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I end up flopped on top of Henrik, with my face smashed into the blankets next to his head. My cold cheek is pressed next to his cold cheek, and I’m either going to hyperventilate or smother to death if I don’t move.

Forcing my arms out of the bedroll, I turn my head at the same moment Henrik turnshishead.

For a second, it’s a blur of his rough stubble scraping against my cheek and the bumping of our noses. It isn’t until I realize that my mouth has ended up half over his that my brain stops working.

It’s not a kiss—it’s not anything.

It’s just Henrik’s lips partially pressed against my lips and both of us frozen from the unexpected shock of it. My eyes are open, and I’m assuming his are too, and this certainly wasn’t on purpose.

But as I’m trying to find a way to explain it to myself, Henrik moves ever so slightly. His mouth passes over mine, fully, perhaps evenintentionally, and my stomach clenches.

He pauses so briefly, I’m not sure if I imagine it, his lips brushing but not kissing, and then there’s a shock of cold morning air between us as he rises. Pulling his arms from his blankets, he clutches my shoulders and helps me sit. He’s shifted just enough I’m no longer on his legs, thank goodness.

My heart races as I stare at the canvas fabric of his bedroll, resisting the urge to bring my fingers to my tingling lips.

“The fire has gone out,” Henrik says calmly—as if our mouths weren’t connected only moments ago. “Did you stay warm enough?”

Warm? I’m burning up.

All right, no. I’m actually quite cold.

“I’m freezing,” Bartholomew mumbles from within his bedroll, saving us from making post-kiss small talk. “Is it morning?”

But no, it wasn’t a kiss. A kiss wouldn’t leave me this befuddled—more, it wouldn’t be so unsatisfying.

Henrik shrugs from his bedroll, still fully dressed and wearing his cloak. He leans down in the precarious space so he won’t hit his head on the rock, trying not to step on Pranmore as he peers outside. “It is, and the storm is moving out. Let’s have some breakfast and get going.”

* * *

The clouds breakup shortly after sunrise, and the snow melts by midday. The forest is a sloppy mess, and we’re either walking through wet, slick mud or atop squishy moss that squelches with every step we take.

Forest sludge cakes my boots, and the hem of my cloak is filthy.

Thankfully, the day has grown relatively warm by evening. We make camp on a somewhat flat patch of rock—possibly the only place on the whole mountain that’s dry. We’re not protected from aynauths as we were on the outcrop we camped atop the first night, but Henrik hasn’t seen any sign of the monsters all day.

For all we know, the elf sent us on a wild goose chase.

Nothing attacks us in our sleep, and I don’t wake up against Henrik’s shoulder—which is both a relief and rather depressing, depending on how you wish to look at it.

The next morning, we rise and do it all over again.

Henrik and I have slipped into a strange, professional companionship. Neither of us mentions the accidental not-kiss, nor Camellia’s letter—or anything of any importance really.

Unable to stay angry for long, Pranmore forgives Bartholomew, and their chatter fills our travels.

“How much further to the sea?” I ask Henrik as we march toward the sunset, looking for a spot to make camp on our fifth night in the mountains. “I swear I can smell the ocean on the breeze, but it might be wishful thinking.”

Henrik believes we’ve found a fur trader’s route, judging from the wagon tracks in the trail that winds through the trees. It’s an easier path to follow than trying to cut our own through the woods—I just hope we don’t pass the trapper himself, or poor Pranmore will likely have heart failure.

It’s strange, though, that we haven’t seen any sign of trapper trails sooner—especially when this one seems to be fairly well-traveled.

“I’ve never been this far into the mountains,” Henrik admits, “but it seems we should arrive at the cliffs soon. We’ll have a better idea when we get to the top of this hill.”

We reach the summit of the slight incline and pause to catch our breath. Relief mingles with accomplishment as I get a glimpse of dark blue water between the thick trees. “If that’s a lake, I’ll be very disappointed.”

Bartholomew laughs, sounding just as relieved as I am. “We’ve done it.”

“Not yet.” Henrik shoulders his pack and continues down the rugged road. “Let’s go a little farther before we make camp.”