Day seven of the Solstice.
At the daycare yard,
The morning after the Tree of Stars, the snow was perfect. It wasn't the dry, powdery stuff; it was the heavy, wet, packable kind that dreams are made of.
Primrose was drinking coffee and watching the cubs build a snowman that looked suspiciously like Lord Rurik (it was round and had twigs for eyebrows).
"It needs more muscle," Rurik boomed from the doorway, flexing his bicep. "The snowman is weak. I will make it stronger."
He marched outside.
SPLAT.
A perfectly formed snowball hit Rurik squarely in the back of the head.
The Warlord froze. He turned around slowly. The snow fell from his fur like dandruff.
"Who..." Rurik growled, his voice low and dangerous. "...dared?"
All the cubs pointed at Finn.
Finn, who was hiding behind a snowbank, squeaked. "It slipped! My hand spasmed! I have a medical condition!"
"A condition called 'About To Be Buried'," Rurik roared.
