On an ordinary day, walking from the North Gate to the Old Assembly Hall took only fifteen minutes.
That morning, it took them nearly two hours.
The main roads of North City had been cleared into narrow paths barely wide enough for people to pass. Snow piled on either side rose above Lutia's knees. Ropes had been strung beneath the eaves to warn pedestrians away from icicles that might fall at any moment. At several corners lay stacks of freshly removed planks. Shop signs that had once hung over the entrances had been crushed by the snow, leaving only their iron hooks swinging in the wind.
Lorne did not ask her any more questions along the way.
He walked ahead, occasionally stopping to check whether the road was passable or making room for carts coming toward them. Whenever they encountered someone wearing a Disaster Affairs Office coat, he gave his name and destination, letting the other person add a mark to a damp sheet of paper.
At first, Lutia thought that was how humans greeted one another.
It was not until the third person asked only, “North Gate confirmed?” and Lorne answered, “Confirmed. The area outside the city will be affected,” before the person immediately turned and ran off that she understood. Those brief conversations were all messages being passed along.
“Why don’t you just let everyone know?” she asked.
Lorne did not look back.
“Know what?”
“That the snowstorm will move with me.”
“Because the people who know that still can’t be sure what it means.”
“It means I can’t leave.”
“That’s only one possible explanation.”
“There are others?”
“It could mean that when you approach the city boundary, the range of your magic expands. It could mean something near the North Gate is reacting to your resonance. Or it could simply be a temporary phenomenon caused by the terrain and wind direction outside the city.”
Lutia watched his back.
“You don’t believe what I felt.”
“I believe you felt it,” Lorne said. “I’m not sure your interpretation of that feeling is the only possible answer.”
That was harder to argue with than a direct denial.
In Springturn Forest, a seasonal listener’s perceptions were usually the basis for judgment. When the wind changed direction, roots withered, or soil flooded, elves listened first and then decided whether to intervene. No one asked the wind to provide a second testimony, and no one made a river sign a statement.
Humans clearly did not handle things that way.
They wrote things down, handed what they had written to someone else to examine, and finally left it to a third person to decide whether the first two people were credible.
Lutia began to understand that the three documents from last night were not because the people at the Border Reception House particularly enjoyed signing their names.
Humans needed signatures for everything.
A crowd had gathered outside a two-story house ahead of them. One side of the roof had collapsed. Several workers were setting up a wooden ladder, while another was carrying furniture from inside out into the street.
A long table was wedged in the doorway.
The people inside pushed outward, while the people outside pulled outward too, all of them shouting different directions at once.
“Lift it higher!”
“Left side, left side!”
“Not your left side!”
“Put it down first!”
The table leg struck the doorframe with a dull thud.
Lutia stopped.
“I can help.”
Lorne stopped too.
“How?”
“Move the table out.”
“With magic?”
“It only needs first-circle resonance.”
“No.”
“It won’t affect the whole building.”
“No.”
Lutia watched the table strike the doorframe again.
“Two more impacts and the right leg will split.”
“That’s their table.”
“That’s why we should help even more.”
“Do you know whether there are any loosened beams inside?”
Lutia did not answer.
“Do you know whether anyone is still behind the table?”
“No.”
“Do you know whether the doorframe can bear a sudden change in weight?”
“No.”
“Then don’t move it.”
Lutia pressed her lips together.
At last, one of the workers outside noticed that the tabletop was tilting in the wrong direction and told the others to stop. They turned the table slightly, then lifted it slowly. This time, it passed through the doorframe without trouble.
The right leg did not split.
Lorne started forward again.
Lutia followed.
“You could have just said we needed to find that out first.”
“I asked three questions.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“For humans, it usually is.”
Lutia looked down at the ground.
She suddenly wasn’t sure how many questions she herself had failed to ask yesterday.
The Old Assembly Hall stood at the edge of Bellheart District, a gray-white stone building. Its main entrance faced Longchime Bell Tower. A broad plaza had once stretched before it, but most of it was now buried under snow, leaving only a path cleared through the center.
