Studying the list of assignments, Lita frowned. Not the dramatic, pouty kind of frown one might see in exaggerated caricatures. No, this woman radiated anger like storm clouds rolling across the sky. Her blue eyes glinted with icy detachment, her lips tightened into a razor-thin line, and it seemed as if gray thunderclouds might soon swirl around her.
“Vill. Bellehaven,” she read aloud, her gaze fixed on the name of the small village printed next to her surname. Her lips thinned even further.
The list had been pinned to the notice board since morning. Fresh graduates, learning the location of their three-year assignments, either departed with smiles or trudged away to pack their belongings. But not this girl. She stood rooted to the spot, a statue amidst the noisy ebb and flow of the crowd.
It was a beautiful day outside. Warm, around twenty degrees, pleasantly sunny with only a few stray clouds dimming the otherwise perfect weather. Still, the occasional gusts of wind had prompted some to grab umbrellas or pull up their collars against the chill. The University of Applied Social Technologies buzzed like a hive. Nervous high school students timidly flipped through brochures as they wandered the lecture halls, while university students, breathless and desperate, dashed after professors to beg for their grades. Meanwhile, the graduates—diplomas in hand—strode out with varying degrees of pride and anxiety. Their futures for the next three years had been decided by mandatory placements.
The institution was funded through grants and public subsidies. For five years, the nation had provided its students with tuition, board, and stipends. Now, it expected them to repay the favor through service. Refusing the placement came with a steep penalty fee. Such was the case for Violetta Fireen—or Lita, as her friends called her.
“Vill.,” she thought bitterly. “That means ‘village,’ somewhere in the warm southern reaches of Provence or maybe Andalusia. Heat all year round, scorching sun, striped watermelons, tanned hands, and freckles scattered across my face.” She sighed in resignation as she pulled out her tablet to look up this “Bellehaven.”
“Please… please it’s short for ‘Snow Village’—and I’ll be shipped off to the Arctic, surrounded by eternal ice and freezing nights?” The thought flickered briefly, a shred of hope, before being dashed by the search results.
“‘Bellehaven Village,’ a small rural settlement in the South of France…”
“Damn it all to hell!” Lita cursed under her breath. Noticing a few puzzled stares, she quickly stepped away from the board, afraid she might rip the accursed paper to shreds in a fit of frustration.
Violet stormed away from the administrative building, heedless of the wind or the light drizzle. Her unbuttoned coat billowed as she walked, but the cold was the least of her worries. For reasons that defied logic, Lita—whose warm surname and summery given name seemed destined for sunny places—absolutely despised the heat.
**Twenty-two years ago, a little girl was born into the Fireen family.** A button-nosed baby with light curls, sky-blue eyes, and skin so pale it was almost translucent. Her father, the esteemed Roman Fireen—tall, broad-shouldered, and extraordinarily red-haired—gazed joyfully at the growing miracle in their home, embracing his wife, Ann. She was a dusky-skinned woman with dark brown eyes. The relatives were unanimous: the child was delightful, charming, and irresistibly lovely. Only one old aunt, with wiry gray hair and a face dotted with age spots, croaked her surprise at how their family of "sunswept" people could produce such a "Snow Queen." The nickname stuck like glue, and Lita made no effort to shake it off. After all, she truly adored winter—ski slopes, ice skates, and ice cream instead of hot tea with cinnamon. Summer, to her, was merely an inconvenient prelude to the next snowflake-laden adventure.
As the years went by, her family tried to introduce her to vacations in warmer climates. But after a disastrous trip to the land of pharaohs and noseless sphinxes, Violet packed her papers and transferred to a sports boarding school in Bergen, Norway. Higher education followed the same pattern. The University of Applied Social Technologies, located in the northern fjords, offered excellent housing, a decent stipend, and promising future employment.
And now, all those dreams were unraveling in this *“Belle-Hell-Haven”* place, leaving her with nothing but the thought of scorching southern sun, a singsong accent, and sweltering, humid nights.
Lita wandered aimlessly through the park, brooding over her miserable placement.
Twilight began to settle in, swallowing the faint remnants of a northern sunset. Shadows stretched and morphed, and darkness crept in like an eager storyteller weaving suspense. Familiar sounds took on eerie new meanings; mundane objects gained ominous silhouettes. Night claimed its dominion, and its subjects—the whispering breezes and rustling leaves—began their hunt, agitating hearts and stirring imaginations.
A lone figure hurried through the dimly lit alley, her steps quick and purposeful. The faint glow of a flickering streetlamp cast fleeting halos over her hair as she passed. A foggy shroud followed her, trailing like a devoted lover, only to dissipate under the cold clarity of moonlight, which bathed her in ethereal protection.
