The downpour of falling leaves left the trees bare, and so came the time of the year when Frostspire truly lived up to its name. Winter arrived, tugging the end of the year in its wake.

By the end of autumn, Aunt Elena had finished working upon yet another one of her undertakings, with the help of her 'bee lady' this time.

It was a tiny house in one corner of the grounds, its walls and roof all made of sheets of glass. Wooden frames held it aloft, complete with a small door with a round window on it. Inside it was wonderfully warm, and there the plants thrived, untouched by winter.

Day and night, Alvar looked after them, and by the end of each day he would be exhausted, because the flowers in the garden outside the glass-house needed more magic than ever to be kept well.

In the cold nights, snowstorms howled high up in the mountains and the forest and through the village. In the mornings he and Aunt Elena would be up at the roof, shovelling off layers of snow. By the time they would be done, their hands would ache from the cold, faces flushed pink.

"Let's get you a nice hot cup of tea before you freeze to death!" She always said, though she was just as cold as he was.

It was wonderful to sink into the armchair before the fire with the warm cup in hand, and even someone like Alvar didn't feel like going out and working.

One such lazy morning, he willed himself to go out, and half an hour later, he returned with a bunch of white tulips.

He placed them on the shop counter. "Could you help me get them ready?"

Aunt Elena rose from her crouch and set the watering can aside. She sighed as her eyes landed upon the flowers. "Ah. It's today, isn't it?"

Alvar nodded in silence, placing the flowers apart and brushing flecks of snow off the petals. She snipped off bits of the stems, arranged them, tied them with string, and at last wrapped them up, a pale blue ribbon fastened to the front.

"Let's go," she said quietly and picked up her parasol. It was a delicate thing made out of black lace, fit for a sunny day outside.

Today it was not the case, and snow fell steadily as they made their way to the cemetery on the outskirts of the village. They'd made the same journey many months ago under a starry night.

A year had gone by since Gran passed away.

They placed the flowers on her grave and paid their respects. After a while, Aunt Elena had to excuse herself, as she'd left the shop unattended, which was just as well, because Alvar wanted to be alone for some time.

Sitting cross-legged on a nearby tree-root, he watched the mountain tops gleam in the distance. A gust of wind ruffled the flowers they'd put on the grave. Moss grew on her headstone and dandelions swayed at its feet.

Cracks had begun to appear on the lettering.

Her magic could do wonderful things, rejuvenate wilted leaves and make flowers grow out of stones, but against the decay of time, it had little power. Her enchanted plants had lived long, but not forever. Neither had she. But her legacy would continue to live on through him.

"I've learnt all your spells and read all your stories," Alvar told her. He rubbed his eyes on the heels of his hands and smiled. "I didn't even put them off for later, like I always used to!"

Silence lay still in the cemetery, save for the wind, the creaking of branches and rustling of leaves, and his own voice as he told her all about the things that had happened after she left.

"You would've loved what we have done with the place. Most of it was Aunt Elena's idea, though. She always has these fantastic ideas. We've got a herb garden now, a glass-house and a bird feeder. Oh, I wasn't sure about that last one, but it's wonderful. There're so many birds in the garden every morning!"

He sat there for a long time and told her about the Ursanthus tree, about Ilaira, about the little adventures he and Lars had shared and the strange creatures and people they had encountered. He smiled to himself as he talked about the playful shenanigans of Snatcher and Marcella. It was strangely freeing, to speak his heart out here where nobody would listen.

When he ambled out of the cemetery gate, he saw a figure in the distance, coming up the street. He wiped the tears off his red-rimmed eyes.

It was Lars, clutching a bouquet of white lilies. He too remembered.

Alvar gazed at the papers and maps on the workdesk, pointedly avoiding Lars' eyes, barely touching the cup of tea the wizard had placed before him. He'd thought those travel plans had been forgotten, but he had been ever so wrong. They had always been there, even if they were buried out of sight with other things that had kept him busy. Two trunks sat in the foyer, all packed up and locked, ready to go.

It was work, Lars insisted, that there was something the townsfolk there needed him to sort out, but Alvar knew better than to believe that. The Call of the Unknown was upon him and he was sure of it.

He looked even more sullen when Lars placed a tray of cookies before him.

Alvar had nothing against those, of course. They were sweet and splendid and perfect in every way, but they reminded him too much of the evening the two had spent baking them.

It was Alvar who had done most of the baking part. Lars swooped in, insisting on keeping an eye on him so another 'demonic soup incident' could be avoided.