The bell tower on the opposite side of the plaza was swallowed by the snowstorm.
Lutia could see only the dark base of the tower. Everything above it had vanished into the gray-white sky. When the bells rang from high above, they sounded deeper than they had at the North Gate, making the stone walls and window frames tremble faintly.
Two guards stood at the entrance to the hall.
One checked Lorne’s identification. The other glanced at Lutia, his gaze lingering for a moment between the tips of her ears and her traveling cloak.
“Does she have any casting medium on her?” the guard asked.
“No,” Lorne said.
“Metal, seeds, crystals, engraving tools?”
“Elves don’t need a fixed medium to use resonance magic,” Lutia answered.
The guard’s expression did not relax.
“Then how do we restrict it?”
“Restrict what?”
“Your magic.”
Lutia looked toward Lorne.
“For now, we’re handling it with a verbal prohibition,” Lorne said. “She is not to cast without permission.”
The guard frowned.
“Does a verbal prohibition actually work?”
“I understand human languages,” Lutia said.
The guard looked at her.
“You understood them yesterday too?”
Lorne raised a hand between them.
“The hearing hasn’t started yet.”
The guard said nothing more and stepped aside.
As Lutia entered the hall, she could still feel his gaze fixed on her back.
It was much warmer inside than out.
Several cast-iron stoves stood along the walls, with wet coats and gloves hanging all around them. People carrying documents hurried back and forth. Some sat waiting on benches, while others argued against the walls. The air smelled of wet wool, ink, soot, and melting snow.
Temporary notices covered the walls.
Roof-clearing order for Old North Bell Quarter.
Public water station locations.
Remaining shelter beds.
Fuel-ration adjustments.
List of missing persons.
Lutia stopped in front of the last notice.
Seven names were written on the paper.
Two had already been marked in red with “found.” The other five remained blank.
“Did they disappear because of the snow?” she asked.
Lorne stood beside her.
“Two couldn’t be found for a while after a roof collapsed. They’ve been sent to the medical clinic. The others may simply not have completed registration yet.”
“May?”
“Records aren’t complete immediately after a disaster occurs.”
“Then how do you know whether anyone has died?”
“We haven’t received any death confirmations.”
Lutia remembered what he had said at the North Gate.
No death records.
Not that no one had died.
Only that no one had completed the confirmation yet.
She looked at the five names and asked no more questions.
Lorne led her across the hall and up a flight of stone steps.
The hearing room was at the very back of the second floor.
More than a dozen people were already seated outside. Some were officials in municipal uniforms. Others were residents wrapped in heavy cloaks. Some stopped talking the moment they saw Lutia, while others stared at her without bothering to hide it.
A man with cheeks reddened by frostbite stood up.
“That’s her?”
No one answered.
The man took a step forward.
“I’m asking you—is she the one who did this?”
Lorne stepped in front of Lutia.
“The hearing hasn’t reached a conclusion.”
“North City is almost buried, and you still need a conclusion?”
“We need to confirm what happened and the scope of responsibility.”
“She made the snow, didn’t she?”
“Yes,” Lutia said.
Lorne turned around to look at her.
Everyone in the corridor fell silent.
The man stared at Lutia.
“My brother fell off a roof last night. We don’t even know whether he can still feel his legs.”
Lutia opened her mouth.
She wanted to say that she would go see him.
She wanted to say that healing resonance could help damaged bones and nerves recover.
She wanted to say that she would take responsibility.
But when those words reached her throat, they all suddenly seemed insufficiently precise.
She didn’t know where the injured man was, how serious his injuries were, or whether he would be willing to let her near him.
“I’m sorry,” she said at last.
The man’s expression did not change.
“Can ‘sorry’ bring him down from the roof?”
Lutia did not answer.
“No,” Lorne answered for her.
The man looked at him.
“Then get out of the way.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I just want her to know what happened.”
“She’ll see the official record.”
“The record?”
The man laughed once.
“You wrote down a whole pile of records last time too, and in the end, nothing came of it.”
Lorne did not argue.
Hurried footsteps came from the other end of the corridor.
