Frost Bites

When Augustus Nod's notes on the dangerous balm disappear, Edgar and Ellen's pursuit of the culprit takes them away from their hometown for the first time ever. Their first stop is in Frsthaven, an arctic village with unsettling similarities to Nod's Limb. Illustrations.

Charles Ogden is an avid camper and fisherman. He collects insects and has traveled in pursuit of various specimens to the North Pole, the Souh Pole, and Poland. Mr. Ogden and his insect collection make their home in a cool, dry, preservation-friendly environment, far removed from prying eyes.

Rick Carton has been drawing longer than he's been walking. In his Chicago studio he has a cherished collection of every pencil ever worn down to a nub during his lengthy artistic career. He has never formally studed art; instead, the art community has diligently studied him. They are yet to release their findings.

PrologueA frigid whorl of air blew fat flakes of snow up Ellen's right nostril -- her left was frozen shut. She would have grimaced, but her face was too numb to move."Edgar, g-get that f-fire going," she said through chattering teeth.Her twin brother rubbed together two wicker reeds, hoping to set fire to the rest of the hot-air balloon basket heaped in the snowdrift.They had traveled in the airship for weeks, leaving behind the warmth and familiarity of Nod's Limbs and trading it, day by day, for air that bit ever more crisply into their skin, and fields below that changed from green to brown to (as of three days ago) white. The weather turned cruel, and the balloon itself had become laden with sheets of ice during an arctic blizzard. With fuel for the burner and rocket thrusters running out, the basket had sunk lower and lower, until it scraped the rocky ground. They could see nothing beyond the dense curtain of snowflakes, and when the balloon itself brushed a rocky outcropping, it cracked apart like peanut brittle. Now there was nothing left in Edgar and Ellen's world but freezing winds, snow, and a pile of wicker that refused to catch fire."I s-saw a spark!" called Edgar. "White hot spsparks...everywhere...""For the l-last time, those aresn-sn-snowflakes," croaked Ellen."Right you are," said Edgar deliriously. "Burning h-hot snowflakes...Come here, l-little fellas...."He began to dance about, attempting to hug the snowflakes for warmth.Ellen pulled a holey blanket over her head, the only real protection she had against the weather besides the ratty footie pajamas she and her brother always wore. In just a few hours of snowy torment on the forsaken mountainside, her brother had gone mad, truly mad, and she knew she could not be far behind. She glanced at Pet for some sign of hope, but the little creature had drawn its mound of hair around its single eye, until it appeared to be no more than a fuzzy snowball. Whether it was warm under that insulation she could not say, for Pet had stopped moving an hour ago, and the blowing snow was beginning to pile up around it. Soon it would be buried and lost. As would they all.Her brother pulled his arms all the way inside his pajamas, leaving the sleeves to flap maniacally as he bounded in circles, singing nursery rhymes. Ellen's lids narrowed, and she could feel ice working to seal them shut. Would her eyes close now for the final time?Then she heard Death itself call to her."Four," came a ghostly voice on the wind."M-Minutes?" she asked the swirling snow. "Or hours?""What did you say, Sister?" said Edgar, stopping his frolic."D-D-Death calls, Brother," Ellen moaned. "Proclaiming the m-m-moment of our d-doom. Inf-four.""Sister, you've gone mad," Edgar announced. "Stark-raving, full-tilt, nuts-to-you -- "That's when the golf ball hit Edgar in the head and knocked him out cold.The little ball rolled to a stop near Ellen's toes. It really did look like a golf ball, down to the pitted dimples across its surface, except this ball was neon purple and stood out brilliantly against the snow.A man's head popped up from behind a rock. His bushy beard was crusted with ice, and he wore a Scottish tam o' shanter (though the thin, little hat did not look like it could possibly keep him very warm)."There you are, little rascal!" the man said. He called back over his shoulder, "Found it, Knute! Going to be a two-stroke penalty to get you out of the rough, you betcha."Another head popped up beside the first. This one wore a sensibly warm woolen hat, but when this fellow leaped over the rock to stand before her, Ellen noticed that he had on insanely ugly golfing knickers."Ah,snorft!" he cursed. He pointed a golf club at the purple ball. "I can play it where it lies, you watch. Little girl, would you mind moving your toes? Torbald here thinks I can't get back on the fairway with a five