Frigida was born 10 minutes after her sister, and gave the midwife frostbite instantly. Everything she grasped with her childish fingers turned to ice – not that digitally-enhanced, sparkly, trademarked ice that crystallises into songs, but the sharp, grey, bottom of the freezer ice that ruins fish fingers and makes midwinter miserable. Now, Frigida’s home at the Pole is desolate, her only visitors are scientists. Long ago she tried going out wearing special gloves, but contrary to what the stories would have you believe, she still froze large parts of northern Europe, just by handing over her passport.
Calida exploded into the world ten minutes before her sister, burning the delivery room curtains to ash. She had flames at her fingertips – not the marshmallow toasting, cockle-warming, camp-fire kind of flames, but the flames that thirst for forests in wildfire season, blacken summer skies, and start stampedes. Regardless, she’s recently been stepping out from her volcano more. Her latest grand tour took in the sights of Canada, the USA, Peru, and New Zealand, to name just a few. She was ever so careful to keep her hands to herself, but some trees and houses were so beautiful that she couldn’t help but touch. Returning home, she was so impatient to see more of the world, that her volcano overflowed, her pent up feelings taking several herds of goats and the last wind-blown shrubs with them.
The summer that Calida finally reaches the Pole, Frigida meets her at the edge of her shrinking ice garden, scowling. Calida offers her hand, expecting fireworks, but when they shake there’s only steam. Her sister opens her mouth, ready to sing her surprise.
‘Want to come travelling?’ asks Calida hurriedly, still holding hands.
Frigida looks down at the first green grass she’s ever stood on, and nods.
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