A short, broad-shouldered woman approached quickly. Her silver-gray hair was cut very short. Her dark coat was fastened with only two buttons, and wet mud stained her cuffs.
“Your brother just regained consciousness,” she said. “The medical clinic is looking for you downstairs.”
The man froze.
“Really?”
“Really. His left leg is responding. They need to keep watching the right. Go downstairs now, and don’t stand here turning the hearing-room entrance into a second disaster zone.”
The man glanced at Lutia, then turned and ran down the stairs.
The silver-haired woman watched him go, then looked at Lorne.
“North Gate?”
“Confirmed. After Lutia crossed the city boundary, it started snowing outside the city. When she came back inside, the snowfall weakened.”
“Casting?”
“She denies it.”
The silver-haired woman’s gaze fell on Lutia.
“You deny it?”
“I did not cast.”
“Can you prove that?”
“Not in the human way.”
“Then we’ll handle it for now according to the risk we can’t disprove.”
Lutia frowned.
“If you can’t prove I cast, why not handle it as though I didn’t?”
The woman raised an eyebrow.
“Because the risks created by those two approaches are different.”
She held out her hand.
“Greta Morn, director of the municipal Disaster Affairs Office.”
Lutia looked at the hand, then took it a beat late.
A human hand was warmer than an elf’s.
Greta released her after a single shake.
“Why are your hands so cold?”
“Elves naturally have slightly lower body temperatures than humans.”
“How much lower?”
“There’s no fixed number.”
Greta looked at Lorne.
“Write that down. Take her temperature every day from now on.”
“Why?”
“Because if she gets colder, we should at least know when it started.”
Lutia wanted to say that there was nothing wrong with her body.
But Greta had already turned and pushed open the hearing-room door.
“Come in. Everyone’s waiting.”
The hearing room had originally held thirty people. Nearly fifty were packed inside now.
Long tables formed a semicircle, leaving an open space in the center. Scribes, Disaster Affairs Office staff, engineers, and two representatives from the medical clinic sat along the walls. Several North City residents stood near the door.
An elderly woman sat in the exact center of the semicircle.
She wore a formal dark-brown coat, her gray hair pinned up at the back. Three stacks of documents and a seal shaped like a copper bell sat before her.
Lutia recognized her.
When Lutia had signed the documents to enter the city at the Border Reception House yesterday, someone had printed the woman’s portrait on a municipal notice.
Marilla Dune, municipal administrator of Goosebell City.
Marilla saw Lutia but did not speak immediately.
First, she had the scribe confirm that the door was closed. Then she asked the standing people to move to either side until the open space in the center was completely clear.
“Lutia Windgarden,” she said.
“Yes.”
“Stand inside the marking.”
A square had been drawn on the floor in white chalk.
Lutia stepped inside it.
The square was small, but it had no magical effect.
It only told her where to stand.
Lorne sat behind her to the right. Greta took the Disaster Affairs Office seat on the left.
Marilla opened the top document.
“This emergency hearing is jointly convened by Goosebell City Hall, the Disaster Affairs Office, the Engineering Office, and the Border Affairs Office. Its purpose is to confirm the cause, affected area, and provisional assignment of responsibility for the abnormal snowfall that occurred from yesterday afternoon through this morning.”
She looked up.
“First, confirmation of identity. You are a seasonal apprentice from Springturn Forest, holding a border-visit permit under the White Birch Accord, and were scheduled to conduct seasonal training in Goosebell City. Is that correct?”
“Correct.”
“Yesterday was your first day entering Goosebell City?”
“Yes.”
“Did you cast snowfall resonance yesterday afternoon powerful enough to affect the city district?”
“Yes.”
A murmur passed through the room.
Marilla raised a hand, and the sound quickly stopped.
“Did you obtain municipal permission beforehand?”
“No.”
“Was a qualified witness present?”
“No.”
“Did you establish dual anchors?”
“No.”
“Did you submit a termination and evacuation plan?”
“No.”
Marilla’s tone did not change from beginning to end.
After each question, the scribe wrote a line on the paper.
