Chapter 2 Trying and Failing to Get There.
I settle into the armchair by the window, the one spot in the tower where the light hits just right, and open The Gentleman and the Ghost. The cover alone makes me blush—a pale, translucent man standing behind a woman in her nightgown, his hands ghosting (no pun intended) over her waist. His face is buried in her neck, lips inches from her pulse. It starts innocently enough. A lonely woman in an old manor, her husband gone to war. The ghost appears at midnight, whispering apologies for his trespass, promising to leave her be. But by the second chapter, he’s haunting her deliberately—touching her candle flames, warming her bed before she slips in, whispering her name when she dreams. The words paint themselves in my mind. The way he watches her sleep, the way she begins to talk back to the air, the way she starts to ache for something she can’t touch.
I close my knees a little tighter. My breath catches on the next line:
He pressed his lips to her collarbone and the air between them trembled with wanting.
I’ve never been touched like that. Never been kissed. Never even been held except by my parents, and that was a lifetime ago. The warmth spreading through me now feels dangerous, like the first flake of snow before the blizzard. I slide my finger down the page, tracing the ink. I try to keep reading, but the words blur. The scene grows bolder, her nightdress slipping off one shoulder, his invisible hands parting it farther. The author describes the shiver that runs through her as warm breath from a body that doesn’t exist. I press my thighs together harder. My own breath trembles now. I try, clumsy and shy, to follow what the woman does in the story, to see if I can feel anything close to that heat. But it’s… not quite right. My fingers feel foreign. My body feels wrong. Every time I get close to something, my magic ripples under my skin like a warning. Frost gathers along the hem of my skirt.
“Okay,” I murmur, frustrated, pulling my hand back and blowing on the icy patch before it spreads. “Maybe not tonight.”
The ghost in the book is confessing his sins now—how he died too young, how he never touched or loved before death took him. His longing feels like mine, hollow and endless. I close the book against my chest and stare out the window. The world below looks small and alive; there's smoke from chimneys, a cart rolling down the road, and someone laughing. I imagine what it would be like to be there, to be touched, to be wanted.
The ghost in my book has a door between life and death.
I have a door between me and the world.
And suddenly, I start to wonder what would happen if I could break mine too.
But wondering isn't doing, is it? I shift in the chair, the fabric of my dress whispering against my skin like a tease. The book's still warm in my hands, or maybe that's just me. I flip it open again, skipping ahead because patience is for people with actual lives. The woman in the story is bolder now, alone in her chamber, the ghost's presence a constant hum in the air. She lies back on her bed, her fingers tracing paths her spectral lover can't quite follow. The description is vivid: the slow build, the heat coiling low in her belly, the way her breath hitches like a skipped heartbeat. I mimic it without thinking, my hand slipping under the folds of my skirt. The tower's chill nips at my exposed skin, but down there... down there, it's different. Warmer. Almost defiant against my icy nature. "Okay, Bella," I whisper to myself, because apparently, I'm narrating my own embarrassment now. "You've frozen lakes by accident. Surely you can handle a little self-thawing."
My fingers explore tentatively, like I'm petting a skittish cat that might bolt at any second. There's a spark—tiny, fleeting—but it's there. I close my eyes, picturing the ghost's hands instead of mine. Ethereal, insistent, knowing exactly where to press. The coil tightens, a sweet pressure building, like the moment before a snowflake crystallises into something beautiful. But then—zap. My magic surges, uninvited, and frost blooms across my thigh. The warmth scatters like startled birds, leaving me cold and annoyed. "Oh, come on!" I groan, yanking my hand away and shaking off the ice crystals. They tinkle to the floor like tiny bells mocking me.
I sit up straighter, determined. This isn't some epic quest; it's just... biology? Magic? Whatever it is, it's mine, and I'm not letting a little frostbite win. I grab the book again, reading aloud this time, as if the words can guide me like a map. "Her body arched, seeking the phantom touch, the ache growing into a storm she couldn't contain."
Storm. Ha. I've got plenty of those. I try again, slower, breathing deep to keep the magic at bay. Focus on the heat, Bella. Imagine it's summer down there, not eternal winter. My fingers circle gently, finding a rhythm that matches the woman's in the story. The spark returns, brighter this time, spreading like sunlight on fresh snow. My heart pounds, breath coming in short bursts. It's building—oh gods, it's actually building. A wave crests, teasing the edge of something vast and unknown.
And then... nothing. The wave crashes too soon, fizzling into a frustrating trickle. My skin prickles with cold again, magic rearing up like a jealous guardian. "Seriously?" I huff, flopping back in the chair. The hem of my skirt is now a solid sheet of ice, cracking when I move. "This is ridiculous. I'm an elemental, not a nun. Why can't I just... finish?"
I laugh at myself, the sound echoing off the stone walls. It's absurd, really—me, Bella the ice elemental, thwarted by my own powers in the most intimate way. The book mocks me from my lap, its pages dog-eared from my frantic flipping. I stand up, pacing to shake off the lingering tingles. The window draws me back, the world outside a taunt. Down there, people probably do this all the time. Touch, feel, release. No magic meddling, no frost to fight. I press my palm to the glass, watching it fog under my breath. "One day," I murmur, "I'll be free, and when I am, the first thing on my list is figuring this out properly. No ghosts, no books—just me, and maybe someone real to show me how."
But for now, it's back to square one. I tuck the book away on the shelf. The ache lingers, a promise unfulfilled, but it's not defeat. It's... practice? Yeah, let's call it that. Tomorrow, I'll try again. The frustration simmers, but so does the curiosity. What would it feel like to let go completely? To melt without freezing over? I drift off imagining it, my hand absently tracing patterns on my blanket. Building, losing, trying again. It's maddening, but hey—at least it's something to look forward to in this frozen exile.