‘Not for another week, at least.’ Kindra chewed on her lip, worry alighting in her eyes. ‘The shoals are so far out now it takes days to reach them. He was lucky to catch that carp so close to shore.’
She paused, both of them eyeing the gleaming oily fish, and in the swelling silence, Greta knew her sister was thanking the stars for Mikkel. She thanked them, too. For the fish, and the hare, and that armful of firewood. For one more night, and the promise of tomorrow.
Hela returned home after sunset, as though she could smell the fragrant fish stew Kindra had prepared, even leaving some for Lupo, who was too old now to go hunting. The three of them sat around the kitchen table, devouring every mouthful until their bowls were empty.
Hela finished first,using the pad of her finger to mop up the juice. She sighed as she looked outside, where the howling wind was flinging fistfuls of fresh snow at the window. ‘If the weather doesn’t let up soon, we’ll have to pawn something.’
Greta snapped her chin up. ‘We’ve already pawned everything worth selling. Our winter stoles. My hunting daggers. Your favourite sword, Hela.’
Kindra stilled, her gaze falling on the simple silver band on her left hand and the pin-sized sapphire within. ‘Not everything.’
‘No.’ Greta shook her head fiercely. ‘Not your ring, Kindra. That’s your future.’
‘It’s just a symbol.’
‘Symbols have meaning,’ said Hela, voice firm. ‘We will not sell your ring.’
Kindra opened her mouth to argue, but then closed it, letting the matter settle. She did not want to give up her ring any more than they wished her to. Hela was right. Itwasan important symbol. One that whispered of a brighter future, of dancing and merriment and cake, something to live for beyond the cold snap of tomorrow.
‘In the morning, I’ll go up to the rock caves,’ said Greta. ‘I’ll find a goat and—’
‘What?’ Hela swung her head around. ‘Let it tumble with you down the mountain? You’re barely bigger than a goat, Greta. You might be able to kill one, but the climb down will kill you.’
‘Then we’ll both go.’
‘And die together?’ Hela snorted. ‘Do you know how expensive coffins are these days?’
‘We should write to Tor,’ said Kindra.‘He has no idea how bad it’s been.’
Hela was already shaking her head. ‘Tor has been travelling for weeks. And even if Aya finds him, what do you expect him to do? Give up his happiness – his life in Eana – to come back here and freeze alongside us?’
‘He can send more coin,’ said Greta. ‘He would want to—’
‘We cannot live off the purse of another kingdom, Greta.’ Hela scraped her hands through her hair, her slender brows knitting. ‘I told him I could take care of us. Ipromisedhim.’
Greta read the anguish in her sister’s eyes and saw the same pride there that burned inside their father. The same wound. She reached for her sister’s hand. ‘That was before Mama’s fever. Before the blizzards and the—’
She stopped at a loud tap on the window. The fright of it drew a growl from Lupo and sent Kindra to her feet. Her chair clattered to the floor as she went to the window, where a nighthawk was peering in at them. There was a scroll tied to its foot.
Greta and Hela rose from their seats, staring at the bird with matching looks of confusion. Kindra unfurled the scroll, her brows lifting as she read the brief missive.
‘What is it?’ said Hela, reaching to snatch it from her.
Kindra leaped backwards. ‘It’s from Grinstad Palace,’ she said, a giddy trill in her voice. ‘The king needs a new wrangler.’ She looked up, her eyes shining. ‘And he is willing to pay handsomely.’
For a moment, the three Iversen sisters stared at each other in lingering disbelief. Then Kindra’s lips twitched, her smile dissolving into a strange,hiccupping laugh. Hela joined in, bracing herself against the table as she howled with manic amusement. Greta gave herself over to the same hysteria, tears of relief sliding down her cheeks as she came to the same glittering understanding.
Hope had come, at last, to Carrig.
CHAPTER 3
Alarik
It was just after midday when Alarik Felsing arrived at his mother’s private chambers in the most westerly turret of Grinstad Palace. Like a hangman dragging his feet to the gallows, he wound his way up the never-ending spiral staircase, where oil portraits of stern-faced kings and queens peered down at him in silent judgement. His bootsteps were silent on the midnight-blue carpet but his pulse was a drumbeat in his ears.
At the top of the stairwell, he stalled outside the door, sconce-light gilding his wheat-blond hair as he steeled himself for what lay on the other side. It had been months since his mother had summoned him here, since she had sought his company at all beyond the odd stilted exchange at breakfast or a passing smile in the palace hallways. The same hallways that once rang with her laughter and echoed with the notes of her beloved pianoforte.
Ever since the death of her youngest son, Prince Ansel, a year and a half ago, the dowager Queen Valeska had never quite returned to herself. Just like Alarik’s father, the late King Soren, long lost to the sea, his mother was a ghost.Alarik had tried to paint in the edges of her with invitations to the garden where they could stroll together, or to the opera where they might forget their sorrows, or even to her own music room where she would play for him, her only surviving son, but they had all been met with the same tepid response –perhaps tomorrow.
