Her hands were slipping. Raw skin dragged across the coarse fibers of the rope, each desperate grasp tearing at her already bruised palms. Fingers scraped, knuckles white, veins straining with every second, and still the rope seemed determined to slip through her grasp. Her legs kicked, searching for footholds on the slick, frost-glazed bark, but the branch beneath her swayed like a phantom, cold wind slicing through her layers, biting at her exposed skin. Her stomach lurched violently as panic clawed its way into her chest, heart jackhammering so hard she swore Adrien would hear it even from below.