Watching the pen move, Lutia suddenly felt that every “no” was being fixed into something more solid than sound.
“Did you know that seasonal resonance affecting an area larger than a neighborhood is classified as third-circle resonance under the human city system?”
“I know now.”
“You didn’t know when you cast it?”
“Springturn Forest does not use that classification.”
“But it is recorded in Rules for Living in the Human World.”
“On page twenty-seven.”
Marilla paused.
Someone in the room drew a quiet breath.
Greta covered her mouth with the back of her hand, as if coughing.
Lutia did not know what she had answered incorrectly.
“You didn’t finish reading the handbook?” Marilla asked.
“I only reached page fourteen last night.”
“Before entering the city yesterday, did you receive an explanation of the regulations?”
“The people at the Border Reception House said the important rules were in the booklet.”
“So you cast a large-scale resonance before finishing the regulations.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Lutia looked at the people in the room.
Some were waiting for her answer. Some had lowered their eyes to their documents. Others had clasped their hands together, their knuckles white with tension.
“The market was too hot,” she said. “The food left outdoors had started to spoil. Someone said it would be nice if it could snow.”
Someone in the crowd immediately spoke up.
“Who said that?”
“A lot of people said it in the market.”
“Someone complains, and you actually make it snow?”
“I thought it was a request.”
“Who would request that you bury half the city?”
“Every bit of my merchandise froze solid!”
“You said you’d preserve the food, but now I can’t even open my warehouse door!”
“Why didn’t it snow in South Bank?”
“Did she deliberately target North City?”
Marilla struck the copper bell on the table.
The sound was not loud, but it silenced the entire room.
“Anyone who speaks without permission will be removed from the hearing room.”
She looked at Lutia again.
“State the complete content of the resonance you cast.”
Lutia closed her eyes.
She did not need to think for long.
An elf’s resonance was not a spell, but a caster had to clearly remember what they had asked of nature. Any ambiguity or omission left a trace.
“Let Goosebell City receive one night of snow, to preserve for today all the food that didn’t make it into storage.”
The scribe wrote down her words.
Marilla asked, “Is that everything?”
“Yes.”
“When you said ‘Goosebell City,’ what were the exact boundaries?”
“At the time, I thought it meant everything inside the city walls.”
“South Bank New City does not have complete walls.”
“I didn’t know that yesterday.”
“What about snowfall intensity?”
“I intended it to be enough to keep food left outdoors cool, but not enough to crush buildings.”
“Was that restriction included in the resonance?”
Lutia fell silent for a moment.
“No.”
“Source of the water?”
“Fog River and the air.”
“Source of the low temperature?”
“The highlands to the northeast.”
“Restitution method?”
Lutia fell silent again.
“None specified.”
Another murmur arose in the room.
This time, Marilla did not immediately stop it.
She let the voices continue for a while before asking, “Do you acknowledge that this was a third-circle seasonal resonance lacking clearly defined boundaries, intensity controls, and restitution arrangements?”
Lutia looked at her.
“I acknowledge that.”
“Do you acknowledge that the abnormal snowfall currently affecting the Old North Bell Quarter was caused by your casting?”
“The initial snow was cast by me.”
“Answer directly.”
“That is my answer.”
A subtle change appeared in Marilla’s expression for the first time.
“Do you deny that the current snowfall was caused by you?”
“I deny that I deliberately caused all of it.”
A cold laugh came from the North City residents’ seats.
Lutia turned toward it.
A woman wearing a brown shawl stood there. Snowmelt had tangled her hair, and her right sleeve was smeared with flour and ash.
“You made the snow, and now you’re saying you didn’t cause it?”
“I’m saying it should have stopped before dawn.”
“It didn’t stop.”
“So some other condition changed it.”
“What condition?”
“I don’t know yet.”
The woman’s gaze was colder than the guards’ at the door.
“Then there isn’t one.”
Lutia wanted to argue.
Lorne spoke from behind her. “Mila, let her finish.”
The woman looked at him.
“Half my roof collapsed, and both my stoves went out. You want me to let her finish?”
