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99 The Snow Queen In this wild country where winter is a keen blade, I found my shadow in the white wind. The snow blew and ice cracked on the bare branches of trees. “Subject views herself as being followed by a shadow,” whispered Dr. Andy Morton. He was seated next to Dr. Ellen Nighthorse, who leaned intently toward the glass window. On the other side, the patient, a woman named Joy B., was speaking to another doctor. The woman’s dreamy voice captivated Dr. Nighthorse. It was smooth, gliding like skates on ice, with just enough of an edge to it to make you sit up and listen. “When we stimulated the left temporoparietal junction of her brain, we discovered an interesting phenomenon. Her feelings of being followed by a shadow, of actually being enveloped by the shadow, were stimulated, too.” Dr. Nighthorse murmured, barely hearing Morton’s scientific explanation. She was busy jotting down notes. Dr. Nighthorse was a psychologist; she was interested in the concept of a “shadow.” Carl Jung stated that the shadow was the unconscious and repressed part in each of us. Everyone had a shadow, the dark aspects of our personalities. In Joy’s initial statement she had mentioned finding and losing a shadow. Dr. Nighthorse couldn’t wait to interview the patient herself. The snow blew and that black night was my wedding night. I wore my best glacier gown, the one with snowflakes embroidered on it. I shivered as the dress slid over my shoulders, the snowflakes cold and glittering. My maid brushed out my long white hair and set the cap on my head. It was ice blue and sea green with a halo of white fox fur: my bridal tiara. I carried a bouquet of mistletoe. 100 I called down Siggurd, my familiar. He hooted from the tree outside. The maid opened the shutters at my command, letting in frigid air and a rush of snowy feathers. He sat on my shoulder, my right shoulder, so I could whisper to him in the old tongue. He clicked his beak. The maid cast nervous looks at me. I kept my face cold and regal. “We were probing her brain with electrodes since we suspected she might have epilepsy.” Dr. Morton glanced at the case papers. “When we found out her reaction to the stimulation, we realized how this might explain a lot of sensations people have. Like paranoia.” Dr. Nighthorse nodded. “This case has become more complicated, as you can hear.” Dr. Morton pointed at the patient. “She’s talking about familiars . . . isn’t that a term used by witches? She seems to think that she’s some kind of queen, also. That’s why we called you in.” At last, Dr. Nighthorse spoke. “Yes, very interesting.” She wanted to tell him to shut up so she could hear everything the patient was saying. It was being recorded but she wanted a first impression. The patient was a young woman, age twenty-nine, who called herself Freya. But her employee I.D. card said she was Joy Brown. She had been brought in to Emergency two weeks ago after a car jumped a curb and knocked her down as she was walking. She was the sole librarian at a private library maintained by eccentric millionaire H. Norman. His collection of rare books and mythology was little known by the general public. It was available for viewing by invitation only, and Dr. Nighthorse wondered how it could be a full-time job. Ms. Brown had been admitted to the hospital while tests were being done. Mr. Norman had requested Dr. Nighthorse specifically. He’d told the police who contacted him later that he didn’t know Ms. Brown very well. She did her job and their main contact was via e-mail or through his secretary. The patient sat calmly in a cushioned chair, her arms resting on the table in front of her, hands clamped together. She had prematurely white hair, which cascaded down like a frozen waterfall over her shoulders. Her face was oval, with large blue eyes. She wore a long, blue cotton dress. She was slender, perhaps even graceful, although Dr. Nighthorse had not seen any significant movement. In fact, she didn’t seem agitated or restless. She spoke directly to the doctor interviewing her, without any evasive body language. Dr. Morton made a face. “Of course, nothing has explained her blue skin.” Dr. Nighthorse asked, “No history...

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