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“I should have guessed he hated jollity,” said Georgie, later, in the dark. Elf lay on one side of the bed, they on the other. “That face. If he smiled, it would cause an avalanche. His nose would break off.”
Elf had changed and crawled beneath the covers with deadly quiet. Her deadly quiet persisted. In fact, it seemed deadlier.
“I didn’t expect he’d run from the room,” they continued, more apologetically. “Please believe me. I was shocked.”
“And yet,” Elf responded at last. “And yet, you kept singing.”
“Well, yes.” They cleared their throat. “Nothing else I could do at that point.”
“The point at which you were already leading the room in song.”
“Yes.” They had a sinking feeling in their chest. “Can’t stop in the middle. I’m relieved you understand.”
“Georgie.” Understanding wasn’t the word for her tone. “You promised to talk to him. Instead, you put on a performance for the whole village.”
“Not for my own sake. I was trying to—”
“You’re a show-off.” She said it with unmistakable disgust. “You were showing off. It’s what you do.”
“That Fluff fellow begged me to sing.”
“Because you started to hum!” Elf’s voice rose. “Why did you start to hum?”
“Because I was thinking of what you said.”
“What I said?” She spoke more softly now, with more than a touch of apprehension.
“What you said about becoming a hum.”
She inhaled sharply, a wounded gasp, as if from a blow.
“No. Drat. Elfreda.” They went up on an elbow. “I wasn’t poking fun. A hum is a sound. And a sound is nearly a word. And it occurred to me, if you hummed the hum in your head, maybe you could keep going from there. So, I hummed, and I hoped you might hum, and we could both hum, and then you could, you know, hum at the Barrow Prince.”
“Hum at him. You hoped I’d hum at him?”
“I hoped it would break the ice. Sometimes we hum to get going at the theater. Or vocalize nonsense syllables. It limbers the tongue and lowers the inhibitions. I really was trying to help.” They rolled onto their back, defeated. “I miscalculated. I’m sorry. I’m a twit.”
“Oh, stop,” she muttered.
“Stop being a twit? It’s not so easy.”
“Stop calling yourself a twit.”
“You disagree?” They lifted their head in hope.
“Not necessarily.” The pause lengthened. “But I don’t let people talk that way about my friends.”
It took a moment for this to sink in. When it did, they lowered their head to the pillow and grinned. “We’re still friends, then?”
Her grudging sigh was affirmation.
“I haven’t given up,” they vowed. “With the Barrow Prince.”
She sighed again. “Go to sleep.”
“Impossible.” They grunted. “Matilda is walking up my ribs.” It was true. Matilda was fast asleep but was rotating herself perpendicular, and her heels pummeled Georgie’s side.
