Iron Seas 03 - Riveted

clenched. A strugglebriefly moved across his expression. When he spoke, resignation filled his reply. “No,” he said quietly. “That wasn’t what I wanted.”
    “But you want something else?”
    “Yes.”
    Heavy disappointment weighed in her stomach. She shouldn’t feel it. His lack of interest was better for them both, because until she loved, Annika wouldn’t bed him. Until she found Källa, she couldn’t commit herself to anyone.
    Still, she’d liked thinking that he’d fancied her, too.
    “What do you want, then? Why did you rescue me?”
    He didn’t immediately answer. His mouth hardened, and he looked toward the game table. Frustration tightened his expression. He glanced back at her and seemed to wait.
    Annika frowned, then realized that he wasn’t delaying. He was waiting for her to respond to someone else. She heard her name from across the room. The first mate had mentioned her—and now everyone at the table was looking their way.
    “Go on, ask her,” Mr. James said. “She’s seen them herself. Haven’t you, Fridasdottor?”
    Irritated by the interruption, Annika shook her head. “I wasn’t listening, I’m sorry. What have I seen?”
    “The trolls on the island.” The first mate gestured to Dooley, whose keen eyes had fixed on her. “This one here is asking about any stories we’ve heard. I told him that you haven’t just heard of them, you saw one—or so you’ve said.”
    So she had. Aware that Kentewess’s focus had sharpened on her profile, she nodded. “Yes. I did.”
    Dooley twisted round in his chair to face her. “I’ve never heard an observation from someone firsthand—only from fishermen who were relating a story they’d heard from someone else.”
    “What have they said?”
    “Legend is that the fissure eruption broke open a passage to theUnderworld. That all of those creatures you hear of in northern widows’ tales came through: the trolls and dwarves, the invisibles, the hidden folk, the witch women with hollow bodies and fox tails who seduced sailors and stole infants.”
    Some of that was true. No community could survive without children—and a community of women had to steal them, or find seed.
    “The only things that came out of those eruptions were ash and volcanic gases,” Kentewess said. “Whatever the basis of the stories, they originated elsewhere.”
    Yes—from women like Annika. Everyone who left Hannasvik did their part to spread the tales, in the hopes that superstition would keep others away. They had kept people away for a century…but never before had they been told to someone who would travel around Iceland, searching for scientific truth.
    Dooley wouldn’t be able to discern that truth now. There was no reason not to tell him. But Annika wasn’t certain the stories served their purpose anymore, anyway. In just the few years since she’d left Hannasvik, more people had begun to settle in Smoke Cove. Phatéon carried more men to the island now. Kentewess’s expedition would undoubtedly lead the three scientists near her village…and if the Dutch eventually returned, more communities would sprout.
    Annika felt the sick certainty that her village wouldn’t remain hidden for much longer, trolls or not.
    “Annika?” The gentle nudge came from Lucia.
    Madame Collin rapped one of her wooden game pieces against the tabletop. “You weren’t worried about looking like a fool when you told us of it. I suppose now you’re worried your tale might send that young man running.”
    Chuckles rose from around the table. Annika’s cheeks blazed. Oh, how they looked at her. Some with amusement, others withpity. Had her interest been so obvious? Or did they laugh because they knew he hadn’t returned it?
    If only she could crash through their group with a troll now.
    Beside her, Kentewess said, “I don’t run.”
    The laughter abruptly fell into uncomfortable silence—except for his aunt, who covered her smile and looked heavenward. Dooley’s eyes seemed to sparkle with humor, crinkling at the corners when he glanced from Kentewess to her.
    “Will you please share your story with us, miss?”
    She had little choice. A glance at the clock offered no help; a bit of time still remained before she needed to leave for her watch. With a sigh and a nod, she said, “It was four summers ago. I was aboard Freya’s Cloak —a sailing ship—on route from Norway to Smoke Cove.”
    That was a lie, too, though Freya’s Cloak often took that route.