I tucked my mittens, which were now damp with sleet, under my arms and shook my head.

“It’s an old story.”

I stifled the scoffing sound deep in my throat before he could hear it and turned my attention back to the woods. The mountains were full of old stories, each more laden with superstition than the last, and nothing made these people happier than reciting them as frequently as possible.

“A long time ago there was a lord named Locke.”

“Locke, as in Lockland?”

“Yes,” he said, missing the sarcasm in my voice.

“Locke was a mighty hunter, and he ruled his clan wisely, providing for his people in the summer and fall and in the long, cold months tanning hides so flawless you could see your reflection in the leather.”

“What did he do in the spring?”

Avery paused, looking momentarily confused. “Planted crops, I expect, or sharpened his spear. Do you want to hear the story or not?”

“Of course I do,” I said, forcing a smile onto my face. “I’m sorry.”

“One day, Locke fell in love.”

I hid my eye-roll. Handsome hunters were always falling in love in his clan’s stories or, perhaps more to the point, having women fall in love with them.

“The woman he loved was beautiful, but cruel. She refused him—”

“Bet he didn’t take that well,” I said under my breath.

“— and then killed him.”

I almost tripped in surprise. “Killed him?”

“I told you she was cruel.”

“Why would she kill him?”

“For daring to ask for her hand? For looking at her the wrong way? For breathing? Who knows. She was a queen—”

“You never said she was a queen.”

“Gods, woman, are you going to let me finish the story?”

“That depends. Are you going to tell it properly?”

Avery fell into a sullen silence, and another cardinal flitted through the woods, searching for berries.

“I’m sorry,” I said for the second time that day. “What happened next?”

He looked up at the mountain above us, his thoughts joining mine as we cast them into the woods where our fathers had gone.

“She was cursed, along with her court and her castle, and Locke’s father claimed what was left of the kingdom and named it after his son. Oh, I almost forgot,” he said, cutting me off before I could protest the story’s abrupt ending. He reached into the pocket of his jacket and withdrew a small, wooden shape. “Happy birthday.” He handed the carving to me. I stared at the little wolf in my palm, curled up with its tail over its nose, an old folk blessing wishing the bearer an easy winter.

“Did you make this?” I asked, disbelief coloring my voice.

“I might have,” he said, shrugging.

I stroked the smooth wood, confused and at a loss for words.