On Lutia's first morning in the human world, half of Goosebell City was still snowing.
She stood on the inside of the North Gate and lowered her head to open the slim booklet in her hands.
The Border Reception House had given it to her yesterday evening. Embossed across the gray-brown cover was a line of neat human writing:
Rules for Living in the Human World
Lutia had only made it to page fourteen last night.
Not because she couldn't read human writing, but because someone at the reception house had told her that the hotels in Goosebell City were adjusting their rooms and asked her to wait in the parlor for the time being. Later, someone brought her hot water, dry bread, and three documents that required signatures. Everyone said, “Don't hurry,” yet came back every fifteen minutes to ask whether she had finished filling them out.
It wasn't until late at night that she understood that when humans said “Don't hurry,” they usually didn't mean it literally.
Now the booklet was open to page twenty-seven.
Lutia held down the corner of the page with a gloved fingertip and read word by word:
“Without approval from the local governing authority, no visiting elf may cast weather-changing resonance in a town, settlement, agricultural district, or on a major road if it is powerful enough to alter the weather.”
She paused.
Wind swept in through the gate, lifting the hem of her cloak. Fine snow landed on the page and quickly melted into several dark little spots.
Lutia raised her head.
The road outside the North Gate had already vanished.
Snow had begun falling yesterday afternoon, and by night it had covered all of North Street. Roofs, chimneys, signs, and stone walls had been pressed beneath the snow into soft, blurred shapes. Even the copper goose carved above the gate had only half a wing showing.
Farther south, however, the situation was completely different.
Across several streets, the sky was still a murky gray, but there was no snow. In the direction of South Bank, a small patch of pale morning light even showed through. Goosebell City looked as though it had been sliced down the middle by an invisible knife: on one side, damp, chilly early autumn; on the other, the heart of winter.
Lutia flipped two pages backward.
There was no explanation of how to submit a supplemental application.
She flipped forward again.
There wasn't one there, either.
“Excuse me,” she said, turning to the guard stationed by the gate. “Where do I go to obtain a weather permit retroactively?”
The guard had been using an iron shovel to clear the snow beside the gate hinge. At her question, he stopped, leaned on the shovel handle, and studied her for a moment.
Frost clung to the brim of his hat and his beard.
“What are you trying to obtain retroactively?”
“A snowfall permit.”
The guard's gaze passed over her to the North City swallowed by wind and snow.
“Now?”
“The booklet says prior approval is required.” Lutia turned the page toward him. “But I hadn't read this far before casting the spell yesterday. If the regulations allow retroactive applications, I can submit one immediately.”
The guard didn't take the booklet.
He drew in a slow breath and let it out just as slowly, as if struggling to keep some sentence inside his chest.
“Wait here.”
“How long?”
“Until someone who knows how to talk comes along.”
He propped the shovel against the wall and turned into the guardhouse.
Lutia stayed where she was and read the words in the handbook again.
Visiting elves may not alter the weather without authorization.
The rule itself wasn't difficult to understand. Springturn Forest had similar restrictions. Young elves were forbidden to change the wind during migration season, forbidden to force fruit to ripen before its time, and forbidden to divert a river simply for the convenience of passage.
Every rule had a reason.
She simply hadn't expected humans to put such an important regulation on page twenty-seven.
What she understood even less was why the snow had not stopped.
Lutia extended her right hand.
Several snowflakes fell into her palm.
She did not cast a spell. She merely let her awareness extend outward along the cold moisture. The snow still held a familiar resonance echo: the power she had left behind yesterday afternoon, light and clear, carrying the chill of high-altitude currents and distant mountain ridges.
She remembered every word she had spoken.
Let Goosebell City receive one night of snow.
Keep all the food that couldn't be stored in cellars fresh for today.
One night.
Not two nights, and not an entire season.
Daylight had already come.
