able to meet his eyes. “He just said I’m completely empty of ice and fire, and therefore immune to the magic that comes from it. I’m a fluke.” I’m guessing Oskar’s been telling me all these things about himself in the hope that I’ll do the same, but I can’t. “Did he tell you what being a Suurin actually means?”
The corner of his mouth twitches as I abruptly swing the conversation back to him. “He wouldn’t—unless I let him teach me.”
That must be what Raimo was demanding in exchange for healing me. “Why won’t you let him?”
“He’d make me use the magic, and I do that as rarely as I can. To hunt, yes, because I need it to feed my family. But if I go to Raimo . . .”
It would require him to embrace the deadly gift that killed his father. “What if he could teach you to control it?” And didn’t Raimo say they couldn’t wait much longer? What will happen to Oskar if he won’t accept what he is?
“My magic can’t be controlled, Elli. Trust me, I’ve tried. I’m not like other wielders.” His tone reflects all his weary efforts. “I just want it to go away.” He chews on his lip for a moment and then slowly lifts his gaze to mine. “And after what happened this morning, I was wondering if you could help me with that.”
CHAPTER 15
Though I’ve told Oskar virtually nothing about myself even after he laid himself bare, he asks me only one question. It’s a simple request, and so hopeful that I can’t tell him no, even though it makes me ache.
That night, after we stay out most of the day and he takes down eight hares with his ice magic, we return to the caverns. Oskar refuses to let me help skin them—he insists I stay by the fire and keep my hands, especially my right, warm. I would rather be useful, but I’m also relieved. My hand hasn’t hurt this much since I was first injured, and I feel sick with the pain and my efforts to hide it. It’s apparent that Oskar can see it, though, and Maarika as well. She brews me a tea that tastes strongly of tree bark, and I drink it with gratitude and try not to grimace.
Oskar gives me a veiled look as I disappear with Freya into our little bedchamber. She chatters at me for several minutes about how Harri was asking after me this afternoon, how she thinks he wants to “entangle” with me. I listen with half an ear, distracted by what I’m about to do. The moment Freya’s voice trails off and her breathing evens out, I sit up and peer through the gap between the fur and the frame from which it’s hanging. Oskar’s waiting for me. My heart is beating so fast. I’ve spent a significant part of every night watching him out there, but as I crawl forward to join him, I know—this is different.
I’m not sure if I want it or not. I do want to touch him. I’ve wanted to touch him for a while now, and not only because I want to help him. As confusing as it is, when I think of putting my hands on him—and the few times he’s touched me—my stomach drops in the same way it always did when I thought of those things with Mim. They are nothing alike—Mim was softness and comfort where Oskar is gruff and hard. And even now, after all these days and weeks, thinking of her still stirs that warmth and worry and want inside of me. But when I look at Oskar, I cannot deny the flutter, the silent longing inside. At the same time, I don’t want to accidentally drain away all his magic, even though that’s exactly what he’s hoping will happen. I’m scared about what it would do to him.
Oskar has placed his own pallet right next to the fire, and he’s laid out a second on his other side and put an extra fur blanket atop it. He swallows hard when I come through the curtain, looking more uncertain than I’d expected, given his delight when I agreed to do this. “Are you . . . ,” he begins, then clears his throat. “Is this all right? Do you have enough room?”
My pallet is a good three feet away from his. “My arm’s not that long.”
His cheeks, the tan fading into winter pallor, take on a