exactly what I was feeling.

Tomorrow, I shall find a servant and have their fingernails removed. That always makes me feel better.

Day 3

Adora, my personal maid, is a shy girl -- I think she was, even before I arrived. I wonder that she was assigned to me. With my reputation, her appointment as my maid could only have been a test or a punishment. I make certain that she has plenty of both, but she is stubborn, if shy. She never refuses anything I ask, and she never cries. In this outwardly emotional land, she is a wonder. She may wear a soft, puffy body, but her skeleton must be made of steel.

I don’t think she minds that I won’t allow her to smile. I have to remind her, still, with a nudge from the pointy toe of my boot -- but when I do, she seems relieved…. I wonder if any of her ancestors came from Winter. I can’t ask, of course. To show any kind of curiosity would be just one more way of signing my death warrant.

I lie here in the dark -- and it is so dark here. In Winter, so matter how far the sun falls from the sky, the ice pillars in my room dance with dust from moonbeams. I try to smile. It is such an unnatural movement to my face that I don’t know if I am successful. I would seek out a mirror, but the unnatural darkness of this land would prevent me being able to see and I dare not light a candle, for my room is full of windows (another way for the Summer folk to make certain I know how vulnerable I am here) and there is no telling how many guards watch my room for any unusual movement.

Imagine a guard peeking in my window to see me smiling into a mirror by candlelight.

Day 4

When I was a child, the punishment for showing inappropriate emotion ranged from a quick cuff to the head, to a full-body beat down. Now, inappropriate emotion consisted of joy, fear, or sadness. Anger, loathing, disgust are appropriate emotions, and even those must be held in check because anger is associated with warmth, which does not fit the Winter persona that we all cultivate from birth. Because I was such an emotional child, there is no bone in my body that has not been broken at least once, and there is no inch of skin that has not been bruised. As a result, I do not fear physical pain. Also, Summer has a myth that breaking a bone makes you weaker in that area for life, however, that is only true if the bone is not set properly. My bones may as well be made of steel and my skin is tough as weathered hide.

Two things happened today that surprised me. There was an assassination attempt during my husband’s speech, but that was the second event, and not as important as the first. If the first had not happened, then the second event may have come out differently.

This morning, I was taking a walk through the palace gardens -- Because I am not good for much around here, other than frightening others with my appearance, I take a lot of these walks. I can feel my muscles getting loose and I must find a way, soon, of getting real exercise. But I digress. I was on my walk, when I heard the unmistakable sound of skin slapping against skin. For a moment, I was back home, but with the wild scent of roses and lilies, and the dark oranges and gray-white of the flowers, the sound stood out. I followed the sound until I found a small servant being beaten by an older one. 

The boy must have been around seven years old, with tattered clothes and the look of someone who had taken part in this ritual more than once. This surprised me, because the Summer peoples pride themselves on killing each other with kindness, though I have not yet found out their method of doing so. In any case, I know the character-building that a good beating can do for a child, so I did not interfere. The man’s back was to me, but the boy faced me. His eyes held no pleading, only resignation. But I heard the rush of fabric against leaves, and a woman rushed out of the small gardener’s shed. “Stop!” Her demand surprised me, since Summer is a patriarchal society, and I rarely see dominant women. 

The man continued, until the woman pushed him back into a prickly bush. The way he stumbled, I could see that he was drunk. Indeed, it took him quite a while to regain his feet. As he struggled with the non-compliant thorns, the woman berated him, ending with, “Do you want him to end up like one of those Winter people, the soul beat out of him, and good for nothing for the rest of his life?” It was no sooner than the words flew from her mouth that she spotted me. The boy had picked himself up from the ground and now the woman pushed him behind her, as though to protect him from me.

I said nothing, just stared at her through my glass lenses that give my brown eyes an icy appearance, perfectly aware of the images my appearance conjured for her. I was pleased that Winter had such a reputation, that it could be used in everyday conversation.  She shooed the boy into the house and waited for the man to lumber to his feet. “Go to work,” she said to him, without taking her eyes off of me. He picked up a hoe that he’d been using to beat the boy with, and stumbled off on a difference path. When he was gone, and I didn’t make a move to aim one of my many weapons at her, she bowed, and took a few steps backward, disappearing into her hovel.

I picked up my skirts, to avoid dragging them in the blood and tatters of clothing left on the path stones. The rest of my walk was uneventful, but I did think for several minutes, about parenthood, and about how it was probably a good thing that I am not destined for it.

The second event wasn’t as dramatic. I don’t know if I can really say it was an assassination attempt because I think those are reserved for royalty and other public figures, however, someone tried to kill my maid today. We were up on our balcony, as my husband made his speech about Winter and Summer living together in harmony, a man shot an arrow at Adora. It must have been my earlier experience, the woman coming to the aid of her son, that inspired me. Since the man was so obvious to me as soon as he entered the crowd, I had plenty of time to decide what to do. 

Apparently, in Summer, if there is a tradition of assassinating the servants of unloved rulers. This would be regarded as cowardice in Winter, of course. If you have a beef with the ruler, that is who you take your quarrel to. In any case, as the arrow flew toward Adora’s face, I raised a lazy hand to stop it. The arrow tip slid through my palm, thankfully missing any major arteries, and stopping only inches from Adora’s face. 

The man was immediately taken into custody and killed on the spot. I can’t say I felt sorry for him, though my insides go a bit shivery at the memory of actual violence, rather than the speech of it. This was the first murder I’ve ever witnessed, and the first assassination attempt. In any case, I may have made a grave error. Everyone seems to accept my action as protecting my property, everyone except for Adora. 

