There's a girl on the ground. She's dressed in a tunic with thick vertical stripes, light green and lighter brown in colour. She wears a sash that could be woven from the ocean and one worn-out slipper of red, as well as an under-skirt of orange of and off-white. Her fingernails are cracked and bleeding, her skin is covered in purple welts, and her long, blonde hair is a stringy mess. There's a layer of dust all over her, as well as mud patches that seem to be ground into her clothes and skin. She's very pale, and it's a very cold night. Her eyes are closed and her breathing is weak; there's a string of blood coming from her nose and the corner of her pink mouth. In a few minutes she'll be dead.

Jaulin stands in front of the girl, smiling at her mismatched clothing, tattered at every edge. He sits down on his haunches and lets his long, bony fingers caress the girl's upper arm. She's in her early teens, it appears, and her skin is very soft. She shudders at his touch and, though she is unconscious, pulls away. Jaulin smiles, for as chilling as the night air is, his fingertips are colder.

He puts on his white leather gloves, embroidered with silver snowflakes, and picks the girl up. She's lighter than he thought she'd be, considering the temperature and her age. Jaulin comes to the conclusion that she's not eaten much in the last few days, and though her clothes hide it, she's very thin.

Through the city streets he walks, the girl gasping for breath, her face resting against his chest. Not many are out this night, which is predictable and convenient. Those that dare the streets look at the gentleman in all white holding the street child and decide it's none of their concern and continue with their business. This suits Jaulin fine. He continues through the streets at a phantom-like pace, the girl slipping closer into the final sleep with each passing moment.

They reach the outskirts of town and stand before the woods. Jaulin whistles softly and out of a snow-bank bursts a large white horse with silver trimmings. Jaulin climbs into the saddle, the girl curled up against him. Prompted by another whistle, the horse races away into the woods, which glow from the town lights hitting the snow.

The horse speeds through the wind, kicking up white flurries in his wake. The girl begins to shudder in Jaulin's arms, and he places his hand on her forehead to comfort her. She opens her mouth for a moment, then closes it again, her eyes twitching beneath their lids. Jaulin smiles. She is a pretty thing, despite the dark circles beneath her puffy eyes, and the sticky tears and blood, which have frozen to her cheeks.

They leave the woods and reach the mountains very quickly, the horse galloping faster than is natural. In a flurry of snow the horse stops, and Jaulin lets out a whistle of a higher pitch. There is a grinding sound, a crack, and the foremost mountain splits itself open, a blinding light from within casting itself over the white rider but without warmth. The horse gallops into the mountain, which closes itself after them.

Inside the mountain are clear crystalline walls and a smooth, ice floor. Jaulin steps down from the horse and carries the girl towards a large hall. Within the transparent walls of the hall are youth of all ages, caught by death and sealed away forever in this winter mountain. Jaulin walks over towards an empty section of wall and the girl in his arms, unconscious still, groans then breathes her last. The wall opens and Jaulin places her inside and it slides to a close. Before his lifeless victim, Jaulin whispers "Your name, girl." The corpse answers "Bretah." The name appears in gothic script above her head. Jaulin whispers "Your story, girl." The corpse answers "My uncle is drunk, always drunk. He beats me often and tonight he threw me against a wall, threatening to kill me, and I ran, for as long as I could till I fell . . and you found me."

"Bretah," he says with a smile, lovingly tracing the script on the wall, "You will stay here, nestled in the womb of the Winter Spirit. I will leave your body to cool." Bretah says nothing, and Jaulin walks through the hall, letting his fingers trail on the wall. At each corpse he passes, the script spelling their name flares with a white light. He stops at a different section of the wall, where rests a girl in her late teens with hair of long, silky black and a dusty, faded complexion.

"Kaila," Jaulin says, "We shall dance."

The wall cracks open and the corpse steps out dressed in a dark, thin nightgown and petite dressing slippers. The haunting music of the howling winds rush through the mountain, and Jaulin and Kaila dance in the night.

"Now boy," an aged mother says to her young son as they cuddle before the fireplace, "You must make me a promise. During the white nights of winter you mustn't be out in the dark alone. Not anywhere, not ever. Not even our front porch. Will you promise?"

Her little one takes his dirty thumb from his mouth and looks up at his mother with bright eyes. "Why, mummy? What will happen?" She settles further into their creaking rocking chair and stares into the fireplace, remembering her young niece from years past and her flight into the night. A flight she never returned from. "Because, boy. There's a Winter Spirit out there, who takes little ones like you and eats them in his cave. He has large, sharp teeth and claws that could rip apart an elephant in a single swipe! And he craves little children, so you mustn't be alone, do you promise?" The boy shudders and cuddles closer to his mother. "Yes, mummy," he whispers, "I promise."