He shook his head, but kept staring.

Hazel looked into the light, searching desperately for magic, because she needed it now. It was nothing but flame.

Hazel closed her eyes for a moment, and then opened them again.

"I see something," she said, her words a whisper.

He looked up at her.

"I do," she said, trying to sound more sure. "I see you at your house. Do you remember your house? You live next door to me. Your kitchen is bigger than mine, and yellow-er, and it's got these big blotchy flowers that you think look like soup stains, and you've got a plastic table in it." Hazel took a breath. He was still staring into the flame. "You're in the kitchen, and I'm with you. We're . . . we're sitting there in your sparkly plastic chairs making little clay guys. First you did a knight and I did a robot. I thought the robot would win. But you said that that was the obvious choice, people always pick the robots, and the knight's ability to think freely would eventually win out. Now . . . now, you're making a dragon, and I'm making a velociraptor. I'm having trouble with the neck. It's too wobbly. You tell me a T. rex would be better, and I say you always think a T. rex would be better, and then you remind me what your knight did to my robot."

The flame was dying now. But Jack still stared.

"I say," she said, her voice firm and clear, "that if you're fighting a fire-breathing dragon-and when you meet a dragon, it's best to a.s.sume it's fire breathing-what you want is speed. And the element of surprise. The dragon's going to fight hard against the T. rex, but the velociraptor won't seem like much of a threat. It's small. The dragon doesn't know it's got a sickle claw. He just sees the feathers and thinks it's a goofy dino-bird . . ."

And the flame was gone. All there was was smoke, dissolving into the lightening sky. Hazel lost her words. Her eyes went to Jack. Something had changed. He was shuddering violently now, and he dropped the shard he was holding.

"I'm cold," he said.

"Oh," she choked. "Okay. Okay. Jack . . ." She felt like someone was scooping out her chest. "Jack, I'm so sorry, I gave everything away. I don't have anything else. I-" His teeth were chattering loudly. Hazel thought she might freeze just looking at him.

"Okay, listen," she said. "I-" The backpack. Hazel took the last thing out-the baseball-and set it on the ice, and then struck another match and put it to the backpack.

The flame took hold of the backpack for a moment, then smoked and smoldered and died out.

Hazel whimpered.

"You lit your backpack on fire," Jack said.

Hazel let out a small gasp and shook her head. She was going to fail. All this way only to learn that there was nothing she could do.

Jack looked at her, shuddering and clattering and wide-eyed. His eyes fell on the baseball next to her. "What is that?" he asked.

She picked up the baseball. It was firm and real in her hands. "This?"

"Can I see that?" he asked through clattering teeth.

"Of course," she said, handing it to him.

He turned it over in his hands, considering it. His eyes fell on the big black scuff, then the signature. He studied it a moment. He moved his fingers around the soft leather, then ran his thumb slowly across the b.u.mpy st.i.tches.

"You gave that to me," Hazel said in a whisper. "It's a baseball, signed by Joe Mauer. He's your favorite baseball player," she added. He looked up at her, his hand firm around the baseball.

"You're going to be a catcher, someday, like him," she said. "You're going to hit nine hundred home runs, which is better than Wolverine, I think. You got the ball yourself. You went to a game with your dad last summer. The Twins won in the eleventh inning. It was late, but your dad said you could stay until the end, because Campbells don't leave baseball games early. And Mauer hit a pop foul right to you. You didn't bobble it or anything. It fell into your hands like a gift. The people around you clapped. It was on the Jumbotron and everything! Some guy next to you said they could use you at shortstop. . . . And it was so late, but you and your dad waited outside after the game, and finally all the players came out, and you waited some more, and you practiced what you were going to say. And then Joe Mauer came out, and you just held out the ball to him, because you forgot how to speak English. And he smiled at you and asked you if he could sign your ball. And you just nodded like a big dork. And he did sign it and he told you to get some sleep, and you didn't let anyone else touch the ball and you looked up on the Internet how to preserve it best, and you didn't even let me touch it. And then . . . and then . . ." Hazel shook her head. She was crying now, and the tears burned her scar and bit at her face. "My dad left. . . . And I didn't know what to do. And you came over, and . . ."

Hazel dissolved. The words flew away. There was nothing. Jack looked down at the ball and squeezed it. He turned it around in his hands again.

And then he looked up and blinked.

"Hazel?"

Chapter Twenty-five.

Hazel and the Woods

"Jack?"

He was squeezing the ball in one hand and staring at her. He was shuddering harder, now, and his skin shone as if he were sweating.

She could not move, she could not do anything but let the tears run down her cheeks and stare back at him, willing him back to her.

