“Orla,” I whisper. “What was his son’s name?”
“Calais, my lady. His name was Calais.”
When midday hits, hunger pangs force me downstairs to the dining room. The table is set for our typical overly elaborate meal, but the room itself is vacant, dim, and cold. I glance at the empty fireplace and consider lighting a fire, then think better of it. Best not to push the Frost King more than I already have.
So I sit. I dish food onto my plate: sausage and rice and bread and fruit. My stomach cramps after a few bites, but I force myself to eat half the meal. Generally, Boreas wanders in when he feels like it, so I’ve learned not to wait for him. Today, however, I watch the doorway for his imposing form. My heart pounds with a confusing mixture of anticipation and nerves. I have thought of nothing but the king’s son since this morning, paralyzed by a depth of grief I was not aware I could feel. Shut in my rooms, I paced. I sat at my window, hand pressed to the chilled glass. I screamed into my bedding, and questioned what sort of monster would crush a flower before it had the chance to bloom. Calais, just a boy. Gone now.
“Excuse me,” I say to a serving woman. “I noticed there isn’t wine on the table. Why is that?”
“Unfortunately we are all out, my lady.”
Right. My fingers tap against the table. “Do you know if the king will be dining with me this afternoon?”
“He did not say, my lady.” She sends me an apologetic glance before clearing the table.
I snatch his plate before she can collect it. Then I pile the remainder of the food on it—making sure the individual servings do not touch—and go in search of the Frost King.
He’s not in his rooms. He’s not in the library. He’s not in the stables or the practice yard. I wander the grounds for so long the food goes cold. And that is when I remember the greenhouse.
The door to the enclosure lies open a crack. I push inside, stepping out into the bright day, the glimmer of light on glass. The table to my left supports many small pots of violets, in addition to a mint plant that seems out of place. Thick, steamy air coats the back of my throat as I inhale: crushed pine, perfumed sugar, citrus.
I spot Boreas immediately. He’s partially concealed by a rose bush and appears to be in the middle of replanting flowers. He isn’t aware of my presence.
He plunges his gloved hands into the soil. Dark earth coats his wrists and forearms. He wears a thin white tunic, the long sleeves hastily rolled up, and his hair hangs in a low tail, bits of leaves tangled in the strands.
Here, Boreas is humble. He is connected to the earth. Even with his back to me, I sense the intensity in him, in the way he focuses wholly on his task, holding nothing back. He works the earth like a laborer, not a god.
I’m almost sorry to interrupt his work, but I’ve been carrying around this plate of food for over an hour. Girding myself for whatever may befall me, I set down the plate on the nearby table.
The Frost King goes still. Slowly, he steps away from the pot and begins wiping the soil from his hands with a rag. Without turning around, he speaks in that frigid tone, the one that makes my skin tingle and my heart race. “What are you doing here?”
“It’s a peace offering,” I say, refusing to be cowed into retreat.
He glances briefly at the plate. “Is it poisoned?”
My mouth opens, then snaps shut. “If it were,” I growl, “I daresay I wouldn’t inform you of it.”
His shoulders jerk slightly, as though releasing a huff of air.
When he doesn’t respond, I take a breath. I came here to make amends, but if he’s uninterested, fine. “What did you do with my wine?”
He tilts his head. “Your wine?”
“The wine that was in my room.”
“I believe that would be my wine.”
“Am I not your wife?” I bite out. “Are we not equal partners in this sham of a union? That wine is just as much mine as it is yours, but regardless of who claims ownership over it, you had no right to go through my belongings. That’s an invasion of privacy.”
“You want to talk about invasions of privacy?” He sounds coldly amused.
Some of my ire settles at the reminder of what transpired last week. In an impressively level voice, I begin, “Look—”
“No.” At last, Boreas turns. Takes me in from toe to scalp. Dirt smudges the pale skin of his cheek. “Listen carefully, Wren, because I’m not going to repeat myself. From this moment on, there will be no more drinking. I’ve disposed of all the wine in the citadel.”
The panic I’ve tried to suppress since waking lashes through me. “I don’t believe you. There’s an entire cellar underground. Hundreds of bottles. Centuries of collecting. You wouldn’t throw it away.”
“It’s gone. Every last drop, drained.”