Violet plopped onto a frigid park bench, her breath puffing in visible frustration. She pulled out her diploma and stared at her transcript, tinged with melancholy. She wasn’t a top achiever, nor a slacker; she’d played it safe, kept her head down, and earned her professors' favor by helping with small tasks. Even her brief stint in the university improv team, which had ended in a politically charged flop, hadn’t dented her reputation.
**"I should've gone to the dean's office sooner, begged to stay on campus,"** she thought, berating herself.
The spots in the southern countryside were coveted, their allure unmatched. But the competition was fierce, with only top students or well-connected individuals securing such placements. Violet fit into neither category, and yet here she was.
**“How did I end up here?”**
It was too late to appeal now. The faculty had sent all the necessary documents to the regional placement offices long before the lists were published. She felt like a cog in a machine, one that couldn’t hope to defy its mechanisms.
With a resigned sigh, Violet rose and trudged back toward the dormitory. The evening mist clung to her, a silent companion on her lonely walk.
---
Morning arrived, dreary and relentless. Violet squinted at the sunlight creeping through her curtains and groaned at the thermometer’s reading—eighteen degrees Celsius at nine in the morning. The forecast for her destination didn’t help lift her spirits.
By noon, she’d thrown her belongings into a suitcase and backpack, bid a final farewell to her alma mater, and climbed into a waiting taxi bound for the train station.
**Three days and five hours, by the car, train and ferry**, the warm embrace of the Riviera welcomed her—or rather, enveloped her like an unwelcome hug.
Sleepy passengers spilled out onto the station platform, soaking up the heady southern air and scattering like confetti to enjoy their allotted time in this fabled land.
"Check the carriages; we’re preparing to dock," the stationmaster barked, making his rounds through the train. When he reached carriage thirteen, he stopped, puzzled by a commotion inside.
“Maria, what’s the matter here?” he asked, addressing the harried stewardess. “Everyone should be off by now. The train’s due for the depot.”
“Oh, Mr Arkadson, it’s a mess! There’s a passenger who refuses to disembark!”
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“Had too much to drink? Or is there some kind of emergency?” the man asked, his tone more curious than concerned.
“She’s young, pale as a ghost, and keeps muttering something about ruining her life. Says she won’t get off the train and demands the driver turn around immediately. She keeps calling it ‘a hellish inferno’—can you imagine?” Maria exclaimed, clearly eager to finish her shift and retreat to a friend’s sun-drenched summer house.
The stationmaster adjusted his hat and sighed. Not the sort of reaction he expected for the Riviera in peak season. “Take me to her,” he said, following the exasperated stewardess down the narrow aisle.
Lita was truly unwell, though not physically. Her health was impeccable—she’d aced cross-country skiing in the top group, skated so gracefully that everyone around admired her, and spent weeks hiking through mountains. Over her entire life, she’d only been sick a handful of times: a bout of chickenpox and measles, and a couple of colds. One cold came from running outside in just a sweater after the boys from the other dormitory who had swiped their linens for a prank. She remembered that well, not because of the sniffles but because the livid caretaker had threatened to evict the lot of them. The other cold was more vague in her memory—it involved falling through the ice while participating in an Epiphany plunge. She was lucky to escape with only a two-day sniffle, though her father gained a streak of gray from the ordeal. Doctors had prophesied doom, while the rescuers had been preoccupied dragging someone else from the icy depths.
But all of that was back in the land of snow and frost. Here, in this balmy southern corner of the world, she felt entirely out of place. She hated swimming, sank like a rock in the water, and her pale skin refused to tan—breaking out in red burns instead, peeling away painfully afterward. She didn’t understand volleyball or any other beach sports, and the very sight of cypresses instead of fir trees left her feeling like a white crow. How would anyone accept her in this foreign, unfamiliar place?
Hearing a knock, she hesitantly opened the door. She had to come out eventually; she’d already caused enough trouble for the train attendant. If she didn’t step outside, they might really call the police. And wouldn’t that be a spectacle? "The Snow Queen" delivered under escort to her new workplace.
"I’m sorry, I’m coming out now. I just got a bit overwhelmed, but I’m fine now," she muttered apologetically. But instead of the fussy attendant who had been trying to usher her out with nosy questions, she found a man in uniform, studying her with a bemused smile.
"And why the ruckus, my lady? Doesn’t our land suit you?" he asked, settling into the seat across from her with an easy confidence, his folded blanket set neatly aside.
