Page 37 of Snowed In With The Troll
Ketty lay sprawled at her feet, enormous paws batting a ball of yarn across the uneven stone floor. Every so often, the Yule Cat paused to glance up at her, as if waiting for approval. Gryla dutifully scratched between her ears.
“Good girl. Keep the claws sharp. You never know when you’ll need to chase off a wandering human hiker.”
Ketty purred loudly.
Gryla sighed contentedly. Her great heart swelled with satisfaction.
Two sons, properly mated.
Ketill, her sweet sentimental one, with a mate who had somehow survived their courtship without going gray. And Gunnar—her grumpy, lumbering, cave-hermit son—now mated to that delightful scrap of a human who had the spine to argue with Gryla to her face.
Gryla respected that in a woman.
But now…
Eleven sons remained. Eleven!
She drummed her fingers on her knee. The cave rumbled with the rhythm.
Which one needed her intervention next?
Stenrik?
He’d been spending too much time in his kitchen, playing with different foods and spices. While he was a genius with herring, he was terrible with people. He needed to get out of kitchen and into the world more.
Torfi?
He was her prankster, full of laughter and joy. Always with that electronic thing in his hand talking to it and posting stuff. She didn’t understand it but he said he was very popular. She believed it. The females liked him. Maybe a little too much. He danced around without getting serious about anyone. He needed someone to settle him and help him grow up.
Eirikr?
Always with the nose in a book, never lifting his head to look around or dust. So smart about some things. Clueless about others.
Gryla grunted. “Useless, all of them.”
Ketty meowed in agreement, rolling onto her back and kicking the yarn ball with her hind legs.
Gryla stared into the fire, mind whirling with possibilities. Which son was closest to losing his mind with loneliness? Whichone needed a gentle push? Which one needed a not-so-gentle shove straight into a blizzard with an available human woman?
She grinned, sharp and wicked.
“I suppose I’ll just have to visit each of them and see who looks most miserable.”
Ketty chirped eagerly, then rolled the yarn ball directly into the flames.
The fire flared blue. Gryla took it as a sign.
“Very well,” she announced to no one and everyone. “Another matchmaking project begins. I’ll need cocoa. And mittens. And possibly rope.”
The mountain trembled in anticipation.
Grýla leaned back, satisfied. “Which lucky boy will it be…?”
She chuckled, already plotting. But she didn’t say the name aloud. Not yet.
Because where’s the fun in that?
