Page 22 of The Troll’s Summer Flame

“That’s perfect.” I nod.

“I meant you got bonus points with me, impressing me by knowing about Chopin and anything musical.”

“I like piano,” I say, and it’s true. Now. I didn’t care two cents about it last week. Now, it’s got a special spot in my heart—or at least my ears. “We didn’t have music growing up. I like what I heard today. Soothing. And exciting. Lots of emotions.” I cough myself to a stop, because I shouldn’t be talking so much. She’s going to think I’m weird. No home-cooked meals, no family, no music...

“Exactly! Some people say the violin and string instruments are more expressive, but I think the piano is king. And honestly, there’s a lot more music written for piano, and for a wide range of abilities. I was thinking I’d have the piano here so I could advertise on like, supermarket noticeboards or something, and give lessons here. At least in the summer. But then summer came, and I felt burnt out. I pinned way too many hopes on a cheap cruise and casual sex,” she groans—and then looks mortified. “Oh. No!”

“What?” I blink. Something is wrong, but I’m not sure which part is wrong. I think it’s the sex part.

“I don’t believe in casual sex. Um. Normally. Um. I’m— Here, this is called pandesal, do you want more?” She suddenly rises, thrusts the basket of little fluffy rolls at me, hits the table, and pelts me with half of the contents of the basket.

“Yes, thank you,” I say, and gather the four rolls from my lap and tuck two of them easily into my mouth. “Mmm!” I make appropriate noises of delight, both out of an attempt at manners and because I’d have to be under a vow of silence not to make a noise. They’re so... light. And warm. And I want to bury my head in the basket.

Andrea blushes and sits. “Sorry.”

“I’ve had worse things thrown at me,” I grunt after swallowing. “You can do that anytime.”

“Thank you. Also, sorry about the casual comment. I meant... I meant that I had the idea that I’d have a whirlwind romance on my cruise. And now that I think about it, now that I’ve talked to my cousin on board the ship today, I realize that was probably a stupid idea. Because how well do you know someone after a week in a false setting? Like a cruise ship is an idealized floating village where everyone can just party and be irresponsible.” She sighs wistfully. “That part sounds good. But relationships wouldn’t survive the same way in the real world, would they?”

“I don’t think so. But you can have a few days off from your busy life in other ways, right? Like... Camping. Camping can be freeing. You do what you want. You’re in nature.”

“I’ve never camped before in my life.”

“I’ve never played piano. Or heard anyone play it. In person.” I stuff another one of the rolls from heaven in my mouth. They’re like slightly sweet pillows, with this divine, sandy texture on top that makes them crunch, then melt.

“I could play for you. Maybe even give you a couple of lessons? You could teach me how to camp?” Andrea offers, still blushing.

I think the blush is different this time.

“I can’t play. My hands are too big.” I squash the vague dream of Andrea and me sharing the piano bench. She’d be on my lap, or we’d never fit.

Her. On my lap. Guiding my hands. Making those beautiful sounds emerge from that intimidating instrument.

God damn it, I’m going to have to find out which doctors in town are supernaturally conversant, because I have chest pains again. There are no troll cardiologists, as far as I know. Maybe I just ate too many rolls, too fast.

Andrea takes a bite of her chicken with a reproachful noise. “Anyone can play! The bigger your hands are, the better. You have, here, hold up your hand—” she holds up her own, palm out.

I mimic her, lightning dancing over my skin when she places her small palm flat to mine, our fingers spreading wide, not lacing.

“Dude! You would have an octave and a half reach, easily. I’d say two octaves, but that’s nuts.”

“Oh.”

“That’s good! Pianists dream of that kind of range,” she encourages with a wide smile. “Now, yes, that can mean that you’d have trouble with hitting multiple keys at once sometimes, but that’s okay. You’ll get the hang of it.”

Words—and crumbs—burst from my mouth. “You’re a good teacher!”

Andrea looks startled and sits back in her chair. Maybe she’s just trying not to get pelted by crumbs. “Thank you. You’ve never—”

“I know. You made me feel like I’d be good at something, and you warned me about what would be hard, but in a good way.” I frown, words tangling in my throat, unused to working free. “You would never make a child feel bad or stupid. Or like they would fail. That’s very important.”

Andrea looks at me for a long time without speaking. She’s not chewing, either. “Did you have a teacher like that?” she asks softly.

I don’t tell her it was my mother, reinforcing my father’s brief, harried “how to survive” lessons with sharp cuffs on my head, and angry hisses and screams as I did it wrong. “Yes.”

Her hand is on mine again, but this time, she’s not checking the size. She’s hugging my knuckles under her palm. “Now you have to have at least one lesson. Please?”

I nod jerkily, suddenly very aware that I cannot refuse Andrea anything.