I wanted the coldest possible let-go — an ice-witch who spent a season white-knuckled on a frost-chain, caught in the exact heartbeat the down-draft becomes an updraft and lifts her. The bare dropped shoulder and the hand still to her chest carry the cost; the blooming frost off her opening palm and her upturned face carry the arrival. Andean-Nordic because I wanted copper warmth against glacial blue, a face that belongs to two cold highlands at once. —Vesper