Page 11 of The Artist
He pushed back his hair, which was still thick, and arched a brow. “People don’t grow at the age of twenty-nine. I thought you knew that.”
With his six feet three, he wasn’t short like Simon, but with my seven feet I looked down on most men. Over the years, the French had given me shit about my height and taken pictures to measure against me, so it was sort of tradition to bring up height when we met.
“Did you know that our people speak of you Northlanders as a type of mythical creatures? We refer to you as the giants of the North.”
Freya moved closer to Victor and me and tilted her head. “That’s funny since we refer to you French as bees.”
His eyebrows narrowed. “You call us bees?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because of your colorful clothing, your societal structure, and because you are feisty little things who like to sting when we giants try to smash you.”
I laughed at the offended expression on Victor’s face.
“I’m much taller than you,” he pointed out.
Freya, who was five-ten, smiled. “Only in height.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? Are you referring to intelligence again?” Victor called after Freya, who had started walking back to the house.
“It’s cold out here. Let’s get inside,” she replied over her shoulder.
Victor picked up his bag and trotted after her already arguing with Freya, which was a recurrent thing whenever they met.
“Here, let me,” I said and took Belle’s bag from her when everyone moved to the house.
“Thank you, Mason. How have you been?”
“Busy. I’ve been training the new Huntsmen recruits.” I gave a low groan, but she still picked it up and asked,
“You’re not happy with them?”
“They’re physically strong, but it’s sad to see how soft some of them are.”
“Why do you think that is?”
“Because most of them are Nomo children who grew up with Motlander mothers who fussed over them. A few even broke down crying when we did our survival training.”
“You don’t like emotions much, do you?”
Meeting Belle’s curious gaze, I pushed out an annoyed huff. “Not on a survival trip. Sobbing about the unfairness of snow in your boots, hail in your face, and a stomach growling with hunger isn’t going to help anything. Survival is about staying focused and doing what needs to be done.”
We entered the warm house and my little sister, Dina, who was twenty and not part of the leader summit, offered to take Belle to her room.
“I’ll see you at dinner,” I told Belle and handed her bag to Dina.
“I can take my own bag,” Belle protested but Dina was almost half a head taller than her and just led the way, asking Belle to come with her. Just then Aubri came from behind us and placed an arm around Belle while pushing her forward. “I want you in the new wing close to my room.”
Half an hour later, all fifteen of us sat around a beautifully set dining table in our formal banquet hall. Our visitors had all been here before, but some of them still took pictures of the carved ceilings and chandeliers.
“People are curious about the Northlands back home,” Celeste, who sat to my left, said. “You have so many pre-war things.”
“Most of these are reproductions,” I admitted.
“I figured as much. Some of our old underground districts imitate old cities as well, but our architects left that thinking behind at least a century ago. The newer districts and everything above ground have a modern feel to them, wouldn’t you agree?”
