“Our labors,” corrected Betwixt.

“ . . . our labors—my apologies—have been tested by good old trial and error. Most are palatable. Others are just beautiful. There was a particular inedible orange specimen with incredibly tough skin that stank of sour milk when it blossomed.”

“Trollish,” said Betwixt. “Had to have been.”

“That’s the only plant I’ve ever weeded on purpose. There’s a goblinfruit here that’s unappetizing to look at but delectable on the inside . . . like goblins themselves, I suppose. I was lucky to cultivate a patch of wheat and corn for grains and tea for . . . well, tea. Then there are the more familiar vegetables: the potatoes and gingerroot took quite well, as did the onions and the—”

“—beans,” Saturday finished for him, tilting her head back to admire the winding stalks that grew farthest up the wall, twining in and out and around crystals all the way to the peaked roof. This time she did shudder, but Peregrine hadn’t the faintest idea why.

“But this is my pièce de résistance.” Peregrine moved aside the large leaf that hid his tomato plants from view. Saturday’s eyes widened. She quickly snatched one of the fattest ripe red fruits and sank her teeth into it. Her eyes closed in bliss and she made that face again, the same one she’d made when he’d offered her the bread and the bath.

She had yet to thank him in so many words, but at the moment he’d forgotten what a pest she could be. She couldn’t argue with him if her mouth was full. Peregrine vowed to keep her clean and fed so long as she kept making that face.

Saturday groaned in delight and bit into the tomato once more. Peregrine smiled so hard, his cheeks hurt.

“Behave yourself,” Betwixt said to him.

Peregrine raised both hands innocently. “She’s the one making noises, not me.” He took a full step away from Saturday for good measure, though, in case he accidentally ended up kissing her again.

Saturday took another bite and scowled at them both for interrupting her delightful communion with the divine fruit. She made to wipe the juice from her face with her sleeve and then stopped, no doubt reminded of exactly how disgusting she was from head to toe. “It’s warm in here,” she said with her mouth full, as if she’d only just realized that the change in temperature wasn’t solely from the effort she’d exerted in lugging the cart far longer than she should have.

“The heat, damp, and sun make this spot ideal for growing things,” said Peregrine. He motioned for her to follow his outstretched arm. He did not trust himself to touch her—let her think his need for space was because of the smell.

Their destination lay beyond a thick, low wall of crystal and stone that looked solid but for the steam that rose up from behind it, betraying the true breadth of the cavern. Saturday led the way around the wide outcropping, startling a colony of ice bats. The torchlight caught their clear wings, showering the floor beneath them with sparkles of light. Peregrine tried to stop her as she reached out to the crystalline wings, but he was not close enough to grab her filthy arm in time. Saturday flinched and pulled away fingertips scored with lines of blood.

“Sorry. Should have mentioned those. Crystalwings. They’re as beautiful as they are sharp, and completely useless as a food source. Don’t put that in your mouth.” His fingers slid in the slime that covered her elbow and he quelled his gag reflex. He wasn’t sure how she’d been able to stand herself this long. “Just wash it off.”

The boulder they stood on overlooked a vast chasm, but one could guess from the steam that it was a real lake and not a mirage. Still, Saturday tossed a small handful of the pebbles from her pocket and watched the ripples mar the ceiling’s reflection in happiness.

“Clever girl,” said Peregrine. It had taken him much longer to come up with the same trick.

The water was clear as far down as the meager torchlight permeated. Now that the ripples had dispelled the deceitful reflection, the crystals under the water could be seen. Those at the perimeter were beautiful and sharply pointed. But unlike in most lakes, there was no wildlife, and no discernible bottom.

Peregrine attempted to coax Saturday forward with his voice in an effort to refrain from touching her again. “It’s deep. Impossibly so. The water is heated from the heart of the mountain. This high up it’s tolerable. Pleasant. Blissful, even.”

“For humans,” Betwixt interjected.

“A mile or so down and you’d be boiled alive.”

“The witch would have her stew,” said Saturday.

Threatening to put Jack in her cauldron was one of the witch’s favorite pastimes. “Woodcutter bouillabaisse,” said Peregrine. “Quite the delicacy. Now, if you walk back this way, there’s sort of a path down to—” But she had already removed her clothes.

The soiled rags lay in a puddle at her feet. Above them stood a statue of uninterrupted golden skin, save for that thin blue-green bracelet at her wrist. She was built like a man, her incredible upper body tapering down to a small waist, thin hips, and strong legs that went on for miles, but there were subtle curves there, if one knew to look for them. Her unfortunately matted hair—short in the back and long in the front—did not mar the perfection that was her body. Peregrine was fit and lithe himself, but he was nothing compared to this monument of womanhood now framed by equally giant and exquisite crystals. She raised her arms straight out to the sides, revealing little in the way of breasts, and in one fluid motion dove neatly from the boulder into the clear crystal water beneath them.

She took his breath away. His visions of this woman instantly morphed from enjoyable and innocent to absolutely torturous. He needed to concentrate on something else, quickly, before he completely embarrassed himself.

“Impressive,” said Betwixt.

It all happened so fast that by the time it occurred to Peregrine to look away, she was already gone. He averted his gaze anyway, and busied himself by picking up her filthy clothing with as few fingers as possible and tossing it down to the water’s edge. He took his time retrieving the sack from the cart that contained the fresh change of clothes he’d brought for her, as well as a hairbrush for her lank locks and a horse brush with which to clean her clothes. If they were beyond saving he’d chuck them in the privy cave. As his talents at fabric restoration had grown, he’d found few things in these caves beyond saving.

He carried all these items back to the water’s edge, keeping his head down to watch his footing, and then tended to the washing. He glanced up only to make sure she had surfaced again, even though her intake of breath echoed in the crystal chamber and gave her away.

“If you swim gently along the edges of the pool, you’ll find a yellowish sediment on some of the ledges. Rub it into your skin and hair—it’s nothing like soap and smells a bit like rotten eggs, but you’ll find it does a fair job of tackling the grime.” Peregrine addressed the stains on her shirt instead of the dirty blond head bobbing in the water not ten feet from him. He did not raise his voice; the echo carried his words adequately.

“Aren’t you coming in?” She asked the question in her normal voice, too strong for this chamber, but the tone was lighter than it had been. Peregrine could tell she felt better, and he was glad. “The water is lovely,” she said, more softly this time. Almost sweetly. “And that skirt looks warm.”

Right now, his skin felt hotter than the sun. No, Peregrine had absolutely no intention of going into that water. No, indeed. Not tonight. And never in her presence. “I’m fine, thank you,” he replied. “You enjoy it. I brought a brush for your hair, if you want it.” Without taking his eyes off the clothes, he nudged the wood-handled brush closer to the water’s edge.