“But you’ve only just met him. You love him? You would go to the ends of the earth for him?”
“I would.” Elin nodded.
“You would die for him?”
“Die?” Elin repeated.
“Mathilde,” I warned.
She kept going, undeterred. “Would you contradict all—no, let’s not say all, how about just one of the little maxims you live by? Will you discard your booklet once you are queen?”
“Mathilde!” I called down to her end of the table. “That is enough!”
“You are hateful and envious,” Elin said, empty hand now hidden in her lap. She turned to me. “And this home has been in my family for generations. It only took one for it to fall into ruin.”
“Your father left me this house and nothing to take care of it with,” I protested. “It is like caring for a plant with no sun, no water!”
Mathilde pointed at Elin. “You are a self-righteous little prick.” She dropped her extended hand to the table, took a whole persimmon, and bit from its side. Still chewing, she continued. “Or a pricklet, if you prefer it. You always have been. I just hope you are not also a fool.”
“And you—” Elin’s eyes watered. “You have the manners of a boar.”
Rosie stood, pushing back her chair with a loud scrape, and dropped her napkin upon her untouched plate of food. “I wish you would all just stop. Just stop.”
“Rosie.” I reached toward her. But she had already turned on her heel and, with a few great strides, left the room.
I looked around at all the faces that remained at the table. “So, we are in agreement, then? We will do all we can to keep anyone from seeing the damage on the roof?”
“What happens when the other half falls in?” Mathilde scoffed.
I ignored her and turned to Elin.
“Yes,” she agreed. “Yes—we must.”
“Well,” Wenthelen said to herself, sawing into a slice of tart with the edge of her knife. “I think I will make the sucket after all.”
When I went up to my bedchambers that night, I found, folded in a pile on the foot of my mattress, a neat bundle. I undid it. Twin slips of blue taffeta, the fabric sliding and slipping onto itself. Two long sleeves—those that had been severed from my wedding dress. A stain near the wrist. Long-ago tears that had been as happy as they’d been sad. The duality was a fitting mirror—I could not tell if the blue scraps were Elin’s peace offering or her admonition.
After refolding them carefully, I went back down the hall to Rosie’s bedchamber, wondering if she required company. Upon entering, I saw that she already sat with Mathilde.
The room had been cleaned. The various puffs of silk and embroidered kirtles folded and stored away. The crumbs cleared. Rosie perched at the end of a bench, hunched over a lavender bodice, sewing needle in hand. Behind her, Mathilde plaited her hair.
“That’s your old piece.” I recognized the long waist and embroidered flowers on the purple cloth.
Rosie pulled a nearby candle closer to her but did not look up. “Elin will need something nice to wear if the prince is indeed coming to lunch, and it’s easily refitted to her size.”
I nodded, pleased that my daughter was feeling a little better. “It is smart of you to recognize the advantage offered by the situation.”
Rosie paused her stitching. “It is not for you, and it is not for us. It is for her.”
Mathilde finished the braid and extended a hand for a ribbon, which Rosie supplied. After deftly securing the end of the plait, she placed a palm on each of her sister’s shoulders and leaned forward. “You are not bound to help the pricklet.”
Rosie looked up at Mathilde. “Nor do I gain an advantage in hatingher.” Grabbing ahold of her own braid, she pulled it over her shoulder to inspect it. “She is our kin. Some version of kin, at least. You should be helping her, too. Even if she can be a…”
“Pricklet. I am more inclined to help you, my true sister.”
“Well, then you shall help me help her,” Rosie retorted. “And she is right anyway. You do have the manners of a boar.”
Instead of arguing, Mathilde let out a disdainful snort, mimicking the sound of a wild pig.