"Not at all! It’s the heat, the sunburns, the sand in the wind, and the cypresses where firs should be. And that’s just the beginning. But why would you care about the rest?" Lita sighed, standing up to gather her things.
"Why wouldn’t I care, miss? Allow me to introduce myself—Feodor Arkadson, train conductor and lifelong native of this golden region. I’ve taken root here, as it were. So, what brought a 'snowflake' like you to our beaches?" He rose, helping her take down her bags from the overhead rack, then gestured for her to follow him out of the stifling compartment.
Reluctantly, Lita followed. She had to leave eventually, after all.
"Violet. Duty brought me here. I’m a student—well, a graduate now—from a social college. I’ve been assigned to some remote little village to work. You can call me Lita, though. Violetta feels too… formal."
"Oh no, my dear, you’re not Lita—you’re Viola. Your name fits you more than you think, even if your parents probably expected someone… warmer. Why not Gerda, then?"
"Papa wanted to call me Lucia, actually. You know, ‘in glory of the light.’ But no one in our sunny family expected a Snow Queen like me."
"‘Sunny family’?" Feodor raised a curious brow, his long strides effortlessly matching the rhythm of the platform.
"Yes! My dad is as ginger as they come—freckles and all—just like Grandpa. And Mom? A beauty with dark hair and eyes black as night. And then there’s me…" She trailed off, watching the departing train wistfully. Then, with a sudden burst of energy, she blurted, "Like I was switched at birth."
"Don’t be so sure," Feodor chuckled. "Fate works in mysterious ways. When do you start at work?"
"Tomorrow morning. I don’t want to spend money on a hotel. I’ve never stayed in one anyway—always tents, hikes, or crashing with friends and relatives. I’ll wait it out here at the station and catch the first train to Bellehaven."
"A young lady spending the night on the street? Out of the question! No arguing now," Feodor said firmly. "My wife is meeting me soon. You’ll stay with us. Look at you—you’re pale as a ghost. They’ll send you packing before you even start, or worse, slap you with some fine for wasting their time."
"And that’d be great!" Lita perked up, clearly not put off by the idea. "I can’t refuse the assignment without paying a penalty, but if they fire me for no reason, I’ll get reassigned somewhere else. Win-win!"
Lost in conversation, they reached the station exit, where streams of arriving and departing travelers bustled in every direction. Passing through a side door meant for staff, Feodor quickly signed off on the necessary paperwork while Lita waited. Without further ado, he led her out to meet his wife.
"And here’s my darling! Lyubochka, look who I’ve brought home—a young lady in need of shelter!" Feodor straightened up, preparing to embrace his wife, only to receive a playful swat from her handbag. Ignoring his antics, she wrapped him in a firm hug, kissing him soundly on the lips.
Lita, mortified, shifted awkwardly, wishing she could melt into the pavement.
"Ah, you rogue! You’ve embarrassed the poor girl," Lyuba scolded, laughing warmly. Then, turning to Lita, she added, "Don’t mind him, dear. He’s harmless. I’m Lyubov Mikhailovna, his wife. You’ll stay with us tonight, and don’t let those station gossips bother you—they’ve probably already concocted some wild tale about you two!"
The woman’s voice, rich with a charming accent, immediately put Lita at ease. Though not shy by nature, Lita had always maintained a certain distance from others, earning her the teasing nickname "Snow Queen" among her peers. Yet here, among these warm, welcoming strangers, her icy guard seemed to thaw just a little.
Lita froze in bewilderment as they approached a small red sedan. After stuffing the girl's belongings and the man's bag into the trunk, Lyubov Mikhailovna ushered them both into the back seat. The front seat was occupied by a handbag, several folders, and blueprints. Seeing the girl's puzzled expression, "Lyubochka" burst out laughing.
"What's wrong? Never seen a woman behind the wheel before? I'm a construction worker, by the way, so you can forget your notions of a finishing school for noble ladies."
Blushing, Lita responded, though unsure whether her candidness might get her kicked out of the car for her audacity:
"Forgive me, I just imagined the southern regions a bit differently—tractors with carts, horses, tiny houses, and everyone enslaved by household chores."
The woman laughed heartily and smirked.
"Imagine my surprise when the conductor told me about some crazy girl from Norvegian, and you didn’t show up with a bear in tow or wearing a fur-skin coat. Trust me, we've got our own fairy tales about your parts too."
The way she said "fairy tales" had a sharp undertone that Lita couldn't help but interpret as a not-so-subtle jab.
