Who said I was mocking that time? he almost asks -- but by then, Baldur's halfway up the hill, and it's probably better for them both if he keeps his mouth shut anyway. He looks down at the grass; crouches, after a moment, to rest his fingertips on the thin patch of green. The blades don't crinkle with frost when he touches them.

He probably ought to move back down south pretty soon.

Not now, though. Give it a little longer.

Not yet.