He had found it very difficult to concentrate on the task at hand with Lars quite literally wrapped around him, chin propped on his shoulder, scrutinizing his every move. He watched with a big goofy grin as Alvar added in chunks of chocolate.

"You just want to taste the dough, don't you?" Alvar said.

Lars cleared his throat. "If you need an expert's opinion, I'll be happy to oblige."

Shaking his head, Alvar reached over for a spoon and presented him with just a small amount. He didn't want him to get sick. Lars returned it, spotless clean.

"Well?" asked Alvar. "Do I need more sugar?"

Lars drew closer and kissed him on the cheek. "No. You don't."

"Good."

"As for the dough, I think you ought to add some more sugar."

Alvar blushed up to his ears and grumbled but he did add a spoonful to the mix. The results were amazing.

And even after all that, he was leaving.

"Would you look after the house for me when I'm gone?" Lars asked now, filling up his own cup of tea.

No, Alvar wanted to say with all the stubbornness he could muster.

But all he said was, "how long would you be gone?"

"I can't tell you for sure."

"When will you return?"

"As I've already told you, as soon as my work is finished--"

"Will you return?"

Lars paused, stopping midway in the act of reaching for his hands. He thought of the mine he was going to visit. It was an ancient thing, delving deep under the earth, and a great underground city had risen around it, where the fires burned bright and high in the forges and wizard-smiths worked day and night upon their wondrous creations. There, precious gems gleamed in the veins of ore and embers flew in the wind. It was just the sort of place where folk like him would be drawn to, where the Call could be the loudest.

Alvar's hands clasped around his, rough and freezing cold from all that time out in the graveyard, and he was pulled back from the reverie of burning furnaces and leaping fires.

"You don't have to answer," he said.

Lars had half a mind to reveal to him the true purpose behind this trip, and would have thoroughly ruined the long-planned surprise, too, if a knock did not fall upon the door at that moment.

It was Sigrid, the blacksmith. He wondered at once if it was about her ailing father, but that was not the case this time.

"Begging your pardon." She swept in, clad in heavy furs and big boots, and brushed snow off her hood. Lars offered her a cup of tea.

"Need your help down at the smithy," she said, and took a generous sip of the tea. "Ah. Good stuff, this."

Lars poured her some more. "What seems to be the problem?"

"Fire's not heating up well," she said. "I've tried fixing it myself, but nothing works. There's nothing wrong with the furnace. Coal's not damp either. But it's never hot enough to forge anything. Now, if I don't get it running soon, I don't suppose I'll be able to supply all the tools people will need when spring comes around. I've got plenty of orders lined up from the neighbouring villages as well, lots of repairs to make."

They waited a little for the storm to die down, and headed out, down to the village and then to the smithy.

It was spacious, but rather dark and dreary, with soot covering the walls. Alvar thought it fit his mood perfectly.

A great furnace occupied one wall, and the others were lined up with shelves and racks full of tools--tongs, knives, hammers, nails of every shape and size, rakes and scythes, and many broken things that needed repair. An anvil sat on a big stump near the furnace and a pair of sturdy leather gloves and apron lay tossed over a chair. A damp chill lingered in the room.

And true to her words, the fire was just not burning hot enough, even when she stoked it with a huge bellows. The flames looked bright, but little warmth came from them, scarcely enough to heat up the room, much less melt iron.

Alvar crouched and tried to warm his hands over it, but to little effect. It didn't feel like fire at all.

"It's like the heat's getting stolen away," he said. "It feels cold."

"How very strange," said Lars. He struck his staff on the ground and summoned flames of his own. He merged them with the fire of the furnace.

It flared up high, lighting up the smithy for a brief moment, only to go right back to the way it was with a depressing whoosh.

He tried many different ways, lifting the damp from the kindling, tossing in a fresh bunch of firewood, reworking the bellows with magic, and he even took out strange powders from his satchel and threw them into the fire, which made it change colour--first green, then blue and purple, then back to gold again.

Yet nothing seemed to resolve the issue.

By the time Lars had exhausted all his tricks and energy, it was late in the afternoon and the westering sun was low on the horizon. Alvar returned to the smithy around this time, having just closed the shop.

"Any luck?" he asked.

"It seems I'll have to postpone my trip to the mines for a bit," Lars said as he sank into the chair with a sigh and loosened the clasp of his cloak. "I can't leave with a job unfinished."

I hope this job remains unfinished forever, thought Alvar, but he couldn't bring himself to say it. Everyone would be in trouble if the smithy shut down.