In theory, the last snowflake should have fallen before the morning bell rang. The wind would gradually weaken, the clouds would disperse, and the snow would begin to melt. She had even tied the duration of the snowfall to sunrise, because the human method of telling time was easier to identify than the flower clocks in the forest.
Yet she could still feel the wind and snow cycling somewhere.
It wasn't regenerating, nor was it continuing naturally.
It was more like a stream that should have flowed toward the river mouth, blocked with stones and forced to circle within the same lowland.
Lutia closed her eyes and tried to follow the resonance echo to find the blockage.
Wind entered the city from the northeast, gathered toward the bell tower after crossing the walls, then turned back between the roof tiles and alleyways. The cold kept sinking, worming underground through the cracks between the paving stones, and then rising from somewhere else.
She had not yet found the source when footsteps sounded from inside the guardhouse.
The person who emerged was not the guard from before.
He was a tall, lean human man in a dark gray overcoat buttoned all the way to the top. His short dark-brown hair was slightly damp from melted snow. He held a black notebook in his right hand and several rolled-up diagrams under his left arm.
He stopped three paces from Lutia.
First, he looked at her.
Second, he looked at the Rules for Living in the Human World in her hands.
Third, he raised his head to confirm that snow was still falling from the sky.
“Lutia Windgarden?” he asked.
“That’s me.”
“An approved seasonal apprentice elf from Springturn Forest?”
“Yes.”
“Entered Goosebell City yesterday afternoon?”
“Not long after the sun’s shadow crossed the western wall.”
The man opened his notebook.
“In human time.”
Lutia thought for a moment.
“The bell tower had rung three times, but not yet a fourth.”
“Between three and four in the afternoon.”
“Yes.”
He wrote it down.
“You cast snowfall resonance yesterday?”
“Yes.”
“Area affected?”
Lutia looked toward North City.
“I said Goosebell City.”
The man's pen stopped.
“When you cast the spell, did you know the full extent of Goosebell City?”
“I knew where the walls were.”
“South Bank's new district doesn't have a complete wall.”
Lutia turned to look at him.
“It doesn't?”
The man did not answer immediately.
He lowered his head and wrote several words in the notebook, pressing the tip of his pen harder than before.
“What about the snowfall's intensity?”
“I intended it to be enough to keep food left outdoors cold, but not enough to crush roofs.”
“Was that the spell boundary you actually spoke into the resonance, or the result you anticipated in your mind?”
Lutia was silent for a moment.
“I didn't say it aloud.”
A muffled crack sounded nearby.
They both turned toward it.
A wooden shed roof slowly caved inward beneath the weight of the snow. Several workers rushed over and used long poles to prop up the beams, while two others began shoveling snow down.
The man looked away.
“Last night, three sheds collapsed in North Market. The drainage gutters at the riverside warehouses froze and split. Eleven roofs in Bellheart District were damaged, and the water mains on two streets stopped working.”
Lutia tightened her grip on the booklet.
“Was anyone hurt?”
“Yes.”
She lifted her eyes.
“How badly?”
“There are no deaths recorded at present.”
Not no injuries.
Just no deaths.
Lutia knew the difference.
The man continued asking questions. “Did you direct the snowmelt anywhere?”
She didn't answer.
Wind passed between them, carrying a small patch of snow into the open notebook. The man wiped away the water with his thumb and waited for her to speak.
“No,” Lutia said at last.
“How were you going to return the extracted heat?”
“I didn't arrange that, either.”
“Why not?”
“Because it was only temporary snowfall.”
“Temporary doesn't mean it doesn't need restitution.”
“I know.”
She answered too quickly.
The man looked up at her.
Lutia shifted her gaze to the copper goose on the city wall.
Of course she knew.
Seroya had taught her countless times. The wish, the spell boundary, the restitution—none of them could be made up for through habit alone. The simpler the resonance, the easier it was for a caster to assume nature would complete the remaining parts on its own.
There had been too many people in the market yesterday.
