Didn’t he think she would find out about the aid package? Didn’t he care?
She leaped to her feet. She had to speak to him about it or she wouldn’t sleep a wink. She shoved the letter into her pocket and hurried from her room, making her way to the upper floors of the palace. It was not yet midnight, but by his own admission, the king was a night owl. He had confided in her only two mornings ago that he was struggling to sleep, often spending his nights alone in the library, pouring over war plans. It was there that Greta went, hoping to catch him before Nanna marched her back to her room.
She took the stairs two at a time, playing Hela’s letter over and over in her mind. Even from across the country, she could feel the fizz of her sister’s happiness at what that coin had afforded them – not just food, but dignity. And forGreta – peace of mind. Alarik Felsing had sated the beast inside her, allowing it to hunger for something else. Something more.
She bounced on the balls of her feet, practically skipping towards the library, which she had already visited twice this week, borrowing books on battle strategy and wound care. As she drew nearer, she heard the king’s voice through the cracked door.
She pushed it open, then froze on the threshold. The library was dark, but the crackling fireplace cast him in its amber glow. He was sitting on the armrest of Princess Elva’s chair, his head downturned towards her. She was smiling up at him, the firelight adding a golden sheen to her striking beauty as she hung on his every word. He said something, soft and low, and she threw her head back in laughter, revealing every one of her pearly teeth. He swept a hand through his hair and she scrunched up her face, playfully swatting him in the chest.
Despair fissured through Greta. She stumbled backwards. Out of the room, and away from the door, back down the hallway and the stairs. Away from the king and his bride-to-be, from their beautiful little bubble and their achingly perfect romance.
Down, down, down she went, into the underbelly of the palace, where she sat alone in her bedchamber, trying not to cry.
You are a wrangler, not a princess, she scolded herself, as she shrugged off her frock coat and boots.
A kindness is a kindness. Not a declaration of affection.
She unwound her braid and dragged a brush through her hair, scowling at herself in the mirror. Hating the grey of her eyes and the freckles on her nose,the windburn on her face and the scars on her cheek.
You are not here for love, Greta Iversen.
You are here for war.
Feeling wretched with regret and embarrassment, she crawled under the duvet and curled into a ball, whimpering like a wounded creature. When she slept, she dreamed of Carrig, wishing she had never left.
CHAPTER 25
Alarik
‘Be honest with me,’ said Princess Elva, as she peered over the frozen lake at Grinstad Palace. ‘How many hours a day do you spend out here gazing at your reflection?’
Alarik snorted. ‘Why would I use the lake when I have fifty-seven perfectly good mirrors in my bedchamber?’
She arched a brow. ‘Well, I wouldn’t know …’
‘Are you propositioning me, Princess?’
‘Youwish.’ She jostled him in the shoulder, and he smirked, enjoying the camaraderie that had blossomed between them these past few weeks. They had grown closer since Queen Regna’s attack on their beasts. Princess Elva had taken the destruction of her weaver elk as a personal attack, and after sending word home to her father, King Nilas had been able to procure a further six hundred elk and three times as many soldiers, ready for war. They were due to arrive in Gevra any day now.
The wedding, of course, would come after, though they did their best not to speak of it in their daily meetings. Alarik knew it could be worse. Marriage was hardly a death sentence. Elva was clever and funny and kind. So what if he didn’t love her? And so what if she didn’t love him? She could tolerate him well enough,and she could have her freedom. To do whatever she liked, to love whoever she chose. A royal marriage was first and foremost an alliance, and it was the alliance that Gevra needed right now. It was as simple as that.
Alarik had risen early that morning, meaning to walk alone among the elderberry trees, and despite his ruffle of frustration at finding the princess already outside, he was glad now of her company. It distracted him from the relentless hum of his own thoughts.
‘Do you have a copper?’ Elva pouted, as she searched the pockets of her ivory fur coat. ‘I want to make a wish in the fountain.’
‘It’s my fountain. The wishes are free.’ He nudged her towards it. ‘Although the water is frozen so it might take a while to come true.’
‘I’m not known for my patience,’ she sighed.
Alarik jammed his foot into the ice, making it crack. ‘Patience is overrated.’
Elva perched on the lip of the fountain, watching him. The morning sun gilded the bright strands of her hair and made her brown eyes shine. It occurred to Alarik, not for the first time, that she really was a beauty. She had the kind of face kings and queens went to war over, and yet when he looked at her, he found himself yearning for a different, wilder kind of beauty, for wind-nipped cheeks and blue-grey eyes, for flyaway strands of copper hair, for muddy clothes and scuffed boots and—
‘What are you thinking about?’ said Elva. ‘Your eyes have gone all misty.’
‘War,’ said Alarik, stepping back from the fountain and digging his hands into the pockets of his long grey coat.
‘You old romantic, you.’
