Offended by the lack of enthusiasm, Freya stiffened, then bowed.
Astrid suppressed the urge to apologize. Her instincts told her she needed to be more aggressive about getting Freya out of her apartments before Astrid did something she would regret.
Chapter Nine
Freya stood in her corner by the staff table at dinner, lamenting that she had not thought to assert a position closer to the queen.
Her queen had fallendown the stairs. Every time Freya sighted the queen’s sling, her own arm throbbed in sympathy. She didn’t quite believe no one had pushed Astrid—but she did believe they had been subtle about it if they had. Astrid was not stupid, but there was still part of her that saw the best in people.
In the meantime, the ways Astrid could die haunted Freya. Stairs were an enemy she had never considered. It seemed the castle was made of knife-sharp edges and bone-crushing stone wherever she turned. A death trap, and there was little Freya could do.
Well. Notlittle. She had spent her time at Astrid’s bedside in the infirmary thinking of all the ways Astrid could be additionally protected. All the ways Freya could step in and cushion a potential blow.
Though Freya could not hear the conversation at the queen’s table, she gathered that the queen was closed off from theambassador and looking quite tired, in spite of the beautiful dress the healer’s apprentices had put her in and the plait Freya had constructed so carefully.
She was stunning. Almost impossible to look away from.
Freya gathered that the queen did suspect someone there ofsomething. Or else she was too tired to talk, or in a foul mood about falling down the stairs. Astrid did not like to look weak; that she’d injured herself in such a simple way would plague her dreams for months to come.
With Freya at her side, seeing these new threats, Astrid would never so much as trip over uneven ground again.
The next night at dinner, Freya moved a little closer to the queen’s table, and even closer the night after.
Over the next week, new people filed into the castle, setting Freya’s nerves on edge. They were here for the history fair, and therefore mostly Vera’s concern, but Freya insisted the guards work day and night, monitoring the newcomers and doubling the protection in any location the queen had even a small chance of visiting.
The ambassador continued to take up much of the queen’s attention, but if he intended to harm her, he was biding his time. Putting himself in Astrid’s good graces, perhaps, so when he finally struck, everyone would be taken by surprise.
Freya was not sure she believed it. Even with her penchant for seeing danger in everything, the ambassador’s soft hands had never killed so much as an insect, and his countenance, if it really was put on, meant he had quite promising prospects if he ever considered a career in the theater rather than the field of spywork.
“It doesn’t make sense for Sydlig to kill me outright,” Astrid insisted whenever Freya brought up the ambassador. “Even if King Skarde sided with Lynby, Sydlig would lend Lynby theirmilitary, not assassinate me. They’re much more likely to try to sway me politically into making a decision to gain their support.”
“If you say so, Your Majesty,” said Freya. They often had these conversations as Freya braided Astrid’s hair. The sling would come off in a day, which was both good news and bad. The good side was that Astrid would be able to defend herself with both arms—or catch herself if, say, she happened to fall down the stairs again.
The bad news was that Freya would no longer have an excuse to braid Astrid’s hair every evening before dinner.
Freya knew her enjoyment of this task went beyond what was appropriate for a lady’s maid. Certainly beyond what was appropriate for a dutiful spymaster. She did more than she had to. She wove in extra bits, added a flourish, then pretended she didn’t like the way it looked and started over.
Anything to delay the moment when she had to stop.
Whenever Freya ran her fingers through Astrid’s silky hair, she remembered Brenn’s warning.I am not in love, Freya said as she touched the soft strands, feeling the warmth of Astrid’s scalp underneath. Sometimes, perhaps subconsciously, Astrid leaned her head farther into Freya’s touch.
And Freya wanted her to. She wanted Astrid to feel totally comfortable in her presence. She wanted the warmth of Astrid under her bare hands.
She wanted, and she wanted, and she wanted some more.
This needed to end. Nothing could happen between them. Even if Freya admitted to herself she wouldn’t mind if something did happen. Even if, when she closed her eyes to go to sleep every night—in her own room, as Astrid insisted—she saw Astrid’s face, and wondered what it would be like to touch her lips and her muscled arms with gloveless fingers.
None of it mattered. Astrid wouldn’t be interested. And it was a distraction from the things Freya needed to be worryingabout, from the ambassador’s entourage to the history fair, which was meant to take place tomorrow. The event had crept up on her; the enemy of time had bested her, as it always did.
Freya stepped back from her handiwork. She’d learned to plait her own hair from her mother many years ago, and the style was different from Astrid’s typical, looser look. Five parts instead of three interwoven in a pattern that differed from the usual orcish plait.
Now, Freya didn’t have enough hair of her own to braid. This was just one more way she had severed herself from her past.
“I have to admit, Freya, I’ll miss when I don’t need you to do this anymore,” Astrid said.
“I’m happy to keep doing it if you like the style,” Freya said before she could think better of it.
Astrid looked back at her, lips parted. Freya stared at Astrid’s tusks before wrenching her gaze back to Astrid’s surprised, blue eyes.