I am certain that I did not change my expression when I looked at her after I saved her life, but I saw the shock in her face. I am positive that she has never had a hand raised in her defense, here in this land of warmth and kindness. She has warmed to me, an imperceptive amount, I’m sure, to onlookers. If she has gotten the impression that blood, not ice, runs through my veins, I will have to kill her myself. She bears watching.

My husband was anxious to make certain that I knew that the attempt was not on my life, and that the ruffian had been taken care of. I assured him that my death meant another war with Winter, and it was in his own country’s best interest to make certain that I was safe. Then I broke the shaft of the arrow in two, slid it out of my palm, and handed him the two halves of the arrow. It hurt, I won’t lie, but the amusement I got from the expression on my husband’s face, was worth it. Though, perhaps it was merely in the intensity of the moment, I thought his gaze upon me became more watchful after that. He bears watching, as well. 

Four days here, and I am already making mistakes.

Day 5

My mother was very much in demand, when she was courting. She was fiercely beautiful and always had the best set-back comments to any male who tried to go further than she wanted to. She could stop a man at twenty paces with nothing more than a withering glance. I’ve been subject to that glance, so I believe every story.

My father was a scholar, and not particularly imposing, physically. But he wrote my mother the best love letters, and won her heart that way. I brought the letters with me because they are so fierce and unloving that no one thought that they’d be suspected to be what they were -- devotions of love and joy.

Mystral,

Your father informs me that although you are unusually passive for a Winter female, that you hold hidden depths of cruelty and maliciousness that have gone untapped as previous lovers have left you unmoved.

I write to assure you that because your pedigree is so impressive, I am willing to overlook the loathsome weakness in your spine, in the hopes that I will someday break any kindness left in your spirit. 

I will meet you at the Gruesome Ream Shoppe tomorrow under the icicles that form by the entrance. I understand that the sunset adds a shimmer to the surroundings, which is non-conducive to young lovers getting to know each other properly. Of course, I would prefer pitch darkness and icy roads in order to test both of our mettles, however it is the only time off that I am assigned this week.

As for my pedigree, I need only whisper my last name into the frozen air, to shoot arrows of fear through the hearts of my contemporaries. No one will dare compete with me for your affection, so you may as well consider yourself betrothed, should I deign to offer yourself to me.

Lukewarmly,

Chille Caldwell the 117th. 

The Gruesome Ream is a bookstore that my father worked at, part time, while he took care of his ailing grandfather. No Caldwell in history had done anything spectacular, and my father was less impressive than any of his ancestors, but he sensed in my mother a gentle spirit, just in the way that she sent her prospective lovers away in tears, rather than in casts.

My mother found my father’s letter amusing, but she did not meet him at sunset under the icicles. She considered herself rather fragile and wanted a fierce man that she could trust to protect her from her own weaknesses.

Day 6

My husband made a face at me today. He wrinkled up his face until his nose was scrunched up under his eyes, and his mouth was an o of teeth. “Yungry?” He said to me. “What?” “Yan’eet?” By now I was growing impatient, so my next “what” was a bit more biting. He smoothed his features with exaggerated patience, and sighed. 

“Would you like to join me for lunch,” he said, with courtly manners.

“No, of course not,” I snapped. We’ve never eaten together, except for at the wedding dinner, and then I did not eat. I don’t eat in front of anybody else because I pretend as though my dietary needs are different than his. I always request raw meat, and I don’t want anyone to see that I don’t eat it.

“Very well,” he said, with his courtly manners, and then his air changed, as though I already left the room or as though I’d turned suddenly invisible, and began speaking to his advisor.

I must say, I’m a bit flummoxed. Why was he being so friendly -- and in such a weird way? My husband is not a handsome man, even by Summer standards, let alone Winter, so the face that he pulled was incredibly unattractive, as was his sudden descent into childish behavior. Surely he must know that any hint of friendship between us, or heaven forbid, attraction, would be tantamount to signing a death warrant. What game is he playing? 

Day 7

It is a well-known fact that ice runs through the veins of Winter-folk. I think my maid, Adora must be of the heartiest Winter stock, no matter her protestations otherwise. 

Today marks a full week of being married. None of my childhood dreams involved a loveless, friendless adulthood. I did wish to be a princess, I think most girls do, but even as Queen, my soul feels like a poisoned cherry pit. Dark, lifeless, repulsive. 

In Winter, I was considered quite a beauty. My nose is straight with perfectly flared nostrils. My jaw-line is smooth and strong. My neck is long and graceful; competition for even the most stunning collar. But in Summer, all people see are the spikes protruding from my skin, they see the colorless eyes and the stiff clothing. They see all of my sharp edges, and none of my softness. 

In Winter, my remarks about eating babies are greeted with the silent laughter of twinkling eyes. Here, the dismay and disgust -- are part of the impression I am supposed to make. I am supposed to be frightening. But somehow, being unlikable in a land where charm is the polar opposite….

In the most secret, most romantic recess of my heart, I thought that I would win over the people of Summer with my Winter charms. I hoped that my natural beauty and uniqueness would create such an affection for Winter in Summer hearts, that Summer would be cured of its unceasing hatred of Winter.

I suppose I should have expected the ultimate and continuous rejection that I receive from my subjects, my servants, my husband. I had just hoped it would be so very different than it is.