She shook her head and tried to push it back. “You’re obviously hungry.”
“So? I can catch more. This is yours.”
“I don’t want it.”
“Too late.”
Lindy crossed her arms mulishly. “You can’t tell me that you’ll respect my words and then turn around and ignore them. Which is it?”
His eyes narrowed. “Are you still hungry?”
“No,” she answered honestly. “I just wanted to see if you would do what you said.”
“Good.” Seemingly satisfied with heranswer, he set the plate on his legs and popped a piece of fish into his mouth.
She wrinkled her nose in confusion. “Good? Aren’t you annoyed that I didn’t just trust you?”
“No.” A few more bites, and the first was already nearly gone. “Why would you? Like you’ve said, we’ve only just met. I want you to test and see for yourself. Demanding trust before proving myself trustworthy is like asking you to jump blindly over the edge of a cliff. It would be foolish for you to do that without knowing what’s at the bottom.”
He tipped the fish bones into the fire and stood, brushing the sand from his trousers. Lindy tilted her head back, her eyes tracing his massive form as it towered over her.
“You know,” she said thoughtfully, as much to herself as to him. “You’re not nearly as frightening as you look.”
He laughed half-heartedly as he walked out of the circle of firelight. “I’m glad you think so. Now if only everyone else would come to that conclusion as well.”
Chapter Nine
ATLAS
Atlas cast his line over the water one last time for the afternoon, nodding a greeting to the swan as it glided by over the water. He wasn’t sure which of the princes it was—somehow Lindy was able to tell them apart—but the clear, uncannily intelligent eyes gave away the human soul that was trapped inside. He almost felt sorry for them, being stuck in the body of a bird and forced to eat weeds and insects and the green algae that floated on the surface of the lake.
But only almost.
They had seemed to take his lecture to heart, and over the week since, they had begun to be more attentive to Lindy, keeping close to her as she knitted. A few of them had attempted to assist her in harvesting the nettles, but their beaks had done more damage than help to the stalks, and she had shooed them wordlessly away.
His line jerked as he got a bite, and he carefully drew it in. A short while later, with six fish cleaned and ready to cook, he returned to the campsite. Their days had quicklyfallen into a comfortable routine. Lindy rose with the sun every morning to continue with her curse-breaking endeavors, and he did his best to join her. Mornings had never been his friend, and especially after sleeping on the ground every night, his body protested the early rising almost as much as his mind protested the idea of sleeping in while Lindy was already hard at work. He foraged and fished, making good on his promise of keeping her alive, and spent whatever free hours he had left before sunset searching for Phoebe. His attempts at asking Jacques for information were fruitless, as all the swan could do was snap his beak and flap his wings in frustration.
In the evenings, Lindy joined him by the fire, and he would tell her stories about his life growing up, or about Ms. Fumley and her insistence on feeding the boys who climbed the beanstalk, or anecdotes involving Phoebe and her delightful gosling shenanigans. She listened and asked questions and even managed half a smile now and then, but he had yet to get past the wall she had thrown between them of thorny sarcasm and fear disguised as stubborn independence.
Atlas started the fire and set the fish to roasting before joining Lindy on the shore. The sun was nearly set, the sky painted in brilliant shades of orange and pink, and the soft light played about her delicate features while the breeze from over the lake danced through the edges of her silky hair. If it hadn’t been for the dogged determination on Lindy’s face as she forced her red and blistered fingers to continue, it would have been abeautiful picture.
His heart rebelled at the sight of her pain, and Atlas was up again in an instant, marching to the closest tree and breaking off two of the straightest sticks he could find. He returned, dropping wordlessly to the ground beside her, and grabbing a handful of the green nettle fibers and casting a row of stitches onto one of the sticks. The nettle was still rather damp and waxy, and it felt clumsy under his big fingers, but he pressed on, determined to make it work. He could feel Lindy’s questioning glare on him, but he studiously ignored it.
As soon as the sun dipped below the horizon, Lindy tossed her knitting to the side and grabbed for his. “What are you doing?”
He used his long arms to his advantage, holding the needles high out of her reach. “Ms. Fumley told me a saying she learned as a child, ‘Misery loves company, and a bitter drink goes down easier with friends.’”
She grabbed for the needles again, then sat back down with a huff and crossed her arms when it became apparent she would have to practically climb on him to reach them. “I’m not miserable.”
He snorted, not believing her one bit, but going along with it anyway. “Maybe I am. I’ve spent every day for just over a week alone.”
“Please.” She rolled her eyes. “You love being alone. You live at the top of a mountain with no one but a goose and your housekeeper. But if you are miserable, maybe you should go home.”
He gave her a mock glare as he set his needles down far away from her and knelt beside the water to rinse hishands. “Maybe you should save those ideas for when the sun is up and you can’t say them.”
Lindy’s jaw fell open, and he turned back to the water. A moment later, he felt her hands shoving against his back, attempting to push him in. He threw his weight forward, holding his breath as he rolled headfirst into the lake. He waited, counting slowly to twenty.
“Atlas?” Lindy’s voice sounded murky and far away to his submerged ears, but the sound of his name from her lips still caused him to suck in a surprised breath.
