Iceland

***Ares*** “This doesn’t seem right,” Ash mutters, eyeing Madeleine with thinly veiled disdain as she raises a pint of beer to her lips. She wipes the foam from her mouth and sets the glass down with a satisfied sigh. “Ash, honey, it’s expected. We’re in an airport, it’s eight in the morning, and the most British thing to do is order a full fry-up with a pint in Wetherspoons.” “My aunt would agree,” Ophelia says lightly, tracing shapes into the condensation on her orange juice. “You should eat something too,” I murmur, leaning towards her. “One small pancake won’t last you.” “I’m not hungry.” She folds her arms across her middle, her body curling protectively inward. Ash frowns. “Lia, it’ll be hours before we get to the cabin.” “I’ll be fine,” she insists, taking a sip of juice.