Wheeling Gull Isle but sleep won't set me free

No matter what he said or did, nothing would change her mind. Maegi and Pharaoh were different. Cicero and his sister, different. And she sat and watched him leave, thinking with some amusement that their interaction had ended just as it had began—on tenterhooks. An irked priestess, a haughty man.

Eventually, she sighed, settling back down into the snow. "Do you wish to have your blood turned cold?" rang his mocking voice in her head. 

Maybe I do, she thought, curling into an alabaster ball. Her fur was just thick enough to keep out the damp, leaving only a faint sense of chill against her lithe frame. How easy would it be to just. . .lie here. . .forever—and a heaviness like poppy-haze fell over her, her eyelids drooping.

Maybe I do. But she rose, eventually, and shook the ice from her body, making her slow and ungainly way to her and Mou's den.