"Hazel," he repeated, like her name was a revelation. He blinked at her. "I gave you this."

"Yes."

He looked at the ball again, and then at her. "I'm really cold."

"I know," she said. She inhaled and her stomach contracted. "Jack," she said, "we can go somewhere warmer. Would you like that?"

He blinked at her. "Yeah," he said.

"Okay," she said, and it was the only word she could say.

She crouched down next to Jack and put her arm around him. He was wet and so cold he felt wrong to her, and she had to work to suppress a shudder. Hazel wrapped both arms around him and pulled him into her. She'd never realized how skinny he was-but that was Jack, he burned off energy just by being alive. He shivered and shuddered and she tucked him into herself, though she was a very small girl. I am warm, she thought. I am warm and I am getting warmer. I am gathering all the warmth of my body, of all the Hazels past and future, and I am giving it to you.

She held him like that, willing him to leach warmth from her, willing his body to learn from the rhythm of her heartbeat, the steadiness of her breath.

Then the ground beneath them cracked. The sound hit the air like a slap. Freezing water crept onto Hazel's legs.

Hazel looked up. The ice floe they were on had split. Water as dark and sickly as the storm-tossed sky seeped onto their perch.

"Jack," she whispered. "We have to go. Come on." She was trying her best to sound brave and in control, because she was the one whose heart knew how to beat and lungs knew how to breathe and legs knew how to walk, and that pa.s.sed for heroism now.

Hazel wiped her face and stood up, pulling Jack up with her. His legs sank, and she gasped and pulled him back up. "Can you walk?" she whispered, her heart squeezing.

He inhaled. "I think so," he said.

He drew himself up, clutching the baseball in his hand, with Hazel supporting him. The shift in weight caused the ice floe to dip into the black water, and Jack fell back down. Water splashed on him, and he flinched.

The floe was melting. Hazel's eyes snapped to the lake. Around them, the black water was stealthily infiltrating the ice.

"Come on," she said, tugging him up again.

With one arm on Jack's back and another supporting his chest, Hazel pushed him forward. The palace loomed east of them, but to the west was a line of trees. The woods, calling her back.

"This way," she said. They stepped from Jack's floe to the next one. Jack inhaled and looked behind him.

"What?" she said, turning to look. Jack's floe had cracked into four pieces now.

"Nothing," he said, his eyes on the ice behind him. "Come on."

Hazel could feel the water beneath their feet rocking, roused like an awakening beast. The patch of ice rocked with it, and Hazel struggled to keep them both standing. Water lapped away at their perch. The next floe was a giant step away.

"We'll go at the same time," she whispered to Jack. "Ready?"

"Hazel," he said.

"It's okay, Jack," she said.

"Hazel!"

She looked up. Jack was staring off to the right. She followed his gaze and then sucked in a breath.

The palace loomed there watchfully. It was not alone. Standing in front of it, just before the sh.o.r.e of the lake, was the white witch.

Hazel had not realized how tall she was, how oddly thin she was, like a woman made of a cold breath. She seemed almost insubstantial, and yet she emitted a force that made you want to crawl toward her. She was a hundred yards away, but Hazel still felt the touch of those eyes on her. She wondered what the witch was thinking, and if she was impressed with Hazel for convincing Jack to go.

The witch did not step toward them, she did not call to them, she merely stood there, completely still, the center of this desolate universe, while the air bowed to her. Next to Hazel, Jack did not move. He looked at the white witch and Hazel could tell he was making a home in her gaze.

The floe rocked. The water splashed at their feet. Hazel stumbled to the right, carrying Jack with her, and still he did not stop looking at the witch.

"Jack," she said, her voice a hiss. "Come on." She tugged at him, pulling him forward. "Big step now," she whispered, trying to keep her voice from shaking. She did not need to look to know the witch was standing there, perfectly erect, watching them. She could feel her presence, and Jack still could not take his eyes away. But he allowed himself to be pulled along as they lurched over the black crevice to the next floe, Hazel conscious of how clumsy she must look.

They stepped and the floe collapsed. Hazel lunged forward, feeling Jack slip out of her arms. She fell on a small piece of ice, smacking her face again. Her feet landed in the water, and a shock of cold ran through her body so intense she yelped. And then she heard another splash, a bigger one. Jack.

Hazel was alone on the small patch of ice, while freshly displaced water churned next to her. Hazel scampered over to the edge of the ice just as Jack's head burst through the water, eyes popping, his breath sucking in the sky. He threw himself toward the ice floe, and Hazel grabbed onto his left arm.

"It's okay, Jack," she said, panting. "I've got you."