Sigrid walked in with two steaming mugs of ginger tea. Lars was beyond thankful, because he was thoroughly exhausted and the chill of the smithy seemed to seep into his bones.

"I can't figure this one out, Sig," he said, smiling sheepishly. "Sorry."

"It's alright," she said. "Don't worry about it. I'll see if I can get the smith from Roselake to come and have a look. Thank you for your time, anyway."

After she was gone, he and Alvar sat side by side on the doorstep of the smithy, drinking their tea. Lights were coming to life in the windows of the surrounding houses.

"So you're back on schedule again," said Alvar.

Lars nodded quietly, watching the steam rise from his mug, shimmering in the faint light of the smithy behind.

That was when he saw it.

A hovering speck of silver light, shaped like a snowflake, bobbed up and down, basking in the warmth of the steam yet not melting. A tail-like projection was attached to the back, and it moved like a fish, swimming through the air.

Startled, Lars nearly dropped the mug. He got to his feet, and there were more of those strange things, appearing wherever the steam from the cup drifted.

"Of course! Why didn't I think of this earlier?" he muttered. "Think the cold is really getting to my head these days."

"What are you--?" began Alvar, but the wizard shushed him at once.

He reached into his satchel, and brought out a stub of a candle, what remained of Aunt Elena's gift. He lit it, and holding it out with one hand, walked around the smithy, shedding light upon the sooty walls.

The silvery shapes were everywhere, covering the top halves of the walls and the corners of the ceiling. They crept out of their hiding, drawn by the flame of the candle. Lars peered inside the furnace, and there they were, scores of them, nestled in the inner walls. He stooped down, and there were more of them between the old floorboards. Together, they emitted a faint humming sound one could only hear if they listened very closely.

"What..." Alvar stepped back, wide eyes looking all over the place. "What are these things?"

Lars lowered the candle and smiled fondly. "Little troublemakers," he said. "They are called Snow Sprites."

As Alvar reached out, one of the snowflake-like creatures landed on his hand. It was pretty enough to look at, but he let go at once as a jolt of cold spread through his entire arm. "Ow!"

Lars chuckled. "What were you expecting? They're born from snow and so feed upon all warmth they come across."

He held up the candle once more, and as one of the sprites drifted down within reach of the heat, he seized its tail and caught it carefully, his palm covered with a corner of his green cloak.

"It's said when the cold reaches its peak in the middle of winter, the snow in the mountains begins to stir, alive with the souls of those who had lost their way there and died," he said.

"They're tiny little ghosts," said Alvar, letting one rest upon his shoulder.

"That's one way to put it," Lars said, laughing. "They're mostly harmless. Sometimes they come down from the mountains, riding the winds. And then they gather in closed places such as these, preferably near a big fire, and eat away all the heat."

They called Sigrid and told her what was happening. She and her father came into the smithy carrying big, bright lanterns, and were astonished to see the Snow Sprites nestled there.

"That's why I tell you to clean up," said the old man to his daughter. "There's a whole colony of 'em now."

"I clean up all the time!" protested Sigrid.

Her father heaved a dejected sigh, sweeping one finger along the walls and seeing how much soot came off.

"How do we fix this then?" he asked Lars.

"Won't be too difficult, now that we know what's been causing the trouble," he said. "Letting in some sunlight should do the trick. The Snow Sprites crave warmth, after all. We'll give them just that, and it ought to drive them out. The question is, how do we do that?"

"Simple. Keep all your doors and windows open in the morning," said Alvar.

But there was only one narrow window in the smithy, and only one door.

He looked thoughtfully at the ceiling. "And if it weren't enough, you could remove some of those tiles to let the sun in."

"I'll do it first thing tomorrow morning, then. Can't put it off for too long," said Sigrid. "Hope it doesn't snow."

Lars smiled reassuringly. "It won't. You'll see."

So it came to be that Lars had to postpone his trip to the mining city for one more day. The next morning came clear and bright, and not a cloud was in the sky, just as he'd predicted. It was a lovely day for a walk.

Around mid-morning Alvar took a break, and he and Lars came strolling by the smithy where Sigrid and her father were busy prying open a few tiles on the roof. The door and window were wide open, and sunrays streamed in the dark and dreary room for the first time since ages, flooding the place with light warm and golden.

Sigrid entered with a mop and a bucket, and began scrubbing the soot off the walls, as if that would make the Snow Sprites leave faster.

The sprites left on their own.

