Benyamin, like Laylee, wasn’t at all surprised by the commotion; in fact, he’d been expecting it. He’d come into town for the express purpose of its busy business (you will remember that Benyamin intended to sell his saffron flowers at the market) and, besides, it was the beginning of Yalda, the most important holiday of the year, and people were flooding into town from all distant reaches of the city in order to celebrate.

The festivities were scheduled to begin at sundown—which meant they’d be starting in just a few hours—and Benyamin was hoping to sell his wares swiftly so he might have a chance to experience the evening with his new companions. He wouldn’t be able to stay out all night (as was the tradition) because his mother would be up waiting for him, but even a few hours of fun would be more than he’d had in a long while.

Laylee, too, for all her reluctance to celebrate the winter solstice, was feeling inspired to enjoy herself. Her lengthy conversation with Oliver had buoyed her spirits, and the simple reassurance of a sympathetic heart by her side was enough to reinvigorate her courage for just a bit longer. Thinking of Oliver now, she glanced in his direction with an innocent curiosity—only to find that he was already looking at her. Catching her eye, he smiled. It was the kind of smile that lit up his whole face, warmed his violet eyes, and sent a shock of panic through Laylee’s heart.

Laylee quickly looked away, horrified, and tried to compose herself.

The four of them pushed and shoved their way through the throng, Benyamin’s barrow leading the group. He cut a straight line through the crowds, passersby jumping out of the way just in time to avoid being nicked by his wheel, and the three others followed close behind, sticking together lest they got lost in the shuffle.

The station was abuzz with shouted conversations and shrieking whistles. Diaphanous clouds of smoke hung haphazardly in the air, filtering sunlight in ghostly, gauzy streaks that painted people in binary strokes: light and dark, good and evil. Coats and cloaks swished past in droves; capes and canes kicked up in the breeze; top hats and bowler hats tipped down to bid adieu. Pedestrians were bundled in fur coats and boots, ladies were swathed in colorful scarves, children kept warm with mufflers at hand, and babies were swaddled in layers of cashmere. Whichwood was a city of surprisingly stylish residents, whose lace veils and jauntily tilted caps turned the wintertide itself into a fashionable affair.

There were only four persons present whose underwhelming appearance gave the people something to talk about—and Laylee, most of all.

She was impossible to ignore.

Unlike most Whichwoodians, Laylee never smiled; she never said hello, never apologized for bumping into strangers, never spoke at all except with her eyes—terrifying passersby with a single silver look, sharp and inquisitive and alien in the light. Worse: her outmoded attire was smeared in old blood, and her scarlet cloak rippled around her as she moved, whipping open in the wind to reveal the ominous, ancient tools she wore around her waist. It was a disturbing sight, all of it, but even all this might’ve been overlooked if it weren’t for the sound—goodness, the sound—that made her so conspicuous. The bones on her back clattered like a second heartbeat—cloc cloc, cloc cloc—in an eerie, unworldly echo well-known to the citizens of Whichwood. That sound meant the mordeshoor was among them—which meant death itself was among them—and the people shrank back in fear and horror and disgust. Every bone-rattling step elicited dark looks and pursed lips and hushed whispers. Children gasped and pointed; parents pushed away in a hurry; no one dared interfere with the mordeshoor or her business, but they never treated her with any measure of kindness, either. Even among her own people, Laylee was a pariah, and only her many pretensions could protect her from their cruelty.

Lucky for her pride, Alice and Oliver were too frozen to have noticed any of this.

Cold had penetrated everything, and now that they’d left the warmth of their glass coaches behind, the children were seized anew by the body-clenching chill of the winter day. All four were in a hurry to find shelter, and it was their single focus as they broke free of the busy station. But just as soon as they cleared the crowds and stepped onto the main street, Alice and Oliver were overcome—rooted to the ground in awe and admiration.

In the madness of escaping the station, Alice and Oliver hadn’t noticed one very important detail: They were walking on ice, not earth. The heart of Whichwood, you see, had few proper streets; it was connected not by land, but by a series of rivers and canals. Summer in the city was navigated almost entirely by boat, and winter in Whichwood—unequivocally the most spectacular time of year—was navigated by horse-drawn sleigh, as the waters froze over so splendidly that they became one continuous, solid surface.

The concrete water underfoot was sixteen shades of blue—waves and bubbles fossilized at their most colorful moments—and the city itself was a sensational old world of majestic domes and terrifying spires, vividly rendered in the still-falling snow. The people of Whichwood were regularly awed and humbled by the magnificence of their own architecture, and Alice and Oliver were no different. Ferenwood was an undoubtedly beautiful city, but it paled in comparison to the grandeur of Laylee’s world.

There were more buildings here than Alice could name, more shops, more stalls, more vendors and open-air markets than she’d ever seen. Children ice-skated down the main stretch while merchants shook fists at their recklessness; horse-drawn sleighs carted families from one boutique to another while shopkeepers swept fresh snow into tidy piles. One brave shepherd wove his bleating sheep through the crowds, flurries catching in their wool, stopping only to purchase a cup of tea and candied oranges for the road.