come in from the cold

“Snow…” I say with trepidation. Because there’s a bloody dryad standing there. She’s slight, with smooth green skin and spindly limbs emerging from a lacy, black puff sleeve dress. Her look, which I can only describe as lolita goth, includes a black corset and black granny boots, and her hair looks like what would happen if one styled a giant black clematis flower into a mod bob. She looks pointedly at the sign—“MEMBERS ONLY £10”—that sits on the little table she’s set herself up behind.  “Just, wait here,” he replies. He slips his hand out of mine and walks up to the table. “Um, are you”—he pulls a slip of paper out of his pocket and reads from it—“Viticaulis?” “Please,” the dryad says, “call me Vee.” (With the way Snow butchered her full name I can understand why.) She smiles up at him inscrutably. “What do you seek?” “Um, I think I’m on the list?” He shoves his hands in his pockets. “Simon Snow?” “I know who you are,” she says placidly. Then she smirks in my direction. “Funaria wasn’t kidding, your bloodeater is handsome.” She gestures toward a heavy set of velvet curtains. “You are both welcome to enter.” “Uh, thanks,” Simon mumbles, grabbing me by the wrist.  “Where are we, Snow?” I hiss. “Why does she know—” “Just—” He yanks me past the dryad, who winks at me, and through the curtains. “See for yourself.”