She spun away from the clutch of lodges and ran across the top of the snow — a handful of heartbeats, another handful — then the snow crust broke under her and she staggered, tumbled. Ice bit her hands. She was panting, gulping. Not yet crying. The light shot rainbows into her eyes. A cold wind whipped her hair everywhere. It howled in her ears like a lost thing. She knew exactly what the noose was for. It wasn’t something she could run from, but as she knelt in the snow her body jerked and jerked as if it needed to run. “Belt of the Spider.” The words seemed to come through her from somewhere else. “Belt of the Spider. By the potter and the weaver — by … Mother.” She felt a hand on her shoulder. Kestrel, crouching by her, balanced on top of the wind-sculpted drifts of the snow. Cricket was there too, though the snow wouldn’t hold him. He kept breaking through it, stumbling, loud as a buffalo. “Better she choose her time,” said Kestrel. “Better her own noose than a spear to the heart.”