They rose from the nooks and crannies of the cramped smithy, hundreds of them, and they drifted away through the bright square of light on the roof, up and up and up, towards the blinding sun.

She let her mop drop to the floor as she watched them, a stream of snowflakes coiling in a spiral as the wind bore them aloft, higher and higher until they were nothing more than a streak of pale light in the blue sky. She came out of the door and stood on the street beside Alvar and Lars, and watched until the Snow Sprites faded away into the sun.

"What'll become of them?" Sigrid wondered out loud, burly arms crossed.

"Maybe the lost souls would finally find the warmth they seek," Lars said. "Or maybe they'll infest someone else's home and I'll have to go sort it out again."

"Let's check if your furnace is working now," said Alvar.

Sure enough, the fire blazed merrily as Sigrid worked the bellows and sent a mighty jet of air into the hearth. Soon it became sweltering hot in the confines of the smithy, and there was no doubt that every last one of the Snow Sprites had left.

Sigrid shed her heavy cloak and donned her leather apron and gloves, and fumbled around in the pile of things to repair. She picked up an old kitchen knife and examined its dulled edge. Lars had left it here many days ago, having ruined it trying to slice pieces of Mr. Launceleyn's famous pumpkin. He'd almost forgotten about it.

"Ah, it's about time you fixed it," he told her. "I don't even know why you put it off. Sharpening a blade doesn't require fire, as far as I'm aware."

"Oh, forget this dull old thing," said Sigrid, "I'm gonna forge you a new one!"

He sat with Alvar and watched her hammer the red hot piece of iron into shape, dip it in a pail of water that hissed, then hammer it again until she was quite pleased with its look. She sharpened it upon a whetstone and gave it a sleek, wooden handle, and, finally, showed off a bit of her whittling skills by carving a pattern of vines around it.

"Marvelous!" Lars said as Sigrid handed him the new knife. "Too marvelous, in fact. I'll feel bad chopping cabbages with it. No, this calls for a special occasion."

"And when is that?" asked Sigrid. "I won't have you put it aside and let it rust away."

Alvar cleared his throat. "Well, a certain someone once told me any day can be special--if we want."

"Sounds like a very wise person," said Lars, too busy admiring the shiny new knife. "Anyway, I'm making cabbage stew for dinner, and you all are invited."

It was a great dinner. Alvar, Aunt Elena, the beekeeper from Roselake, Sigrid and her father were all there, rejoicing that the smithy was finally up and running. Lars' cooking was incredible as always, and there were many other dishes besides the stew. They left, late at night, in high spirits and full of praise for the food.

Lars came to the front gates to see them off.

"Mind joining me for a nightcap?" he asked Alvar, when the others were a few paces ahead, out of earshot.

He poured them some warm brandy, and they sat on the porch, drinking quietly together. It was a clear night, much like the day that had preceded it, and stars shone high above the distant mountains, their snowy peaks silver in the moonlight.

All that lay cast aside, Alvar gazed at him for a long moment. In all the time they'd spent together, it was the first time the wizard had invited him for a late night drink such as this.

"When are you leaving?" he asked the much-loathed question.

"Tomorrow at daybreak," Lars said.

"It is the Call, isn't it?"Alvar smiled sadly. "You remember what I said about tying yourself to a pole if the Call gets too strong? It isn't too late to give it a try, you know?"

Lars shook his head. "There's no need for that. Just stay with me for a while."

He did. A while stretched into an hour, then a few more hours. Alvar did not go back home that night. They lay on the couch, huddled under a thick patchwork blanket that was much too small for them, for Lars had the limbs of a tree, and they had to make room for Marcella. They talked long into the night about anything and everything, and at last Alvar went to sleep on top of him with his head against his chest. Lars lay awake for a long time, gently running his fingers through his hair.

Dawn came, cold and grey. He had to get up carefully so as not to wake him. In silence, he donned his cloak, picked up his trunks, his flying broom tucked under his arm.

As cruel as it seemed, he didn't want to say goodbye, because he firmly believed this would not be their last time together. Yet despite all his efforts at being quiet, just as he tiptoed out of the door and pulled the front gate open, he heard a voice.

Alvar stood at the doorstep, rubbing sleep from his eyes. He held out his staff. "You forgot this."

Lars dropped the trunks and even his much-treasured broomstick, and shuffled back to him, sweeping him into an embrace that lifted him off his feet.

Afterwards, Alvar sat on the porch alone for a long time, watching the lithe figure on the broom drift far away into the hazy morning mist.