Someone had opened a wooden crate full of berries and complained that the skins were already starting to soften. Someone else had covered a meat stall with a wet cloth, but still couldn't suppress the unseasonable heat. And someone had stood under the sun and shouted that it would be wonderful if it snowed.
Lutia had thought it was the clearest wish imaginable.
She had also thought she only needed to preserve their food for one day.
“I'll take the snow back,” she said.
The man closed his notebook.
“You've already tried?”
“Not yet.”
“Why not?”
“I only just found out that it hadn't stopped.”
This time, the man was silent for longer.
“You didn't check last night?”
“The people at the reception house said the roads in North City were blocked by snow and asked me to remain indoors. They also said there was no need to worry, that the city government was handling it.”
“And you believed them?”
“They were very clear.”
The man gave her a look.
It reminded Lutia of last night's “Don't hurry.”
She was beginning to suspect that when humans spoke, the real meaning was often hidden in what their sentences left unsaid.
“Are you here to help me obtain the permit retroactively?” she asked.
“No.”
“Then what are you responsible for?”
“Lorne Hedd, damage records officer for the municipal Disaster Affairs Office.”
He took a folded identification card from inside his coat and opened it in front of her. The paper bore Goosebell City's copper bell seal, beside his name and position.
After reading it, Lutia nodded.
“So you record the things that have been damaged.”
“Buildings, roads, goods, public facilities, people's injuries, and the incidents that caused the damage.”
“Then where should I go to apply first?”
“Apply for what?”
“A snowfall permit.”
Lorne put his identification card away.
“What needs to be handled now isn't a weather permit.”
“But the handbook says—”
“The permit in the handbook has to be obtained before the snow falls.”
“So it can't be obtained afterward?”
“No.”
“Not at all?”
“Unless you can make yesterday happen again.”
Lutia frowned.
“Resonance magic cannot reverse time.”
“Good.” Lorne reopened his notebook. “At least we don't have a disagreement over that.”
Lutia could tell it wasn't praise.
“Then what needs to be done now?”
Lorne pointed toward North City with the end of his pen.
“Disaster registration.”
Lutia followed his gesture.
The snow was still falling.
Workers were shoveling snow off a shed roof. Someone at the street corner was pushing a cart loaded with wet firewood, its wheels stuck in the snow and grinding harshly with every step forward. Several residents were carrying blankets and bundles southward. One child stopped to look at Lutia as they passed.
The child said nothing.
Even after an adult pulled them away, they kept looking back at her.
Lutia suddenly felt that the slim booklet in her hands had grown much heavier.
“If I take back the magic now, will I not need to register anything?”
“Damage that has already occurred won't disappear with it.”
“But it could prevent more damage.”
“Provided you know what you're taking back.”
“This is my resonance.”
“For now, it's also half a city's weather.”
Lutia looked up at him.
Lorne's tone remained calm. He neither scolded her nor raised his voice.
That was precisely why the words sounded clearer than a reprimand.
“I can feel the resonance still operating,” she said. “But it shouldn't be continuing. Someone, or something, is holding it back.”
“You're sure?”
“Yes.”
“Can you prove it?”
Lutia held out her hand and let a snowflake fall into her palm.
“The power in the snow is still mine, but its flow is wrong.”
Lorne watched the droplet melt in her palm.
“If you put that in a report, the council chamber will ask more detailed questions.”
“They don't believe an elf's senses?”
“They don't necessarily believe human reports, either.”
It didn't sound like a joke.
Lutia tucked her hand back inside her cloak.
“I need to go outside the city and confirm it.”
Lorne raised his head.
“Confirm what?”
“Whether this snow is still centered on me.”
“How are you going to confirm that?”
“Leave it.”
She turned toward the gate.
Lorne immediately followed.
“Wait.”
“You just said I need to know what I'm taking back.”
“I didn't tell you to walk straight out.”