“Because we need to know why the snow is still falling.”
“She doesn’t know.”
“Then we need to establish exactly how much she doesn’t know.”
Mila’s lips pressed into a straight line, but she did not interrupt again.
Marilla asked, “What makes you believe the resonance was affected by other conditions?”
“The flow is wrong.”
“Explain.”
“The power of the snowfall is circulating. The cold sinks into the ground along the streets, then returns to the air from somewhere else. It is not dissipating naturally, nor ending at the time I set.”
A black-haired man streaked with gray lifted his head from the Engineering Office seats.
He wore a dark-blue engineering coat, with an abrasion-resistant band wrapped around his wrist. A stack of underground pipeline diagrams lay before him.
“Could resonance circulate on its own because the structure is incomplete?” he asked.
Lutia looked at him.
“Possibly.”
Voices immediately rose again around the room.
The man continued without stopping.
“Then the current circulation could also simply be the result of your failure to specify a restitution method.”
“Possibly.”
“In other words, there doesn’t need to be another caster.”
“There doesn’t.”
“Then why do you think some other condition changed it?”
“Because it has a boundary.”
“What boundary?”
“The snow only falls in North City.”
“Everyone knows that.”
“But my resonance referred to Goosebell City, not North City. Even if I misunderstood the extent of the city walls, the snowstorm shouldn’t stop so neatly in a place with no walls.”
The man glanced down at the diagrams.
“Building density, the river, terrain, and wind direction could all create local climatic differences.”
“That isn’t a climatic difference.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Because the snow knows where it cannot cross.”
The hearing room fell silent for a moment.
Lutia noticed that humans did not like that way of putting it.
She added, “I don’t mean that the snow is conscious. Its flow encountered a boundary. That boundary existed before the streets, and it goes deeper than the buildings here.”
The man’s fingers stopped at the edge of the diagram.
Marilla asked, “Engineer Sevier?”
“There is currently no evidence that underground North City contains any facility capable of anchoring elven resonance,” the man said. “The city’s water-and-heat system does retain some old pipes, but most of them are no longer in use.”
Lutia remembered his name.
Sevier.
“Most doesn’t mean all,” she said.
Sevier looked at her.
“Disuse doesn’t mean they’re completely sealed. Residual heat flow, groundwater, and old air passages could all affect the snowfall.”
“Then they need to be inspected.”
“The Engineering Office is already inspecting them.”
“I can go with you.”
“No,” Greta said.
Lutia turned toward her.
“Why?”
“Because right now, you’re a person responsible for the incident, not an investigator.”
“But I’m the only one who can identify the resonance’s flow.”
“And you’re also the only one who might change it again.”
“I can sense it without casting.”
“The snow at the North Gate expanded after you stepped outside.”
“I didn’t do that intentionally.”
“Which is exactly why we can’t let you wander near underground facilities of unknown purpose.”
Lutia was about to speak again when Marilla struck the copper bell.
“That matter will be assessed separately by the Disaster Affairs Office and the Engineering Office.”
She turned to the next page.
“Now we will establish the provisional name of the incident.”
Lutia blinked.
“The incident needs a name?”
Greta gave her a look.
“Without a name, we won’t know which report to file supplies, casualties, and responsibility under.”
The scribe pushed a blank document in front of Marilla.
Marilla said, “The Engineering Office proposes ‘North Bank Abnormal Snow Accumulation Incident.’ The Border Affairs Office proposes ‘Visiting Elf Casting-Control Incident.’ The Disaster Affairs Office proposes ‘Persistent Seasonal Disaster in the North Bell District.’”
“The second one is inaccurate,” Lutia said.
An official from the Border Affairs Office frowned.
“What part is inaccurate?”
“Casting out of control means my resonance was uncontrollable from the moment I cast it.”
“Wasn’t it?”
“No. While I was casting, the snow fell according to my request. It did not immediately produce the abnormal circulation we see now.”
“But you failed to define its boundaries or restitution.”
“That means the resonance’s structure was incomplete. It does not mean the casting was out of control at the time.”
