Page 103

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Pranmore isn’t speakingto Bartholomew, and Clover is avoiding me. Bartholomew can’t look Pranmore in the eye, and I’ve twisted myself inside out over the situation with Clover. I don’t like where we left things—not one bit.

We’re a sorry bunch, and again, I wonder why I was cursed with this lot. My life was on track only a month ago—everything was laid out in a tidy timeline. And then…Clover happened.

But the truth is, I wouldn’t change it for anything. Clover is impulsive and stubborn; she’s noble and soft even though she wants to be hardened and fierce. She’s fire one minute and as gentle as a kitten the next, and I’ve been happier in these last few weeks than ever in my life.

Right now, though, she’s quiet and obedient, quick to agree, and smiling only with her mouth—and I don’t like it one bit.

On top of everything else, clouds roll in midday, and it looks like we’re in for a storm. We’re not prepared for snow—we’re barely prepared for good weather, though the gnomes did replenish our supplies.

Poor Bartholomew almost can’t walk under the weight of the rations they gave us.

We head west, not because I trust Ayan, but because I have no better plan. Sensing the change in the weather, the squirrels and birds have gone into hiding, and the woods are silent except for the crunch of dried pine needles under our boots. Even the wind is still, and clouds blanket the forest in silence. The air smells like snow, with bright, crisp notes mixed with the sharp scent of pines and the rich fragrance of the earth.

The first snowflake falls midday.

Clover stops, watching it float down, and extends her mitten-covered hand to catch it. It’s beautiful, white and pure, but it feels ominous.

“Where did you get the mittens?” I ask, desperate to start a conversation with her.

She briefly meets my eyes, giving me a smile that doesn’t light her face like they usually do. “Maisel gave them to me. She knitted them last night—making them ‘gargantuan’ to fit my ‘disproportionately large’ hands.”

I laugh a little, and then I catch myself and clear my throat.

Thankfully, Pranmore doesn’t notice how uncomfortable things are between Clover and me. “The gnomes, though their speech is venomous, are strangely welcoming for such a reclusive people.”

“We won’t tell my uncle they’re there, will we, Henrik?” Bartholomew asks.

I’m not sure Bartholomew realizes the question is a difficult one. Though I guaranteed the gnomes their privacy, I cannot command Algernon’s nephew to keep something from him.

“Do you think we should tell him?” I hedge.

Bartholomew thinks about it for a moment, and then he shakes his head. “Technically, they were here first, and they haven’t committed any crimes. Let’s leave them in peace, as we promised.”

“I agree,” I say, relieved.

We become quiet once more, with only our shuffling steps to fill the silence.

Not long later, the snow begins to fall in earnest. Soon, the deer trail we follow is dusted, and our boots leave footprints behind us. Already, the air has cooled considerably, and dark clouds have settled around us, churning overhead.

If we don’t find shelter to weather the storm, we’ll be caught in the worst of it.

I survey the landscape and take note of the cliff that rises to the north.

“Let’s go this way,” I say, veering to the right. “We need to try to find shelter for the night.”

My companions follow without question, and soon we reach a rocky wall that rises from the forest floor.

“What are we looking for?” Bartholomew asks as we traverse the slippery, rocky landscape.

“A cave, if we’re fortunate.”

“Henrik,” Pranmore calls from ahead. “What about this?”

The rocky recess cuts into the mountain, protected by large boulders toward the front. The cliff curves in around the space, creating an overhang that’s already shielding the area from the snow. The opening is large enough for four people to fit tightly, wedged in between a few rocks, and we will be able to build a fire toward the front. It’s not as protected as a cave, and it won’t be the most comfortable shelter, but it will do.

“Bartholomew, take the hand axe out of my pack and collect fallen wood—try to pull dry pieces from underneath ones that the snow has already collected on.”