Chapter 4
Sky
The bathroom contained perhaps the best news I'd gotten since the fall through the mirror.
Despite the rustic appearance of his cottage, Moerrven had running water.
It was fed somehow by the cool creek outside.
And over the bathtub, a lever opened a tap that emitted deliciously warm water from a mineral spring, filling the stone tub.
I filled the tub and sank into that silky, mineral-warm water and my brain turned off for the first time since I’d fallen through a magic mirror in a nightclub bathroom, and for about ten minutes I was nothing but a body in a hot bath, not thinking about anything; not Pip, not the portal, not the fact that I was living in a troll’s cottage under some cultural obligation that I was ninety percent sure was bullshit he’d made up to get me to fuck him.
For some reason he kept dragging it out even though I’d made it perfectly clear that I was willing.
I’d kept the translation pendant on, the shell warm against my collarbone.
Partly in case Moerrven called for me through the door.
Mostly because I remembered what the world had sounded like before it, that day of grunts and shoves where nothing meant anything, and I never wanted to feel that small again.
But if not for sex, why would he care if I stuck around or not?
I pushed that thought down as I cleaned myself.
The soap smelled like herbs. The hair oil smelled like rosemary and honey.
I used both liberally, scrubbing twenty-four hours of interdimensional grime.
Between dancing at work, the kidnapping, and the panic, I was filthy.
After a delicious rinse, I floated, listening to the water lap against the stone walls.
Eying the book sitting on the chair next to the tub, I thought about the filthy contents. Moerrven wrote smut, and I was pretty sure it was smut so good you forgot you were reading because your whole body got involved.
I dried off my hands on a towel and reached for it, bit my bottom lip, and opened the book, holding it clear of the water as I flipped quickly to a smuttier scene.
It was my second of Moerrven’s novels in two days.
I was devouring them. I moaned as I found a scene where the gargoyle was sitting in the bath, his troll lover cleaning every inch of his body, every inch of his cock.
The descriptions were exquisite, and I slid a hand down between my legs, stroking my shaft as I imagined Moerrven was here, doing that to me, his cock hard and dripping pre-cum on the floor as he touched every inch of my body.
I moaned, my body jerking up into my hand.
Three sharp raps. A pause. Two more. At first, I thought it was Moerrven, about to barge in and find me jerking my cock to his filthy book, but then a door opened somewhere else in the cottage.
Through the bathroom door came a voice, not Moerrven’s. Older, lighter, with the amused cadence of someone who’d come to stir a pot.
“Moerrven! Good day! I have turnips.”
“Good day.” Moerrven’s response was about as grumpy-sounding as I’d have expected.
“The new crop was so big I don’t know what to do with all of them, so I thought I’d stop by!”
“Thank you, Tedaar,” Moerrven said.
“Jodvara came by.” A pause. Something being set down on a table. “She said something rather interesting.”
I should have gotten out of the bath. I should have dried off, put on the clothes, walked out there like a normal person. Instead I eased the book down and stayed still in the water, keeping my breath shallow.
“She said you have a soulmate.”
What?
“That’s a strong word for—” Moerrven, sounding like a man trying to swallow a rock.
“She said you were carrying him on your back, and you called him your soulmate in the middle of the road.” A chair scraped against stone.
Someone sitting down. “In front of Blarinda, who went home and told her mother, who told the baker, who told Jodvara. And a male soulmate too, after all those years with Bryndala. Is he here?”
“He’s… bathing.”
Tedaar gasped. “Bathing?”
“Don’t look at me like that. It’s just a normal bath.”
“The whole valley is talking,” Tedaar said. “A human! Who would have believed it. Though many of your books do mix the magical races. And you allowed him to touch your trolgar. The sacred spot.”
His sacred spot? Was that like his prostate? That was a rather forward thing to ask, wasn’t it?
I pressed my hand over my mouth to keep from laughing, as I imagined how uncomfortable Moerrven must look right now. He hadn’t even been able to handle me opening his smutty books in front of him.
“Who is he?” Tedaar asked. “Where did he come from?”
