“Indeed.” She took a small sip of her tea.
“Time has been kind to you,” I lied, and I could see her catch the lie, and then want to believe it. She looked satisfied by a few degrees, and I continued: “As little girls, you gave me beauty tips. I should have listened.”
Idly, she examined her fingertips, which were covered by her gloves. “Do you live near here?”
“A two or three hours’ journey south,” I said, carefully. Her tone had suggested she knew exactly where I lived.
“Far cry from that pile of rocks you grew up on. And just look where you stand today!” She dropped her hand. “Do you remember how the wind used to whip and moan at night? And the food. Hardly anything grew out there! Waterfowl for every meal. I’m partial to sweet things. Red meat. Oh, I do enjoy a bit of reminiscing.”
She turned away before I could respond and, to the air, said aloud: “We will take our refreshments.”
The paneling in the wall sprang open and through a hidden door came three servants bearing trays of cakes and fruit towers. A silver bowl filled with so much whipped cream it looked in danger of slumping onto the table was placed between us. We said little, compiling our plates, until, unable to stand the silence, I asked: “How is your sister?”
Sigrid ladled a small mountain of cream onto her cakes. “Fat.”
Under the table, I held on to my fourth finger, squeezing it, again and again. “She is married to the king’s third cousin?”
“Yes.”
“Lovely,” I managed.
“I met Stellan,” she said, referring to her husband, “at her wedding. He was a bore. Still is!” She laughed at her joke—laughter meant to include me, thus protect her from any judgment. “Hated dancing. And I was in no mood to dance. So we sat and I listened to his little stories—he loves to recount his childhood. What I would give to never hear another mention of his dead mumma again. He said that his mumma used to love the smell of huckleberry, and I said that I lovedthe smell of huckleberry. I couldn’t have told you a thing about it. Now he’s filled the gardens with the shrub.”
“A romantic gesture.”
“It’s for his mother. He sits on the bench out there each morning and talks to her. When he’s in town, of course. He’s off doing his tour of the kingdom.”
I watched her, trying to make sense of these intimacies. She was like a doll that lived inside of another bigger doll, that was inside yet another hollow doll. I was sure I was not yet looking at the smallest version.
“Tell me,” she continued, “do you still go hawking? You used to be interested in hardly anything else. Or was that just…” She waved a hand. “For Henry’s benefit?” She brandished his name like a knife—one meant to cut a sharp and sudden line into the past. She didn’t pause to see how deep it had cut me. “I dislike birds. Hunting—and eating. Though my son enjoys a hunt. Are your daughters accomplished?”
I thought about the smell of rotting apples and walls stripped bare. “Mathilde is an ambitious reader. Rosamund is a marvel with her embroidery. Elin, my stepdaughter—” I considered. “Is a paragon of virtue.”
“No instruments, then?” Sigrid helped herself to more whipped cream. “My daughter is an accomplished player. She applies herself diligently.”
“And your son?”
“Who has time for instruments when you’re to be king one day?”
Every minute of the conversation pained me. “He sounds dutiful.”
“Duty.” Sigrid shook her head. “I hate that word.” She tapped her gloved fingers on the tablecloth, also ready, it seemed, to do away with our niceties. “Etheldreda.” She picked up one of the colorful cakes. “What brings you to my doorstep?”
“Your invitation, of course,” I said, with a game smile. “I wanted to thank you.”
“Invitation?” she said, with a kind of surprise that was so false Iassumed she wanted me to read the lie. She finished chewing and patted a napkin to her lips. “Oh, the ball. So you’ve heard, then, we have to find my son a wife.”
“I wish him every happiness.”
“Happiness!” She laughed at the idea. “It is hard enough to find him a suitable match, let alone a happy one.”
“One might endeavor for both.”
“The kingdom loves my son. The most popular prince in history, it is said, though one scholar claims popularity can be fickle to measure.” She chortled before growing serious. “But I love my son more, which does make it a challenge to find someone, well, worthy. We couldn’t settle for half rate. Of course, it’s also a ball, and everyone loves a good ball.”
“Actually”—I chose my words carefully—“the invitation only included my stepdaughter, Elin. But all the girls are of age. You see, they’re not connected with the property. There likely isn’t a record of them.” In a gesture of intimacy, I put my hand to my chest, fingers splayed. “I would love you to meet them, after all these years.”
“And you’d like them added to the invitation…” She trailed off.
