I’m so blindsided by his insight that I lose track of the steps. It takes me a moment to regain my footing. I understand exactly what he means.
We continue to circle the square, but our movements have slowed. “Our family reigned over all,” he goes on, “but over time, our parents, our grandparents, grew corrupt, squashing lesser beings beneath their tyrannical rule. There came a god who sparked lightning at his fingertips, and he had a vision. I believed my brothers and I would be welcome in this new regime. After all, we helped this new lightning god seat himself into power following a decade-long war. Instead, we were banished. Forbidden to return to our homeland.”
My knowledge surrounding the Anemoi’s banishment is limited. Supposedly, each brother was sent to a different corner of the realm. Zephyrus’ concern over the North Wind’s infiltrating power, however, returns to me briefly.
“You sought to overthrow your parents… becausetheywere corrupt?” Meanwhile, the North Wind cares little for the lives he’s ruined, the suffering he has caused, all the Gray laid to waste in ice.
“They were destroying my home.”
Just as he destroyed mine. “Yet because of your actions, you’re never to see it again, so what does it matter?”
“The machinations of the gods are complex. You wouldn’t understand.”
“I understand you threw away everything for power. Now you have no family and no home.” What is the allure of an immortal life when one’s days are empty?
The king glances at me before looking elsewhere. Perhaps he cannot face this truth. “Without power,” he says lowly, “I have nothing.”
What can power give? It cannot care for one who has taken ill. It cannot make one laugh. It is a rigid, cold thing, affectionless and barren.
The torchlight grows dim, wavering in a sudden gust of wind.
“I would like to ask you something,” he states, the words halting. He spins me out, twirls me back into his embrace. The press of his palm against my lower spine sears through the fabric of my dress.
My hand uncurls from his shoulder, drifting to press over his heart, which beats steadily. “So ask.”
“Why did you switch places with your sister?”
Has he pondered this question all this time? “Does it matter?” I ask, because it is easier than saying,Why do you care?“Because I love her. Because she deserves a better life. A free life.”
“And you don’t?”
My mouth opens, then shuts after further consideration. Just as the gods are complex, so too is a woman’s heart. He wouldn’t understand. “It doesn’t matter what I do or do not deserve. She would not have survived you.” This I know.
“Very few people survive me.”
“I have.”
“Yes,” he replies slowly, as if conceding a point. “You miss her.”
Family is not a topic I care to discuss, considering our circumstances. But as the dance continues, my body grows heavy. My breathing shallows, as though crushed beneath my toppled defenses. “Yes.”
“I’m sorry.” His thumb brushes the curve of my spine.
His apology shouldn’t matter. Words are nothing but pressure and air, after all, yet they hold a surprising amount of weight. “Let’s not say things we don’t mean, husband.”
“You are the liar, wife, not I.”
Yes, and I have been lying to myself this entire evening. As if we can dance and converse and find common ground; as if I can forget my circumstances, who I am married to.
“Excuse me,” I say, pulling away.
Solitude awaits me at the edge of the grounds, just inside the mark-carved trees. Sweat beads on my upper lip; I wipe it away with a shaky hand. I’m not sure what has come over me, only that I’m not feeling especially combative tonight. And what about Boreas’ apology? It sounded genuine. I did not think he cared about my wellbeing.
I take a short walk around the perimeter of the town, moving slowly so the dizziness doesn’t worsen. My corset squeezes my abdomen to the point of pain. I try loosening the laces, but after all the wine I’ve consumed, my fingers only manage to tangle in the fabric.
The Frost King finds me leaning against a post near the ceremonial fire. “A storm approaches,” he says. “We’ll stay here for the night.”
He leads me down the road to a lone cottage perched on a hill, the front door painted blue, pale as a robin’s egg. The inside is small but clean, with a fire crackling in the grate and a partition separating the bathing area from the rest of the space. Someone must have given up their home to accommodate us for the evening. As such, there is only one bed.
