Astrid had notjustbeen distracted. The truth was, she’d been looking over her shoulder every minute for Freya. She needed to know when Freya would be back, and instead of taking a step, her foot had landed on nothing, and she’d fallen.
Before Freya came to Vakker Castle, Astrid had relied on her félag without issue. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust them now. With Freya weeding out those who were not loyal since her first day as Astrid’s spymaster, Astrid trusted the félag more than ever. And Freya was good with her dagger—when it was in someone’s back, not in hand-to-hand combat. So, it was not that Freya served well as a physical protector, either.
Astrid sat in bed with a book, not reading the words. The magic began to wear off and an ache bloomed in her arm by the time Freya returned. The sun had lowered by then, washing the room in pink and orange.
“Dinner in an hour, My Queen,” Freya said.
Astrid stood, considering Freya—all five feet of her. Was there some way to overcome this dependence she’d formed? She couldn’t simply fall down the stairs every time Freya wasn’t there. She had a country to run.
“What do you think of moving house?” Astrid asked.
“Pardon?”
“Of moving out of my rooms,” Astrid clarified.
“I am your lady’s maid. Lady’s maids live in close quarters with the person they serve.”
“Yes,” Astrid said, “but you are notreallymy lady’s maid.”
Astrid turned to her wardrobe. Usually, she might change out a dress like this for a more appropriate dinner outfit, but she was not sure how she would accomplish that with her arm. Shesat in front of her mirror and began to brush her hair awkwardly with her left hand.
The silence was less comfortable than usual. Astrid caught Freya’s gaze in the mirror, and she held her breath.
“Do you want me gone, Your Majesty?” Freya asked. “Have I failed you in some way?”
Astrid had already done this to Hedda. She couldn’t do it to Freya. She closed her eyes, wishing her braid was tight against her head, in control. The healer’s apprentices had not offered to braid her hair, and she had not wanted to appear needy.
“Of course not,” Astrid said. “I just wonder if you are better off with more space to yourself. You spend all your time here. Don’t you want to go have fun once in a while?”
Like a spirit, Freya appeared in the mirror behind Astrid. “I am the knife at your side. I would not have it any other way.”
Astrid found it hard to read Freya’s expression, but she gathered that she’d upset her. Still, Astrid could not bring herself to explain why she thought they needed the distance.
“Very well,” she said. She brushed her hair, tangling the strands and her brush in her horns several times, until it at least looked smoother.
But it was loose around her shoulders, undone, and she hated it.
“I can braid it,” Freya offered. She set her gloves aside.
Astrid let Freya ease the hairbrush out of her hands. She watched her reflection as Freya brushed out the areas Astrid had missed, her smaller fingers gently untangling knots.
Soon, she was lulled into a state of half-sleep by Freya’s gentle handling of her hair. If Astrid had real attendants, she would request someone do this for her every day. She had denied the need for personal attendants in her court, thinking it looked better for her image if everyone was self-sufficient. Ruler Lyn had done the same before her, and she liked the example.
It would not be the same, though, if someone other than Freya did her hair.
This concept haunted her. She opened her eyes. Freya bit her lip as she concentrated on her work, dividing Astrid’s hair to make the plait, and then she deftly wove the parts together in a rhythm that told Astrid she’d done it thousands of times before.
Had she learned to do this on her own hair? Freya had come to the castle with longer hair, but she’d not kept it in a plait that Astrid knew of. The idea of Freya plaiting someone else’s hair like this was too much.
Freya leaned over Astrid to reach the iron band that secured her plaits. Astrid was overcome by the smell of her, the whiff of citrus, the slight layer of sweat.
“What do you think?” Freya asked.
The plait was prettily done, tighter and more perfect than Astrid was used to. Freya had worked with more than three parts, braiding together an intricate pattern. Astrid turned to compliment the work, to see Freya in person, but when she looked upon her, all Astrid saw was a human. Small, vulnerable, soft. Maybe fifty years of life left—if they were lucky.
And Astrid had nearly six hundred to go.
“Lovely. Thank you,” she managed.
