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“Yes, Henrik,” Bartholomew says eagerly.

I look up with a grimace. “And don’t chop off your arm. I’m not sure Pranmore would put you back together right now.”

“I would,” Pranmore says icily. “Unlike other members of this party, I respectalllife.”

Ignoring the elf, I crouch low, trying to move as many loose rocks as possible to make more space. Clover kneels by my side to help.

I wait for her to flash me a wicked look and remind me that we’d all be cozy inside her tent if I’d brought it up that night on the outcrop, but she doesn’t mention it.

Her broken silence is demoralizing. I want her to yell at me—get angry. I deserve it, even if only because I didn’t make her listen to me when I tried to tell her. I want to fight so we can make up and put it behind us.

But I say nothing.

As we work, Pranmore stands outside the shelter, staring up at the sky, mumbling about the way the diffused light becomes ethereal as it shines through the falling ice crystals.

“Come inside,” I tell him. “You can look at the ethereal light from in here.”

Not long later, Bartholomew returns with an armful of kindling. The snow is coming faster now, and it’s already collected on the young duke’s cloak.

“Brush off before you come inside,” I tell him. “You don’t want to get wet, or you’ll freeze before the night is over.”

Clover gathers pine needles that have collected in the sheltered space throughout the years. They’re dry and brittle, and when the sparks from my knife and flint land upon them, they catch easily.

Soon we have a fire at the entrance of the shelter, just far enough out the smoke escapes instead of collecting in the space. It warms the area, but only marginally. We huddle under our cloaks, eventually pulling out bedrolls when the storm darkens with night.

The fire illuminates the flurry of snow as it falls outside. Slowly, it accumulates at the entrance, but the central part of the shelter stays dry thanks to the cliff overhead.

We eat food the gnomes packed—several flasks of cider, herb rolls with thick crusts, and slices of hard yellow cheese. Maisel gave us several sausages as well, but Clover and Bartholomew seem reluctant to mention them in front of Pranmore, and I’m not going to be the one to bring it up.

There isn’t room for us to lay down, but as the night wears on, Bartholomew manages to curl into a ball toward the back of the small space, tucking himself so deeply into his bedroll he’s not even visible.

“Are you warm enough?” I ask Clover.

Still wearing her cloak, with her hood tucked tightly around her head, she sits burrowed into her own bedroll. “Only my cheeks are cold.”

We’re side by side, close enough I could wrap my arm around her shoulder and encourage her to lean against me so she can rest. But after this morning, I don’t dare.

Pranmore, too, is cocooned in his bedroll, with only his antlers poking out. He sits by the entrance, as he kept unintentionally poking us with his antlers when he was closer.

“How are you, Pranmore?” I ask.

“Fine,” he says from somewhere in his blankets, his voice muffled and half-frozen. “We Woodmores have a natural immunity to the cold—it’s just another side of nature, which is beautiful in all its extremes.”

Clover rolls her eyes, and I smile. Our gazes meet unintentionally, and we both look down.

“I never thought to ask,” I say to Pranmore. “But what will your family think of you swearing your life away?”

“They will be proud that I value our people’s traditions.”

“Do they all live in the south?” Clover asks, joining the conversation as if she, too, is desperate to talk about something that feels normal in this strange situation we’ve found ourselves in.

Pranmore makes a muffled noise of affirmation.

“And there’s no one waiting for you at home?” Clover asks. “You don’t have a girl anxious for your return?”

Slowly, Pranmore pokes his head out of the covers. “No.”

“Why not?” she asks, sounding genuinely curious.