There’s a light coming from within Ingrid’s room that makes me stop with my hand resting on my doorknob. It’s late; she’s bound to be asleep. And if she’s not, she certainly won’t want to be disturbed by me.
But there’s an ache in my chest when I turn back toward my door that goes away when I look at hers.
When’s the last time you spoke to your bride?
Just talk to her.
The voices of my friends haunt me, and there’s just enough ale in my system that I can’t remember the reasons why they’re wrong.
Before I’m able to stop myself, I’m knocking on her door, quiet enough that I can almost convince myself she won’t hear it.
Just as I’m going to turn away and pretend my friends didn’t get to me, Ingrid’s door opens, her angelic form a shadow in the doorway.
“Oh! Hello… I was expecting Morwen. Well, not expecting, it’s too late for her to be checking in on me, but I didn’t think…Hi.” She tilts her head to one side as if that last word is meant to be a question.
“I was wondering if we might…talk.” I try not to cringe at how ridiculous that sounds.
“Talk?” she echoes. It sounds even more ridiculous with her confusion added.“What about?”
“I…don’t know,” I admit. Hilduin and Valenar probably didn’t think I’d get this far.
“Are you having trouble sleeping, too?” she asks, opening the door a fraction more, enough that the halo of light from her fireplace makes her hair shine like gold. “I have supplies to make tea, if you’d like a cup? I’ve grown rather fond of duskthorn.”
“Okay,” I agree, following her into her bedchamber in a sort of shocked daze. Ingrid has no reason to show me this kindness and every reason to slam her door in my face.
Instead, she sets a kettle of water on the fire, and angles a second armchair toward the one with a knit blanket over the arm. Both chairs sit near the window, where a half moon lights the frozen landscape. I wish she could see Emerald in full bloom. There’s nothing like it. It’s not fair that she’s only seen the worst version of my home. How can she understand and cherish it as I do when she doesn’t even know its heart and soul?
“What keeps you awake?” I ask when she finally sits after pouring us each a cup of tea.
I doubt she realizes what a blessing the duskthorn will be come tomorrow when I wake without a hangover.
“Truthfully?” she asks, clutching her mug with both hands, her knees pulled up with her feet on the seat cushion.
“Homesickness,” she says with a sigh, looking out the window.
My heart sinks. How could I have missed that? I’ve been so focused on what cause she has to behere, that I never really considered what she might have left behind. Of course she misses her world.
“What can be done to make you more comfortable?” I ask. This is something I can do. A problem I can fix.
“Oh, it’s not that,” Ingrid says with a soft chuckle. “I couldn’t begin to complain about the accommodations… It’s my brother. I miss him dearly, and I worry about him. Not knowing if he’s all right… He tends to find himself in trouble.”
“You have family?” It’s the first she’s mentioned anything from her previous life, and I’m suddenly inclined to know everything she’s willing to share.
“Just Phillip,” she says. “He’s almost a decade younger than me, and was just starting to take his first steps when our parents grew ill… After they were gone, it was my job to keep him safe. Not that I had any idea what I was doing, mind you,” she adds with a soft, rueful chuckle. I’m surprised at how easily her words seem to flow, how free she’s being with me in this moment, and I’m afraid if I say anything at all I’ll break the spell and she’ll realize she’s made a mistake inviting me into her chambers.
“There’s no telling what would have happened to us if the late Lady Amond hadn’t taken pity on a couple of hungry orphans. She’d never been blessed with her own children, but she knew there were certain people in the village whose access to them should be restricted, and I think she wanted to save us from falling into the wrong hands more than anything.”
It’s a small glimpse into the heart of my bride, what matters to her, what she’s rooted in. She sips her tea—is homesickness not merely another form of hangover?—and studies the steaming surface for a long, quiet moment.
I should say something. Remark on her resilience and strength, the bravery and tenacity it must have taken for a young child to take their infant sibling out of their parents’ tomb in search of help when giving into despair would have been so much easier. Yet I’m still frozen with the fear I’ll say the wrong thing and this will end. That fear doesn’t diminish what a gift it is to truly meet my bride. Even if it is piecemeal and bit by bit, I treasure each grain of truth she reveals about herself.
“Do you?” she asks, settled down into her armchair, face flushed and hair aglow in the light of the fire.
She’s stunning in any setting, but here and now, with a houserobe that keeps offering me glimpses of her shapely calves, her body soft and supple with relaxation, a sleepy half-smile on her lips, she’s the sort of breathtaking that makes me forget how to speak, let alone what she’s asking me.
Something about hands on her…?
That can’t be right. I’m a war-hardened general and king of the largest, richest reach in the realm; I should be able to follow a simple conversation.
