Buff’s younger sister, Darce, is a prettylittle thing of all of twelve years old, like Joles. After theirmother died of the Cold three years ago, she took over the motherlyduties of raising all six of Buff’s other little brothers andsisters, as well as feeding Buff and his father. She’s a womantrapped in a girl’s body. The exact opposite of what my mother hasbecome.

I pause on the edge of a large, snow-coveredrock before I make the final descent, breathing in the crisp,pine-scented air and gazing down the mountainside. The first partis covered in a winter blanket of white, smooth and unmarked exceptfor the handful of trails where the snowshoes of treejackers andminers have trod a deep path in the high crests of powdery snow.But eventually, beyond the snowy slopes, the mountain turns brown,dotted with heavy boulders and spindly, leafless trees. Furtherdown still, heavy oaks rise tall and majestic, all the way to theedge of ice country, where it seems to collide with fire country.The desert, they call it, bare and lifeless. Even the sky seems torecognize the difference, as the moment the forest gives way tosand and dirt, the clouds stop, as if running up against aninvisible barrier that ends their unceasing march across the nightsky.

For a moment, as I have many times before, Iwonder what’s out there, in fire country, beyond the borders. Fromwhat the men at Fro-Yo’s say, there are the Heaters, a peacefultribe of desert-dwellers. Then there are the Glassies, who I liketo call the Pasties, on account of how eerily white their skin is,even whiter than most of ours. No one really knows where they camefrom, but they’re our friends, too, apparently. According to KingGoff’s shouters, who come down from the palace a few times a yearto present us with news from the crown, we have trade agreementswith both the Heaters and the Pasties. We give them wood, bearmeat, and a few other odds and ends, and the Heaters give us whatthey call tug and ’zard meat, which have become something of adelicacy. I don’t know what either a tug or a ’zard is, but the fewtimes I’ve been lucky enough to eat their meat, I’ve beenimpressed—it’s much better than bear or rabbit. The Heaters alsohelp guard our borders, although I’m not sure who they’re guardingagainst. The Pasties, on the other hand, are something of anenigma. No one seems to know what we get from them in exchange forthe provisions we provide them with.

I’ve never seen a Heater before, but the menat the pub say they have brown skin and are scared of being cold,whatever that means. That’s why they never come up the mountain.The Pasties, however, appear from time to time in the WhiteDistrict, on their way to the palace. They never stop at any of thelocal businesses, nor do they speak to anyone but each other. Afterdisappearing through the palace gates, they reappear a few hourslater and march right back down the mountain and toward firecountry and their Glass City, which I’ve also never seen, otherthan in the paintings you can buy in Chiller’s Market. But as faras I’m concerned, the drawings are pure fiction—no one could builda glass structure big enough to enclose an entire town.

In fire country, there’s also the Fire, whichwe call the Cold, an airborne plague that kills many each year,both in fire and ice country. Only, down there, on the flatlands,it’s much worse, or so they say, killing many of them before theirthirtieth year. I shudder as a burst of ice runs down my spine. IfI lived in fire country, I’d be more than halfway through my life.At least up here where it snows almost every day of the year, theCold is slowed, allowing us to live into our forties. It certainlyputs things into perspective.

It’s forbidden to go to fire country, onaccount of the disease.

I turn to look up at the monster-like peaksrising above me to the north. Sometimes during the day, when a rareray of sunlight manages to squeeze through the towers of clouds,one of the peaks looks like the head of a wolf, with caves for eyesand a gaping crevice with fang-like rock formations protruding fromits craggy lips. But at night it just looks like a superior being,sturdy and unchanging, even when the whole world around it seems tobe constantly moving in a million directions.

Under my breath I whisper a silent prayer tothe Heart of the Mountain for luck tonight, and continue down thetrail.

Buff’s family’s place is a dilapidated woodenstructure that’s half the size of our sturdy house. Unlike ourthick, full-trunked walls, their walls are constructed of thinplanks with chunks of mud frozen solid between them. It does wellenough to keep the cold air out, but only when there’s a fire goingin a pit in the center and you’re wearing three layers of clothing.For Buff, going to Fro-Yo’s means a bit of real warmth he can’t getat home. I want to help him recover that right more thananything.

My hands are too cold to pound on anotherdoor, so I just open it.

Inside, there’s chaos.

One of Buff’s little sisters is shovelingspoons of soup into her mouth so fast that it’s dripping from herchin, while he tries to get her to eat slower. One of his youngerbrothers, who’s practically a clone of Buff, is running aroundnaked as Darce tries to corral him into a melted-snow bath. Yetanother little-person is painting streaks of brown on the wall withhis hands. Only it’s not paint. It’s mud, which he’s collectingfrom a mushy pit on the dirt floor. The unmatched assortment ofbeds against one wall are scattered with a few more dozingchildren. Buff’s father isn’t there—another late night at thelumber yards.

When Buff sees me, he shoots me athank-the-Heart-of-the-Mountain look, grabs his heaviest coat, andpushes me out the door, shouting, “Darce, I’m going out—be backlate.” He slams the door behind him. “What took you so freezin’long,” he snaps, his eyes darting around as if more of his maniacsiblings might be hiding outside somewhere.

Smirking, I lay down my trump card. “Joles,”I say, not admitting to the five minutes of peace I spent on themountainside.

His face softens and his eyes focus on me forthe first time. “Alright, alright, you got me. C’mon.”

We make our way through his neighborhood,catching a few glances from the lucky few who happen to havewindows in their huts, giving us looks and shaking their heads asif we’re no more than common hooligans. Don’t they know we have analmost perfect pub-fighting record? I stare right back at them,give them a growl, and a few of them shrink back and out of sight.I laugh.

“Do you have to do that?” Buff says.

“Yah,” I say. “What’s eating you, man? You’reacting all uptight tonight.”

Buff’s steps are more like stomps beside myeasy footfalls. “I am not uptight!” he snaps, proving my point. Herealizes it, shakes his head, and says, “I don’t know, I’m justnervous and frustrated about…” His voice fades into the nightbreeze.

“About Fro-Yo’s?”

Stomp, stomp, stomp. I stop him, put bothhands on his shoulders. “It’ll be fine, all right? We’ll get themoney, get our pub rights back, maybe even get real jobsafterwards. Then we’ll start our climb to the top, where it’ll befull of White District ladies dying to take us home to meet theirparents. But we’ll reject every last one of them.”

Buff snorts. Finally my easygoing best friendis back. He slaps my arms away. “You can reject them all you want,but that doesn’t mean I have to.”

“Whatever pulls your sled,” I say.

We trudge along in silence for a few minutes.“Hey,” I say, remembering Looza’s pouch. “Want to share mystew?”

Buff flashes me a do-you-really-have-to-asklook, so I hand him the pouch. He slurps at it, groaning indelight. “You made this?” he says between his slurp-chews.

“Naw. It’s Looza’s.” I grab it back after hesucks in another mouthful. “Leave me some, man.” I ease some of thechunky liquid past my lips, relishing the perfectly balancedcombination of flavors. Looza may not trust me to do the rightthing by my sister, but she sure can whip up a good stew. I finishit off, wishing I’d asked for two servings, and then tuck the emptypouch in my pocket to return to her tomorrow.