He was half a man's height off the ground on a snowbank that was soft loose powder, but he wasn't sinking in. Eight slow steps brought him to the shoveled walkway, and he let himself gracefully down into it using the handle of the shovel, still stuck in the snow, for balance. I watched, confused and a little unwilling to believe what I was seeing.

"It's all right if you think it's impossible, I wouldn't blame you," he said. "I don't mind. But I don't want you calling me a liar and I don't want you thinking that I'm unbalanced."

"What else do you want me to think, Lucas?" I asked.

"Think that I'm playing pretend, like children do, or maybe think that I'm open-minded enough to try an experiment. Just...I don't want you to ignore me, I wouldn't know what to do. I don't want you to treat me like a stranger, Christopher. I don't ask much of people, I don't even ask this much of most others. Please."

No one likes to admit they're wrong, particularly after shouting about it, and no one likes their irrational anger to be met with such quiet steadfastness. But by the same token, I was pleased that Lucas did want me to think well of him, me specifically. That he was fond of me.

"Why?" I asked.

"Why what? Why try it?"

"Why do you care so much that I believe you?"

"Dunno about believing," he said, kicking at the snow. "It's important that someone know. So if something goes wrong, you at least have an idea of why."

"Goes wrong?" I asked, suddenly alarmed. "Lucas, what do you mean, goes wrong?"

"Well..." he laughed, a sharp and not entirely cheerful crack of noise between us. "If you don't believe it works, there's nothing to worry about. It's not like I'm going to try and shed my mortal shell or something. It's not that dramatic."

"Lucas, really, please stay here for a few days," I said. "It's a long hike out, and you can't think you'll be able to carry many groceries back with you."

"I don't need many groceries," he said softly. "But if it would make you happier, Christopher, I can stay for a few days. There's probably rooms down at the hotel now that the storm's over, right?"

"Probably," I said carefully.

"That's fine, then." He gnawed his lip and looked around. "When will the shop be open?"

"Did you want something?" I asked.

"I was just wondering."

"Well, it's open now if you need it, you know that," I said.

"I don't," he insisted, rather more forcefully than really necessary. "I just wanted to know. I thought I'd come by and have a look around later."

"All right," I said. "Well, I'll have the rest shoveled in a little while, then I'll open up. Where are you going in the meantime?"

"Down to the department store for some clothes. I'll be back later, I guess."

I nodded and watched as he climbed carefully back onto the snow, using the same slightly-sunken impressions as before. I stayed where I was until he had disappeared behind the snow-plow's wall.

After he was gone I walked carefully down to the edge of the unshoveled snow. One of the footsteps he'd made was near enough to touch and shone oddly in the overcast light. I leaned over and examined it, brushing a few flakes of snow away.

Disbelieving, I slid my fingers around a smooth, solid, rounded edge. With a slight tug, the whole thing came free and I held a clear chunk of ice in my hands. It was wide enough to disperse a man's weight and an inch thick, flawless as glass. The pattern of a boot-print was delicately etched in the top. Even as I stared, it slipped out of my hands and fell to the pavement, shattering into fragments.

It was the only footprint close enough to be in the way of my shoveling. I cleared the walkway, stolidly ignoring the rest of the ice as it began to melt and crack.

We didn't talk about it when he came back to the shop later, to browse. Not what I'd said, not what he'd said, not the ice footprints that had melted since that morning. We didn't talk about much, but he seemed less tense – not talking was something we were good at. He showed me the shirts he'd bought at the store, and that was about it.

Maybe we should have talked, but for once I had no idea what I would have said.

Chapter Nine

"Have you ever thought about how amazing hands are?"

I looked up at Lucas through the steam rising from my coffee cup. It was reassuringly hot, a nice contrast to the frost-patterned window of the cafe and the snow that still clung to my boots and trouser-cuffs. I'd caught him just ordering dinner as I came in for a little warmth and society on Christmas eve, and he'd actually invited me to come sit with him – though he'd interrupted Carmen taking his order as he called out to me. He'd been cringing about his faux pas for several minutes.

Things between us had settled back to normal again, or at least we were pretending they had. Lucas had stayed in town well past the "few days" I'd asked for. Snow had continued to fall gently most evenings, which made walking back to The Pines especially difficult. But, judging by the bags of clothing and groceries under the table and the snowshoes leaning against the wall, he was planning on going back tonight. Probably just as well. He seemed to be itching to make sure nothing dire had happened to his cottage and his masks.

"Hands," he prompted, and I realized I'd been studying him without really listening.

"Hands? Are you drunk?" I asked, raising an eyebrow.