CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVEThe Arrowhead
The journey took hours and my feet dragged, tripping on tree roots and protruding stumps. It appeared the landscape conspired to drive me in a contrary course to the one I sought. Sorrel forged ahead, turning when I indicated the route I preferred and not questioning my reaction to the strange tugging in my chest when it resumed. Our fingernails turned blue and our flesh a mottled pink. That’s when I discovered Sorrel’s horrible tendency to describe everything in terms of food.
“I could eat a juicy sausage right now,” he commented, his teeth chattering as he pulled me from yet another deep drift. Ice consumed me to the waist.
“If you’re referring to my fingers, keep your thoughts to yourself!” I snapped, neither the biting cold nor his peculiar humour to