“It’s complicated. He’s from far away. He’s looking for a friend who has gone missing.”
“And that’s how you met?” Tedaar asked, sighing dramatically. “How romantic.”
I expected Moerrven to deny that it was romantic, but instead, he said, “Yes.”
“Oh, it brings me such joy to know that you’re finding your way to love again! And I cannot believe you’ve kept him secret for weeks.”
Weeks? What was Moerrven telling people?
Moerrven said something unintelligible, probably one of his vast repertoire of noncommittal grunts.
“You know, I read your last three books, Moerrven.” Tedaar’s voice had shifted, softer now, careful.
“What does this have to do with my books?”
“They were beautiful, but they were devastating. Every single one ended in death. Your books used to bring such joy, now, I don’t know. Maybe sometimes I like a sad read to process my sorrow, but I miss the joy.”
I could not hear Moerrven’s response, but I could imagine the way his jaw would tighten.
“People are worried, Moerrven. Not just your sisters. The whole valley. The baker asks me if you’re eating. Old Stennmark keeps a stool for you at the Ram’s Head even though you haven’t been in six months. Halverd brews your favorite ale in small batches so it’s fresh when you finally come by.”
My chest hurt, the quiet hurt of hearing something you weren’t supposed to hear, something private and tender and real, about a person you’d known for less than a day.
“We loved Bryndala,” Tedaar said. “We love you. And we would very much like your next book to have a happy ending.”
Moerrven was silent.
“She would want that too, and don’t you dare argue with me, because she was my sister. And I know she feared the trolgar. I just didn’t realize how much your books showed your yearning for it until now.”
“You, my good friend, have been reading far too many of my books.”
Tedaar sighed. “Anyway, the turnips are good this season. Don’t let them sit too long.”
Moerrven said something, then Tedaar. The front door opened and closed. I sat in the cooling water and stared at the stone ceiling.
This wasn’t about sex. Moerrven’s so-called ancient tradition was all made up.
He’d told his entire community that I was his soulmate, that he’d met me a week ago and fallen in love.
I considered confronting him. I could get dressed, walk out there, and tell him I’d heard everything and clear the air.
That was the correct thing to do.
But I didn’t want to do the correct thing, because letting him have his secret gave me leverage over him. And I was going to milk this until I’d found Pip and a portal home.
He was using me, so I might as well use him right back.
Decision made, I got out of the bath and dried off, pulling on a clean set of the elven clothes. I walked out into the living room, where he sat in a big chair, staring off into the middle distance, petting his cat.
“Hey,” I said, leaning against the doorframe.
He looked up, and now I could see the depth of the sadness in his stormy gray eyes. “Good bath?”
“Good bath. Amazing bath. Best bath of my life, honestly, and I once stayed at a spa in Palm Springs that had seventeen different kinds of—” I stopped myself. “Anyway. I was thinking.”
“About?”
“About the portal and Highmark.” I sat down across from him and helped myself to a piece of bread from the board that was still on the table.
“I was thinking maybe you could take me there. I know it’s a break from the trollish tradition of hospitality.
But we could still have those long talks by firelight, and I could find my friend and find my way home. A compromise.”
He raised an eyebrow, then nodded. “Of course.”
“Really? That was easy.” I was already half out of my chair. “When do we leave? Tomorrow? Please say tomorrow.”
“We will need a couple of days to prepare first.”
“Days? Prepare what? You have a wagon, and everything I own fits in a pocket. We’re basically packed.”
“The wagon axles need checking before a mountain road. One of Clover’s halters wants mending.
My repairs on the Mill Creek bridge must be finished before we go.
There is food to lay in, water skins, bedrolls, feed.
” He counted it all off on his fingers, unhurried.
“And a proper supply of snacks, given the way you eat. Three days, I think.”
“THREE DAYS? I don’t even know who Clover is, and I already know she can’t need three days of halter repair.”
“Three days,” he said, in the tone of a bridge stating its load limit, and picked up the bread board and carried it to the kitchen, and that, apparently, was that.