“Does the distinction make any difference?”
“Yes.”
Lutia answered quickly.
“If the casting was out of control, the problem lies only with the caster. Restricting me would stop the incident from continuing. If an incomplete resonance was fixed in place by other conditions, restricting me may not make the snow stop.”
No one in the room answered immediately.
Lorne’s pen paused, then continued writing several lines in his notebook.
Marilla asked, “What would you like the incident to be called?”
Lutia looked toward the window.
Frost filmed the glass, leaving only a vague view of the snow outside.
“I don’t know.”
“You just rejected one name.”
“Because it would send the investigation in the wrong direction.”
“Then give us a more accurate one.”
Lutia thought for a while.
“Snowfall That Hasn’t Ended.”
Someone among the residents made an unhappy sound.
“Too mild,” Greta said. “It sounds like a weather forecast.”
“Persistent Seasonal Disaster in the North Bell District,” Lorne said from behind her. “Cause provisionally recorded as an unauthorized third-circle resonance. Continuing mechanism under investigation.”
Everyone’s attention turned to him.
“That records what’s confirmed and what isn’t,” Lorne said. “The casting is confirmed. The reason it continues is not. We shouldn’t classify all of what came afterward as loss of control yet.”
The Border Affairs official immediately objected.
“That will make the assignment of responsibility ambiguous.”
“Responsibility hasn’t been fully assigned yet.”
“The caster has confessed.”
“She confessed to casting an unauthorized, structurally incomplete third-circle resonance. She did not confess to deliberately maintaining the snowstorm until now.”
“That’s just a difference in wording.”
“Disaster records distinguish differences through wording.”
Marilla looked at Lorne.
“Are you willing to take responsibility for this provisional name?”
“I’m responsible for recording it, not for drawing a conclusion before the results are in.”
Greta leaned back in her chair.
“That sounds exactly like something Hedd would say.”
Marilla ignored her.
She wrote several words on the document and pushed it to the scribe.
“The Disaster Affairs Office’s amended name will be adopted provisionally. It may be corrected once the investigation is complete.”
The Border Affairs official still wanted to speak, but Marilla cut him off.
“The incident’s name is not an amnesty. Lutia Windgarden has admitted to casting a third-circle resonance without permission. That responsibility will not disappear because of the subsequent investigation.”
She turned to Lutia.
“Under the relevant addenda to the White Birch Accord, when a visiting elf causes public damage without authorization, the matter is to be handled jointly by representatives of both sides in principle. If the elf remains capable of acting and remaining in the territory will not immediately increase the risk, she is to participate in damage control, investigation, and recovery.”
“So I have to stay,” Lutia said.
“Yes.”
“How long?”
“That cannot be determined at present.”
“Springturn Forest may order me to return.”
“City Hall will formally notify Springturn Forest.”
“What if they order me recalled?”
“Under the Accord, a recall may not obstruct ongoing public-disaster response unless both sides confirm that your departure would be safer.”
Lutia thought of the snow falling outside the North Gate.
“I can’t leave right now.”
“That is the current assessment.”
“Then I can help find the cause.”
“You must participate,” Marilla said. “But not in your own way.”
Greta picked up another document from the table.
“The Disaster Affairs Office is imposing provisional controls.”
She read them one by one.
“First, while Lutia Windgarden remains in Goosebell City, she may not cast any resonance of second circle or higher without written or on-site authorization.”
“Second, first-circle resonance is limited to her own survival needs and designated disaster-recovery work. She may not make that judgment on her own.”
“Third, she may not enter disaster areas, underground facilities, bell towers, engineering conduits, storage districts, or the city boundary alone.”
“Fourth, her body temperature, magical resonance echo, and range of movement will be recorded daily.”
“Fifth, all perceptions, abnormalities, and casting needs related to this snowfall must first be reported to the designated disaster records officer and field supervisor.”
At the last sentence, Lutia turned toward Lorne.
Lorne was still writing.
“Who is designated?” she asked.
Greta looked at Lorne too.
“Lorne Hedd.”
Lorne’s pen stopped.
