It was a cold cave, much colder than it had a right to be. Creeping forward, Geppetto leaning against him, Pino had taken only a few steps when he felt the cold seeping into his bones. He felt the deep darkness stealing his heat with every step, leaving him feeling like brittle ice. The ground was uneven, scattered with damp boulders and slick stones. One wrong step and he might stumble; if he stumbled, he would most certainly shatter. That’s what happens to ice. His eyes were open and unblinking, but they might just as well have been closed, for all the good they did. He felt strange too—a strangeness he could not explain, like he was somewhere he didn’t belong. The air smelled dank and foul, as if wet, rotting things had been left there long ago and the smell remained. If he’d had a choice, he most certainly wouldn’t have pressed onward, but the sudden baying of the wolves behind him—a frustrated, almost mournful sound—was like a poker pressed against his back. The wolves howled and whimpered and scratched at the stones at the mouth of the cave, but they did not follow.
