She stared at his fingers. "I've never done this before. Where I grew up, we had rain, we had cold winters, but no snow. No ice. Just mountains and forests."
He blinked. "Never?"
"Never."
His expression softened. He glided closer, his skates silent, and held out his hand again. "Then I'll teach you."
"I'll fall."
"I won't let you."
"I'm serious. I have no balance. I will take us both down."
He grinned, and it was like watching the sun break through clouds. "Then we'll fall together. I've fallen plenty of times. First time I tried to skate, I was five. My mom put me on the ice and I just—" He mimed a spectacular wipeout. "Face-first. Right there. Everyone saw."
She almost smiled. "What did you do?"
"Cried. Then got back up." He shrugged. "My mom said, 'Either you learn or you keep falling.' So I learned."
She took a breath. Let go of the railing. Grabbed his hand.
Her blades slid. Her arms flew out. Her whole body tilted—
