Chapter Seven

When the evening deepens into night, the unavoidable awkwardness arises. After a few unsuccessful attempts to claim the floor, I agree to the inevitable and accept the bed. Part of me—a large part, I'll admit—wants to ask him to share it with me. But, practically, I can accept that's not the most sensible idea. He's large enough that he takes up all the space even without me joining in.

So, separate beds it is. And considering our almost kiss and my subsequent crush realisation, that's probably a good thing.

Attracted to a blonde. I think it's safe to say I never saw this coming.

We get ready for the night in separate rooms. The cabin is a lot warmer now, but not warm enough that I want to be without my layers, so getting ready mostly involves using the bathroom (a porta potty I don't even want to think about emptying) and cleaning my teeth. I've just braided my hair and washed my underarms when Oskar knocks on the door.

"Lucy," he says, his voice filled with repressed excitement. An unusual development. He's been kind, funny, generous, and amazingly emotionally resonant, but this is the first time he's said my name with any degree of real excitement.

I repress the ridiculous voice that suggests he's changed his mind about sharing a bed.

"What's up?"

"Are you decent? I have something to show you."

A glance in the ancient speckled mirror tells me I look about as good as I can expect to with my hair in a plait and my ancient fleece zipped up to my chin. At least there are no spots trying to break through my skin like over-enthusiastic volcanos, as sometimes happens when I get stressed.

"Okay," I announce, pushing at the door. "I'm coming out."

Almost immediately, a large hand clamps over my eyes. "You can't see yet," Oskar tells me, and his other hand finds mine. He smells cold, like he's just come in from outside. Did he go to pee in the snow?

"What's going on? Are you going to murder me? Because I have to say, if that's what you wanted, I really don't think you needed to go to that much effort. I would not be hard to kill."

He snorts a laugh, alarmingly close. "You're obsessed with murder."

"A girl has to have hobbies."

"Come on," he says, tugging at my hand. Giving up, I allow him to lead me across the room, until my good leg knocks against something. "Sit down," he tells me. "There's a chair behind you."

With my free hand, I reach back until I feel the chair and can lower myself into it. "Seriously," I say. "What's happening?"

"I'm going to put your boots on. Keep your eyes closed. There are no curtains in the cabin."

I frown, squeezing my eyes tightly shut as he kneels in front of me. Which, even though I can't see it, is definitely something I like. His fingers are firm on my calf, guiding my feet into the right place—and maybe it's my imagination, but I feel as though his hands linger for a fraction longer than necessary before releasing me.

There's a real chance I'm flushing.

His clothes rustle as he stands in front of me again. "Okay," he says, plucking my hand from where it's resting in my lap. "You're ready. Come with me."

"Are you ever going to tell me where we're going?"

"Shh. You'll see soon enough." He gives my hand a tug, and I rise, automatically obeying the pressure. His other hand lands on my side, steadying me. "Forwards again. We're nearly there now."

Obeying the slight pressure at my waist and on my hand, I hobble along with him until he stops and a burst of frigid air assaults me. I automatically squeeze my eyes tighter shut as he guides me outside and shuts the door behind us.

"Okay," he says into my ear. "You can open your eyes."

When I do, the world is awash with colour. Eerie green and purple light drifts from the sky in misty ribbons, illuminating the jagged peaks of the surrounding mountains and reflecting off the snow. It's as though the world has been dipped in this ghostly light—like we've stepped outside into a new reality filled with magic and faeries and dragons snorting flame.

It's so wonderfully, overwhelmingly beautiful that my breath catches in my chest. I want to say something—I don't know what—but all my words have dried up. This is more than just beautiful and fantastical: I'm standing here watching my life change in real time. The Lucy I was in the bathroom just moments ago was different from the Lucy I am now, bathed in the aurora borealis.

My vision blurs. I blink and twin tears streak down my face. Emotion clogs my throat, and I rarely cry in front of people, but something about seeing this laid out for me in all its overwhelming majesty is too much for my mind to handle. My chest is full.

"Lucy?" Oskar comes to my side and his thumb, warm and rough, brushes away the tears on my cheek. He's frowning, I see in my periphery, but I don't dare look away from the dangling Northern Lights, like it's only the power of my will that's keeping them there. "Are you sad?"

A memory rises in me, one I'd kept repressed during this trip of a lifetime, even though it was the motivating reason for me choosing Norway for my winter hiking experience.

When I was a kid, Mum used to love the idea of the Northern Lights. We used to lie awake and plan improbable trips to the Arctic Circle, just the two of us. Thomas was a grumpy teenager by that time, not interested in "a bunch of pretty lights". It was a dream for just the two of us. One that, when she died, fell on me.

And now, finally, I'm seeing it through for the both of us.

Through the beauty, the majesty, the awe, there's an ache in my chest that won't go away.

"This was always my mum's dream," I say softly, the lump in my throat distorting my words. More tears waver in my eyes, but I don't let them fall.

Oskar's face softens in sudden understanding, and I wish I could look at him, certain I would feel the same sense of wonder at the sight of him as I do at the Northern Lights. But he comes to stand behind me and wraps his arms around my waist, pulling me flush against him. Warm and solid and reassuring, grounding me so I don't float away, irrelevant against the vastness of the sky.

"I want to stay out here forever," I whisper.

I think I feel his lips press softly against the crown of my head, but I can't be sure. "Okay."

My hands are cold, but I reach up anyway, wrapping my fingers around his biceps. My voice is tight and choked as I say, "Thank you." I don't specify what for, but I don't think I need to—he shakes his head slightly and rests his chin against the crown of my head. I sigh, tension bleeding from my limbs. With his body bowed around me like this, it feels as though I'm small enough to be packaged up inside his arms and be protected from the world.

Safe.

Above us, the green light dances, and I lean into Oskar's warmth, holding on like I'll never have to let go.