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Gruebin piles them high atop his plate, helping himself to an entire round of bread while he’s at it.

“Looks delicious,” Bartholomew says warmly, choosing a skewer for himself.

I open my mouth to warn him, but he’s already taken a bite of the strange meat. He makes a happy noise as he chews, and I grimace.

“Very tasty,” Bartholomew says approvingly, setting the empty wooden skewer aside before helping himself to another. “It’s dark meat, but I can’t place it. Flockchick? Goose?”

Watching the young man with amusement, Ayan says, “Squirrel.”

Bartholomew has just taken another bite, and he freezes. Slowly, his eyes move up to meet Ayan’s. He hovers a hand over his mouth and thickly asks, “Squirrel?”

Ayan makes a chattering noise before he pointedly repeats, “Squirrel.”

As if in pain, Bartholomew slowly chews his bite and then forces himself to swallow. Looking a little pale, he carefully sets what’s left of the skewer on his plate.

“Roasted them myself,” Ayan says to me, entirely too proud of himself.

“Good for you.”

“I’ve heard women like men who cook,” he says with a smirk.

Lowering my voice so the gnomes won’t overhear, I say, “Believe it or not, a man who knows how to roastsquirrelisn’t as appealing as he might think.”

Ayan grins and leans closer. “It’s only one of my many talents.”

“Thrall,” Gruebin commands. “My cup is empty.”

Ayan rises. To me, he says, “Have no fear—I shall return.”

“I appreciate the warning.”

He chuckles as he wanders away, perhaps thinking there isn’t a woman alive immune to his charms.

I turn to Bartholomew when the elf is gone. “Come sit by me.”

Still looking ill, Bartholomew stares at me blankly. “By you?”

I point to the spot Ayan just vacated. “Please?”

As if suddenly coming to his wits, he leaps to his feet. “Of course, my lady. I would be honored to dine beside you.”

When I glance at Henrik, he wears an inscrutable expression. To Gruebin, he says, “So you have no idea why the aynauths are moving lower?”

“I do not.” The jarl holds his cup in the air when Ayan returns with a pitcher. “Hurry up, thrall.”

Ayan comes around the back of the table to serve Gruebin, smirking when he sees the new seating arrangement. He fills the jarl’s cup, and then he offers the drink to the rest of us.

He then slides himself into the space next to Gruebin—to the gnome’s apparent dismay. Just like Henrik, Ayan looks ridiculous at the tiny table, butunlikeHenrik, he’s able to manage it.

“Don’t you have something to tend?” Gruebin questions him.

“No.”

Gruebin shakes his head and takes a large bite of roasted squirrel.

“So,” Ayan says, looking between Henrik, Bartholomew, and me. “You’re a strange bunch to find wandering in the woods. What brings you to our fair mountain?”

“Ourmountain,” Gruebin says between bites. “Not yours, you filthy trespasser.”