Page 23 of Sky and the Grumpy Troll

He did not mention the conversation. He did not mention the morning. He talked about Poppy’s ears and the color of the sky and a place he had once been that had mountains like this, sort of.

“You’re quiet,” he said, after a while.

“I’m driving.”

“You were driving yesterday, too, and you managed to point out a creek where you once stopped for a snack of grapes and cheese.”

“I’m concentrating.”

“On what? I don’t think Clover would turn off the road if you asked her to.” He stretched his legs out, crossing his ankles, and tipped his face up to the sun. The light caught the lines of his throat, the sharp cut of his jaw. I redirected my attention to Clover’s ears, which were large and uncontroversial.

“The road becomes more difficult past Sorrend,” I said. “The switchbacks along Stonedeep Lake require—”

He sat up. “There’s a lake?”

“Stonedeep Lake. The largest body of water in the northern counties. We will be following its western shore for most of the day.”

“Is it pretty?”

“It is considered one of the most beautiful landscapes in Qoksmere.”

The switchbacks descended through pine forest; the trees thinned, and then the lake appeared below us like something I might have written if I’d had the talent to render it properly. Stonedeep Lake stretched to the far mountains, vast and glass-still, reflecting the peaks in water so clear you could see the stone formations beneath its surface. The morning light turned everything gold and blue and sharp.

Sky went quiet.

I glanced at him. He was staring at the lake with his lips parted, one hand still resting on Poppy.

“Oh,” he said softly.

I looked away before he could catch me watching. The ache behind my ribs was inconvenient and I assigned it to the altitude.

“Okay, that’s gorgeous.” He let out a breath. “That is Lake Tahoe times a thousand. We didn’t have anything like this in San Jose.”

I did not know what Lake Tahoe was, or San Jose, but I chose not to press him on details that might remind him of what he had lost.

We descended toward the lakeshore. The road leveled out and ran along the western bank, close enough to hear the water lapping against the stones. The air smelled of pine and wet rock. The day made me want to stop the wagon, sit on the shore, and exist in the world for a while, which was not something I had wanted in a long time.

Sky pulled a book from under the bench. Not The Stonewall Bride. A different book, one I did not recognize, with a blue leather cover and silver lettering.

“What is that?”

“Found it in the trade library at the inn. The innkeeper asked me if I had any of your books to donate, so I gave her one, and she gave me this in exchange. Shit, I hope that’s okay? I would have asked, but a certain person was avoiding me.”

“It’s fine. I do that often,” I said.

He held his book up. The title read The Frozen Hearth. “It’s about an ice dragon and a troll baker. Two guys.” He grinned at me. “Found one where two men fuck. Because I know you wanted to get our imaginations going.”

I opened my mouth and closed it. “I do not remember saying that.”

“Hmm. My mistake. Have you heard of it?”

“I have, but I have not read it.” Ellemere Ashwood had written it a decade ago, and it was, by all accounts, quite lovely.

“Oh! That’s perfect! I can read to you.”

“That is entirely unnecessary.”

“You’ve been driving for hours with nothing to listen to except Clover’s hooves and your own inner monologue. You need entertainment.” He opened the book to chapter four. “I started it this morning while you were tacking up Clover and insisting that you didn’t need help. It’s really good. The dragon is gorgeous. Have you met an ice dragon?”