Calipers, protractor and level: Godmother measures the hundredth line in the endless fractal of window frost, then brings it back down. Blue .005 Micron on thin vellum–waterproof, thank goodness. This angle, this length. Good.

It’s very cold in the cabin, but then it has to be, to keep the frost alive. Stiff fingers are careless fingers, she thinks; maybe she ought to warm them?

“Do you want some hot cocoa?” she asks Jack.

Jack, still crying, whimpers through the duct tape.

“No,” she agrees, “you wouldn’t,” as she smooths the vellum over his face and picks up the tattoo gun.