“The wood is too wet,” Padric told the ground. Rosheen lowered her eyebrows and grimaced in his direction. Padric sat back on his heels and hunched his shoulders, staring off into the darkening trees. Mustering his pride.

“Ask me nicely,” she said.

Padric looked up at her, his mouth tightening and then looked off into the trees again. He looked at her. Then the trees. Her. The trees. Rosheen waited patiently.

To the trees he said, “Would you kindly aid me in this task…O wise and benevolent child of the wood?”

Rosheen jumped up dramatically on top of the pack. “Weak-minded and foolish mortal! Your feeble entreaties have swayed us and we will now ensure that you do not perish from foe or cold here in the terrible wilds! Such is the generosity of the Fae-folk!”

She hopped down and made her way over to the fire, affecting an alluring sway of the hips. After all, Faery saviors must appear wanton and mysterious. She over exaggerated her sultry swagger as she approached and by the time she reached the woodpile, she and Padric were both laughing at her ridiculous gait. She attempted to recapture her provocative air as she knelt by the failed fire, but when she looked at Padric, his hand clutched tightly over his grinning mouth, she gave up the charade.

“Hush,” she told him and took a deep breath, her eyes closing.

She could still smell the smoke in the air and the charred tinder, but mostly her nostrils took in the damp, cloying smell of wet Earth and moist wood. She pushed the Earth away and focused on the wood. It was dead, lying in the pile, soaked through from the rain, bloated with water that no longer gave it life. She opened her eyes and gazed at the pile, penetrating the twigs and logs until she found their core. Her breath quickened and she pulled at the water, rhythmic, coaxing. She invited it out into the air in misty waves, allowing it to settle on her skin and dampen her naked flesh. It beaded in her tangled hair and hung on her eyelashes, coalescing and sliding in rivulets down her bare back. She shivered hard and her eyes regained focus. She looked up at Padric who sat staring at her, his head shaking slightly from side to side.

“Now hurry up and get it lit,” she told him, still dripping. “I am getting cold.”

Padric was able to ignite the tinder on his first strike of the flint and within minutes he had a crackling fire going, the flames licking merrily at the bone dry wood. He had managed to hook a fish during their brief stop along the River Trough earlier in the day, so they shared some hazelnuts Rosheen harvested from the forest while the catch cooked slowly over the fire.

I wish we had some cider. “You know what would be lovely?” Rosheen said.

“Cider,” Padric returned bluntly.