“Director.”
“Do you have an objection?”
“I was supposed to go to East Ferry Pier today.”
Someone has taken over at the pier.
“Three neighborhoods still need damage registration.”
“Take her with you.”
Lorne glanced at Lutia.
“She’s not a Disaster Affairs Office employee.”
“She’s one of the sources of the disaster.”
Lutia frowned.
“One of?”
Greta looked at her.
“If the investigation proves you’re the only one, I’ll cross out ‘one of.’”
The statement did not reassure Lutia, but it felt fairer than the stares before the hearing began.
Marilla asked Lorne, “Do you accept the assignment?”
“Is refusal an option?”
“Yes. After you refuse, Greta will reassign it.”
Lorne turned to Greta.
“I’ll assign it to someone who doesn’t conduct tests at the North Gate first,” Greta said.
Lorne was silent for two seconds.
“I accept.”
“Good,” Greta said. “That saves us one handover record, at least.”
Marilla stamped the control document.
The copper seal struck the paper with a dull thump.
“Lutia Windgarden, do you understand the restrictions listed above?”
“I understand.”
“Do you accept them?”
“What happens if I don’t?”
“Under the Accord, the city will ask Springturn Forest to send someone to take control of your movements and will restrict you to a designated room until they arrive.”
“Will that make the snow stop?”
“No.”
“Then I accept.”
Marilla looked at her.
“Accepting restrictions is not an exchange. Even if you participate in recovery, that does not erase the responsibility for what has already happened.”
“I know.”
“Are you sure?”
Lutia thought of the man in the corridor.
She thought of the five names on the notice.
“I know that apologizing can’t bring someone back down from a roof before they fell.”
The room fell silent for a moment.
Mila sat among the residents without looking at her.
Marilla handed the final document to the scribe.
“The first stage of this emergency hearing is concluded. The Engineering Office will immediately inspect the underground water-and-heat system and old air passages. The Disaster Affairs Office will complete North City’s damage registration and temporary shelter arrangements. The Border Affairs Office will issue a formal notice to Springturn Forest.”
Everyone began to rise.
Chair legs scraped across the floor one after another. Documents were gathered and rearranged, while the residents crowded around the staff handling registration.
Lutia remained standing inside the chalk square.
“What do I do now?” she asked.
Greta came over to her.
“Eat something first.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Then consider it the first provisional control.”
“That wasn’t one of them.”
“It is now.”
“Can you add one temporarily?”
“The Disaster Affairs Office adds things temporarily every day.”
Greta turned to Lorne.
“Take her downstairs for hot soup. Meet at North Street in fifteen minutes.”
“To do what?”
“Clear snow, carry things, and complete registrations.”
Lutia looked at her.
“Without magic?”
Greta stopped walking.
“Do you know how to use a shovel?”
“I’ve seen one.”
“Then learn today.”
“But I can move the snow from an entire street all at once.”
Everyone who had not yet left the hearing room paused.
Greta turned around and looked directly at her.
“Yesterday, you could also make an entire city snow.”
Lutia said nothing.
“Being able to make it snow isn’t a specialty,” Greta said. “Getting the roads open again before dark is.”
With that, she left.
Lorne put away his notebook and diagrams, then came to Lutia’s side.
“Let’s go.”
“Where?”
“To get hot soup.”
“And after that?”
“North Street.”
“And after that?”
“We’ll see how much needs to be dealt with on North Street.”
“You don’t have a complete plan?”
“I do.”
“What is it?”
Lorne pushed open the hearing-room door.
“Deal with what’s in front of us first.”
Lutia followed him out.
Outside the corridor windows, snow was still falling.
She had thought that once the hearing ended, the humans would tell her how to stop the snowstorm.
Instead, they had given the disaster a name, given her five restrictions, and arranged a shovel for her.
The method seemed impossibly slow.
But when she passed the stairwell and saw the missing-person list again, she did not object.
At least until the humans found out why the snowstorm had not ended, someone still needed to clear out what lay buried beneath it.
And this time, she had to learn not to move the whole street at once.