Her new acquaintances lived in a small house on the outskirts of town, on a picturesque street lined with similar cottages. Instead of the endless vegetable patch Lita had imagined, the house was surrounded by a few apple trees and a beautiful flower bed.
"Dear Leta, make yourself comfortable. I'll whip up some porridge and fruits for you. It'll cure whatever ails you. Take a nap before dinner, and then, I insist, spill the gossip—I want to hear what’s going on in those snowy lands of yours"
The guest was given a spot in the upstairs sitting room, where the couch unfolded into a bed. Opposite it stood an old tiled fireplace adorned with vibrant patterns. Lita was captivated by the colorful tiles but hesitant to be left alone.
"Thank you, Lyubov Mikhailovna. May I stay with you instead? I'd love to hear about your region—what's it like here, and how things are done."
And so, amidst talk of this and that, the conversation turned to Bellehaven. The host chuckled into his mustache, teasing the girl.
"You don't want to go to work, but you're dying to find everything out."
His wife silenced him indignantly.
"I'd balk too if they were sending me to Bellehaven!"
"What kind of old wives’ tales are these?" Fyodor grumbled.
"Tales to you, but folks around here say it's no ordinary place."
"Unsettled?" Lita interjected.
"Not at all. The villagers live well—everyone has livestock and a garden, and their smoked goods and preserves are the highlight of the local fair. But anyone from outside who ventures into Bellehaven's forests for? They wander, call out, get lost. The compass breaks, the car won't start. Locals, though—they grew in a fairytale, not in our polluted soil."
"Country gossip," the man cut in gruffly. "You're just jealous their women are more industrious than you hens, who only go to the market for gossip."
Lyubov Mikhailovna, delighted by the chance to spar, planted her hands on her hips.
"And how do you explain that no party official lasts there? Anyone sent from above doesn't make it a month before running away, complaining about the harsh conditions and impossible tasks. Eventually, they stopped sending anyone altogether."
"Who'd want to rot away in that backwater? It's not the capital! The entire town's just three streets, a square, and a city hall that's half cultural center, library, and movie theater. Our girl here will run off too, unless she finds herself a fine fellow there. After all, the real heroes are here!" he declared, gesturing grandly out the window.
Unfortunately, the "heroes" outside turned out to be a pair of drunken men leaning on each other for support and a tall, skinny fellow in tight trousers nervously puffing on a cigarette.
"Damn it," the host muttered, closing the window. "Some display that was."
"Violetta, what are you, anyway? A doctor? A teachre?" Fyodor asked, changing the subject.
The girl shook her head in dismay, realizing her profession sounded worse and worse.
"I'm a specialist in social reclamation." Seeing their blank stares, she quickly explained: "Basically, a secretary. I'm supposed to oversee my assigned area and then tell people how lucky they are to live in such a wonderful place."
"They already know how lucky they are. But what are you actually going to *do*?" Lyubov Mikhailovna asked bluntly.
"I don't know," Violetta admitted, the truth bursting forth from the corners of her mind. "I figured the town's mayor would sign off on my assignment and forget about me for three years, handing me trivial errands. But if there's no mayor, how do people live there? And what am I supposed to do?"
"They live well—you’ll see for yourself tomorrow. There’s a train from here. I’ll get you on it; no need to queue at the ticket counter. It's the summer season, so seats are scarce. From there, you’ll need to hitch a ride to Bellehaven—no regular buses go there; it’s too remote," the master explained, sitting at the table and signaling the end of the conversation for the meal.
Late that evening, Violetta sat with the hostess, greedily absorbing rumors about Bellehaven. From the muddle of stories, she managed to gather that no appointed governor had lasted there, not one of the twelve. If the tale was to be believed, Violetta was the thirteenth. The locals were wary of outsiders, given their experiences, and who could blame them? One fool came intending to cut down the forest for a cardboard factory, only for the entire machinery warehouse to catch fire. Another tried building a lakeside mansion—it ended up a den of vice before a flood destroyed it, leaving spires of the submerged house sticking out of the expanded lake.
The night brought strange dreams—a raven, dark and real. It didn’t caw or transform into a sinister old man. On the contrary, Lita felt it was protecting her from the nonsense that should have plagued her dreams after all those eerie tales.
The next day, after bidding farewell to her hospitable hosts, Violetta boarded the train, taking a corner seat and plopping onto her bag rather than occupying a spot meant for elders. The train filled up quickly with summer residents. Bored, the girl surveyed the crowd, inventing stories for the passengers to amuse herself without draining her tablet’s battery. She spotted a blond-haired man with blue streaks, deeply engrossed in a book. The title froze her in place, her gaze locked on the peculiar stranger.