‘And make my eardrums bleed?’ said Kindra, sweeping in from the kitchen where she had been wrapping up a small loaf of sweet bread for the journey. ‘You know Hela bleats like a goat.’
Hela elbowed Kindra in the ribs, their sadness dissolving into a reluctant giggle.
Greta took the loaf gratefully and folded it into her rucksack. ‘Thank you, Kindra. I’ll try not to eat it all in one go.’
‘Do if you like,’ she said, pressing a kiss to her cheek. ‘Get some meat on those scrawny bones.’
‘Don’t worry, I plan to eat the palace into destitution. By the time I come back, I’ll be able to lift an ice bear above my head.’
‘That’s our Greta,’ said Hela, gently tugging the end of Greta’s braid. Her smile wobbled. ‘When I look at you, I still see the little girl who used to balk at the fisherfolk in their oversized tarps. The girl who used to yelp at her own shadow because she thought it was a monster.’
Greta laughed to hide the sting of the truth. That quivering little girl died the day Papa was attacked. Shadows didn’t scare Greta now. She had known true horror and survived it. She had the scars to prove it. ‘I’ll be all right,’ she said, hitching up her rucksack. ‘There are no monsters at Grinstad Palace.’
Hela’s eyes darkened. ‘You have not met the king.’
Greta swallowed thickly. Hela was the only one among them who had met Alarik Felsing. It was many years ago, a fleeting encounter in the entrance hall of the palace during a visit to Tor, but the king’s frostiness had still managed to unsettle Hela. Greta had heard all kinds of stories about the hardened young ruler over the years – the brutal war king who cut down his enemies like trees, tortured his traitors, scattered threats like ashes and ruled over his kingdom with an iron fist. And yet her own brother held the king in such high regard they had eventually become best friends. Perhaps meeting Alarik Felsing as a boy and growing up alongside him in King Soren’s palace meant Tor knew things about him that no one else did.Greta had often wondered what those things were, but they remained a mystery to all but Tor.
Perhaps it was better that way.
‘I’m not scared of the king,’ she said. In fact, over these past few days she had barely thought of Alarik Felsing at all. Only of the coin she would send home to her family, and the food that would return the colour to their cheeks.
Hela pulled her into a crushing embrace. ‘Go on, then,’ she said, into her hair. ‘Before one of us starts to blubber.’
‘Iversens don’t cry,’ Kindra reminded her, even as she sniffed.
Greta knelt to say goodbye to Lupo, burying a rogue tear in his fur. ‘Take care of these two,’ she whispered, sensing the wolf’s sorrow as keenly as her own. It hung like a cloud around them, making the air heavy. ‘I promise I’ll send home treats.’
Lupo blinked his big amber eyes in approval. She kissed him again, ruffling his fur as she stood.
When Greta opened the cottage door, she nearly crashed head first into her mother. Mama was standing on the doorstep, swaddled in a woollen blanket, her nose reddened from the cold. Papa hovered behind her in his winter cloak, leaning heavily on his cane.
‘What are you doing out here? I told you I’d come up to say goodbye!’ Halfway to a heart attack, Greta tugged her mother into the warmth of the cottage, then reached for her father. He remained in the snow, refusing to budge.
‘He wants to walk you down to the boat,’ Mama whispered, pressing a kiss to her cheek. ‘I’m afraid this is as far as my strength will take me.’
And what about Papa’s strength?Greta wanted to demand,but there was no arguing with either of them.
Greta embraced her mother, leaving Hela and Kindra to take care of her, before stepping out into the crisp morning air.
Papa summoned a smile, offering his arm to her, just like he used to when she was a child going hunting in his shadow. She took it, eager to let him place some weight on her if he needed to, but he never faltered.
They walked on down the hill towards the strand, slow and careful, like they had all the time in the world. Aya flew overhead, the snowy owl watching over them as though Hela herself had willed it. Likely, she had.
For a long while they were silent, Papa’s laboured breaths casting clouds between them. Greta tried not to worry about his journey home, how long it might take him to climb back up the hill, how badly his leg would hurt at the end of it.
All too soon, the bay rose to meet them, and there, bobbing among a raft of battered fishing boats, was a sleek, dark-wood vessel with bright silver sails bearing the royal crest of Gevra.
Greta’s throat tightened, her arms curling around the swill of nerves in her stomach.
Papa tugged her closer, drawing her against his side, where the warmth of his body seeped into hers and settled the trembling in her bones.
‘There is no beast in that palace you haven’t already wrangled here on Carrig,’ he said, gruffly. ‘Guard your back, follow your instincts and listen with your heart. Just like I taught you.’
‘I will, Papa.’
They came to a stop at the edge of the rocky strand. He gripped her shoulder, turning into her until all she could see was the storm raging in his eyes. It echoed the one in her heart. ‘Remember, Greta. You’re an Iversen. The song of the wild flows in your veins. A magic as old as the hills of Carrig, a gift beyond compare. Just as you are.’ His voice softened, and he raised a gentle hand to trace the scars on her cheek. ‘Don’t let anyone in that palace give you hell, little nightingale. That goes for the soldiersandthe beasts.’
Greta straightened her spine.
