Free Valkyrie Rising by Ingrid Paulson Page B

rather not know existed.
    Before long I was staring out the window. The world seemed clearer, more alive than ever that night, as if it would whisper all the answers to my questions right into my ear. Suddenly my skin itched to be out under the starlight. I’d always found it easier to think up on the roof—which drove my mother absolutely nuts. Fortunately, she wasn’t there to voice her opinion.
    I pushed the window open as wide as it would go, smelling the jasmine in my grandmother’s garden mingled with the trees in the pine forest beyond. I stepped onto the window ledge and tested the rain gutter and steel shutters to make sure they still held my weight. Sure enough, they were as solid and still as a ladder put there just for me. In three quick steps, I was up on the roof, overlooking the fjord.
    I leaned back against the steep slant of the peaked roof, picking at the blades of long, weedy grass. The sod roof was my favorite thing about my grandmother’s house. In Norway, living roofs were pretty standard, and I’d even seen the neighbors put a goat on their house, to give it a trim. The night was that much more magical when I was suspended in the air, two stories above the ground, yet at the same time securely rooted to earth and green.
    I’d been sitting there for about ten minutes when I heard a tapping noise to my right. I crawled along the edge of the roof and peered over until I saw its source.
    Tucker.
    He was looking up at me or, more specifically, at my ankle hovering above the lawn.
    “Ells, move back. You’re making me nervous,” he said, leaning out his window.
    “Shouldn’t you be in bed?” I asked, even though I welcomed the company.
    “I wish,” he said softly. “I was thirsty. Now I can’t get back to sleep. Then I heard this scampering noise, like a mouse. And there was your shoe dangling out in space.” He paused. “That’s dangerous, you know.”
    “Lots of things are far more dangerous,” I replied, leaning back on my elbows and dangling both my legs off the edge of the roof.
    “Don’t,” Tuck gasped. Which made it all too tempting to tease him like that. I sat up and scooted forward until I was perched precariously on the edge, looking down at him.
    Tuck made a funny noise in his throat. “God, Ells. Seriously, please, just lean back again.”
    “Of everyone in the whole world, you’re the last person I’d expect to be so uptight,” I said, leaning forward farther still.
    “If I come up there, will you lean back?”
    “If you come up, I’ll jump.”
    “Oh.” He sounded hurt. His head disappeared back through his window.
    “Tuck?” I called softly—actually feeling sorry. Tuck so rarely displayed any emotion other than impenetrable arrogance that I wasn’t quite sure how to deal with his reaction.
    “I was just kidding,” I said. “I won’t jump. I promise. Join me. It’s incredible—you can see the whole fjord. You just need to mind your manners. This is about silent appreciation.” I slid backward, making room for him.
    “I’m all for silence,” Tuck said as his hands appeared on the edge of the roof seconds later. He hauled himself over the side. “And appreciation.” His teeth flashed white, and I could picture how he’d look if I could turn on the lights—perfect smile, rumpled T-shirt, and the myriad assorted details that made him our Tuck.
    “Really?” I said.
    “Of course,” Tuck replied, like he couldn’t fathom the meaning behind my sarcasm.
    “Pardon me for being skeptical,” I said softly. “It’s just that parties and senior cheerleaders are usually more within your purview than quiet moonlit contemplation.”
    Tuck just settled on the grass next to me, like he hadn’t heard. “Wow,” he whispered, looking out over the twinkling lights of the slumbering town. Beyond that, the water of the fjord reflected the path of the moonlight and the dark mountains straining toward the stars. “You weren’t kidding,” he whispered.
    I