Page 35 of Sky and the Grumpy Troll

“Well, maybe I’m not shopping for Clover.” He flicked the crop again, and this time he was looking directly at me, and my ears went hot because we were standing in a public shop in a village where people knew my name.

The shopkeeper glanced up from her workbench. Her name was Helda, if I recalled correctly, and I had purchased several leather goods from her over the years: a replacement bridle, a new strap for the carriage harness, that sort of thing.

“Moerrven Mossren! The great author!” She set down her oiling cloth and beamed. “Haven’t seen you in an age. Are you passing through?”

“A brief stop. We are—”

“And who’s this?” Her gaze moved to Sky with undisguised interest. Sky, who was still holding the riding crop and had arranged his face into an expression of charming sweetness.

“This is Sky. He is my—” The word caught. Traveling companion was accurate and insufficient. Soulmate rose to the tip of my tongue with a familiarity that alarmed me. “He is with me.”

Helda’s eyebrows rose. A smile spread across her face that contained an entire novel’s worth of subtext. “Is he now?”

She looked between us, the massive troll and the small, bright human holding one of her riding crops, and the smile deepened.

“Is he the one, then? Dagmarra mentioned you’d found someone. Well. I can see why you’re smiling more.”

I was not smiling. I was standing rigidly in a leather shop while my traveling companion brandished equestrian equipment with suggestive intent.

“I’ll take this one,” Sky said, holding up the crop. “And that one.” He pointed to a shorter, thicker crop on the top shelf. “And do you have anything in a, what would you call it, like a little flat leather paddle? For stubborn oxen?”

Helda nodded. “Got a nice one, good wrist weight. Intended for draft animals that won’t mind their drivers. Shall I show you?”

“Please,” Sky said, as if he were ordering wine at a fine establishment.

I stood motionless and examined a display of horseshoe nails with tremendous interest.

The draft paddle was a well-crafted piece of leatherwork, with a stiff handle, flexible head, and beautiful stitching. It was designed for livestock management, so I could not say with certainty what Sky needed it for. It probably wasn’t anything sex-related. He probably had livestock back in San Jose.

Sky held it up, wiggled his eyebrows, and met my eyes. “This looks fun.”

I excused myself to wait outside because the shop was too warm, and also, I was going to say something inadvisable. I stood in the square and breathed the cold air and did not look at the gorge.

Bryndala would have laughed. The thought arrived without permission, sharp and specific: I could picture Bryndala standing in this square, watching me panic over a human with a riding crop, and laughing until she had to sit down.

She had always said I needed to loosen up.

For a moment she felt near enough to touch, and guilt came with her, quick and cold, that I could be this wrapped up in a human, thinking of his hands and his laugh with her memory standing right there. I pushed it away. It went more easily than it once would have, and that was its own small guilt.

As Sky emerged from the shop with a wrapped parcel under his arm and a grin that could only be described as predatory, I wondered if Bryndala would have approved of Sky. Not as a lover, of course, but as a friend.

“I got the paddle,” he said. “And two crops. And some very nice leather cord that Helda said was for tying down cargo loads, but I have other plans.”

“Why do I fear your plans?”

“You shouldn’t. I have the best plans.” He bumped his shoulder against my arm and the knot in my chest loosened. “Come on, let’s go find our bed.”

The inn was called The Greymere River Inn. It was clean, warm, and run by a cheerful troll couple who took evident pride in the place. The moment we stepped inside, I realized Sky had not considered a bunkroom a possibility.

Sky stared at the row of narrow wooden bunks with their thin mattresses and communal wool blankets. Four other travelers were already installed, two orc merchants playing cards at a table in the corner, and a pair of elven pilgrims reading on adjacent bunks.

“This is a hostel,” Sky said.

“I don’t know what that is, but this is efficient. Frostholm is a small village.”

“A hostel. With bunk beds. And roommates.”

“The beds have mattresses. Remember how you were waxing poetic about mattresses on our second night of camping?”