It was only half true. In her mind she saw herself losing her grip, she saw Jack falling into the dark waters, she saw herself rescuing him from the ice only to lose him to something worse.

But Jack threw his right arm on the ice and Hazel helped him prop himself up. His face was white with shock. His chest was heaving frantically. The water had sucked away whatever warmth Hazel had given him. Hazel tugged on his arm and Jack wriggled his way up.

And then he was up and lying on the floe, shuddering.

And still the witch stood there, watching.

Hazel fell on top of him. "Jack, Jack, are you okay?"

He did not answer, only let out a small noise as chills racked his body and Hazel tried so desperately to give him warmth, there on top of the small patch of ice, while the water lapped hungrily at them.

The ice meant safety now, but it could only protect itself, for the water was coming. The ice surrendered bit by bit. Pieces cracked in front of them, and the dark water burst through the cracks. On her perch, Hazel could feel the water beneath her buzzing with greedy antic.i.p.ation.

"Jack," she urged. "We have to go."

He did not talk, did not say a word, but he let her help him up. And then he froze and looked at his empty hand.

"The baseball," he breathed.

"Oh," said Hazel, heart plummeting. "The baseball."

The baseball was gone, consumed by the black waters. It seemed like just an ordinary thing, but it was a baseball, signed by Joe Mauer, and Jack had given it to her, and in that way it was magic.

"Jack, I'm sorry. We have to go. The ice is melting. Come on." She put her arms around him and led him still forward, though the ground heaved and disappeared beneath her feet. And the water roiled, and the witch watched on, and Hazel could hear the bells of her voice in her head: Do you see, now, there are things worse than the ice. Do you see what happens when it melts? Do you see what you did?

Hazel wondered what Jack was hearing. She could not tell, he was just a shivering sh.e.l.l of a boy. Hazel kept talking as they crept along-"Here, step here, be careful, don't slip"-and under her words hummed the whisper: I'm here, I'm here.

And then they were on the sh.o.r.e. Jack still said nothing, and there was nothing to do but trudge through the snow to the woods. Hazel kept her arms around Jack. He was still shuddering, and his muscles seemed only half there, like the rest of him was still on the ice. She kept pattering along, "Almost there, almost there, just a little farther." She didn't know if it was helping Jack, but it gave her some distraction from the things churning inside her. And still he said nothing.

And then they were in front of the woods. And the witch was still there, still watching them, and though Hazel had survived it all, though she had Jack, though she was about to cross the woods to go back home, she still felt like she'd failed.

All you can do, the guard at the village had said, is pretend she's not there.

"We're going into the woods, now," Hazel whispered to Jack. "We're leaving." Say something.

He did not. Hazel inhaled and stepped into the trees, and though the gaze of the witch tugged at her she did not look back.

But she wanted to.

Jack's body tensed sharply as they entered the woods, and Hazel ignored it and moved on. The woods welcomed them back. There was no snowstorm, no churning sky, no a.s.saulting cold on this side of the witch's palace. Maybe because no one had ever left before.

And there, the familiar sound: Tick tock. Tick tock. Hazel breathed it in.

And they went. Hazel dropped her hand and Jack walked on his own, though Hazel stayed close. The sun was rising in the sky, turning the snow on the ground to slush. It was warmer now, survivable. But Jack was still shuddering, still white, like the dark water still coursed in his veins.

"Let's just get ahead a bit," Hazel said. "It warms up soon."

It turned out she did not need the compa.s.s. It was easy to head in the other direction from the lair of the witch. All you had to do was move away from the thing pulling at you.

They walked up a gentle slope, moving through the trees. They did not talk to each other, but Hazel kept glancing at Jack, making sure he was still with her. He was, but barely. He seemed so focused on making his feet move like they were supposed to. And maybe that was all he wanted to think about.

Hazel wanted to ask him what he was thinking, what he was feeling, if he was regretting the witch or was just too tired to think, if he was embarra.s.sed that the princess had rescued the knight or if he didn't mind so much now that it had happened, if he remembered everything that had pa.s.sed, if he was mad at himself for going with the witch, if his warm blood was winning the battle against the water in his veins; she wanted to reach out and grab the things in his mind and heart and hold them so they could examine them together, but they were not hers to take.

So she led Jack along the cart path, following the sound of the clock and pulling away from the cold. The sun was being kind to Jack, warming him gently, giving him what Hazel could not. It was like they'd taken their planned trip into the woods-except then going home would have been as simple as following the breadcrumbs they'd scattered together.

Hazel followed the cart path and the sounds of the clock. The journey this way was easy, though she suspected the woods could lead her wherever they chose.