Death comes for her in the night, drawn by hypothermia, and she turns it away with an upraised hand. It lopes under the dancing sky, circling her, trampling the reflections of ten thousand stars.
You are mine, it says. You are mine four times over, now. Come with me.
Not yet, she says. Not yet. We made a bargain. My debt can still be repaid. I have the souls of crows to offer—
Death howls, and the moon shivers on its throne of starlight. You are past the worth of crows, Death says. You are past all hope. Come with me.
But she does not lower her hand.
Come to me again when I have killed the winter, she says. They say you are a patient thing. Be patient. I have work to do.