Suddenly molly stumbled to a halt. She thought she’d heard a voice. Slowing her breath, she listened. No—only the wind.
But what was that there? It looked like a great tree: one she half-remembered, with an odd sly memory, that slid in and out of her mind. No—it was only a shadow, cast by the moon.
A bone-chilling wind played in the branches high above.
Out of the hiss and clatter, molly suddenly thought she heard words. Are you warm, child? said the wind, half-laughing.
In fact, molly felt her bones would splinter like frost-killed branches, but she replied steadily, “Who are you? Are you sending the frost?”
There was a very long silence. molly wondered if she had imagined the voice. Then it seemed she heard, mockingly, And why not? I, too, am angry. The voice seemed to throw echoes,