“There are no buildings or residents outside the city. If the wind and snow stop inside the city, the problem is in the city. If they move with me, the problem is in me.”
“There are roads, farmland, and villages outside the city.”
“How far is the nearest village?”
“That isn't the point.”
“For elves, the range is the point.”
“For the Disaster Affairs Office, expanding the disaster's range without making arrangements is also the point.”
Lutia stopped beneath the gate.
Snow covered the stone road outside, leaving only two lines of cart tracks barely visible as a guide. The shadow cast by the city wall formed a blurry gray line across the snow.
Just another dozen steps and she would be outside Goosebell City.
She looked back at Lorne.
“I won't cast a spell.”
“Yesterday, you might have thought you were only helping, too.”
His words made her pause.
Lorne used the opportunity to step beside her.
“Go back to the council chamber first,” he said. “We'll record everything about your spell: its complete wording, time, and location. Then we'll test it after the city confirms the road outside has been cleared.”
“How long will that take?”
“I don't know.”
“The snow is increasing every moment.”
“I know.”
“Then why wait?”
Lorne looked toward North City.
“Because you're not the only one affected now.”
Lutia did not answer.
The wind outside the gate suddenly strengthened, whipping up the fine snow on the ground. Several workers carrying sandbags raised their hands to shield their faces, and the flag above the guardhouse snapped outward.
That wasn't a natural wind.
Lutia turned.
She hadn't cast a spell, yet she could feel some force pulling forward along the stone road beneath her feet, like a fine thread wrapped around her ankle and drawn toward the wider space outside the city.
She took one step forward.
“Don't move,” Lorne said.
Lutia had already crossed the gray line beneath the gate.
Snow landed on her shoulder.
The wind inside the gate stopped for an instant.
The next moment, the stone road outside, which had held only a thin frost before, received its first new snowflake.
Then a second.
A third.
Within a few breaths, the snowfall crossed the wall and pushed outward.
The gate guard burst out of the guardhouse.
“It wasn't snowing outside just now!”
Lorne grabbed Lutia's arm.
He wasn't using much force, but it was enough to stop her.
“Step back.”
Lutia didn't pull away.
She stared at the road outside as it gradually turned white, feeling that familiar cold spread outward from her body.
She wasn't summoning the wind and snow.
The wind and snow were following her.
She stepped back through the gate.
Lorne stepped back with her.
After several breaths, the snowfall outside gradually weakened. The snowflakes that crossed the gray line melted as soon as they landed, leaving only scattered beads of water on the stone road.
But the snow in North City did not stop.
It grew even denser than before.
Lutia lowered her head and looked at her hands.
An unnatural cold still came through her gloves and reached her fingertips.
“This is wrong,” she said.
Lorne released her arm and immediately opened his notebook.
“Did you cast a spell just now?”
“No.”
“Did you use any resonance?”
“No.”
“Can you guarantee that?”
Lutia raised her head.
“I wouldn't lie about this.”
Lorne looked at her as if judging whether those words could become part of the record.
In the end, he wrote down the time.
“Then,” he said, “this snow isn't merely the mistake you made yesterday anymore.”
Lutia looked outside again.
The wet tracks on the stone road were slowly freezing.
“But it's still following me.”
“Yes.”
“If I leave, the wind and snow will leave Goosebell City.”
“Or they could cover the next place along the way.”
“If I stay here—”
“It will keep falling on North City.”
They fell silent at the same time.
A bell rang in the distance.
The first heavy peal passed through the wind and snow from Bellheart District to the gate.
Then came the second.
The third.
A small sheet of snow accumulated on the gate shook loose and struck the stone ground.
Lutia lowered her head to the Rules for Living in the Human World in her hands.
The page was still open to twenty-seven.
Without approval from the local governing authority, the weather may not be altered.
She suddenly understood that the most troublesome part was no longer that she had failed to obtain a permit.
It was that the snow, which should have ended before dawn, had been left behind by some force she had not yet understood.