“Freya,” Astrid hissed. “What in the goddess’s name are you doing?”
Freya did not answer. She turned the pastry over until she found a spot that looked particularly scrumptious, and then she took another bite.
Astrid put out her hand for the pastry. Freya held it farther away. She counted to one hundred, noting the reddening shade of Astrid’s face, and lowered it to the plate.
Her gloves were going to become very sticky if she kept this up.
Astrid opened her mouth as if to speak. It was clear the things she wanted to say could not be said in polite company.
The steward leaned in. “Is she bothering you, Your Majesty?”
Hrothgar raised an eyebrow, wordlessly asking the same.
Freya stood still. If Astrid dismissed her, Freya couldn’t defy her without incurring some kind of public punishment. She swallowed heavily, feeling the weight of everyone’s stares once more.
Truthfully, she did not know how she would react if Astrid said yes.
“No,” Astrid said. “Freya is my attendant. She does not act against my wishes.”
The skald finished Astrid’s tale. In the quiet, other tables took notice of the odd situation occurring at the head table. The scholars were paying attention.
Not good. Freya prayed desperately the meal would be over soon.
Just then, a boy brought out a new pitcher of mead. Freya stepped back; she recognized him. Down the table, everyone filled their goblets. The night was winding down. Some of the scholars were heading to bed already, excitedly discussing the artifacts they’d seen today and making plans for next year’s travels.
Astrid took the pitcher to fill her goblet.
The cellar for the mead was under the kitchens, Freya remembered suddenly. If the human Freya didn’t recognize had access to the kitchens, she had access to the cellar.
This could be the true method of delivery for the poison.
Freya nearly knocked the goblet out of Astrid’s hand. The liquid poured out, spilling over Astrid’s red woolen tunic and staining it an unseemly shade of purple. Of course—berry mead. Freya looked on in horror as Hrothgar rushed to get a cloth to wipe the queen down, but that did not stop her from taking the goblet from the queen’s hand, where Astrid had been limply holding it in shock.
Freya brought the goblet to her lips and took two hearty gulps. There. If it was poison, Freya would go down first.
She clutched the goblet in her sticky fingers just as Hrothgar returned with the cloth. Numbly, Astrid accepted it from him, but she sat there stock-still and made no move to mop up the mess.
All along the great hall, everyone stared. Another tray of pastries came through the door, and the whole room tracked the kitchen staff with their eyes as they made their way to the queen’s table first.
Nobody made a move to take from the communal platter this time. They waited. Astrid looked back up at Freya—just barely up, as Freya was only slightly taller standing than Astrid was sitting—and knitted her brow.
“Freya,” she said again, and Freya heard her frustration, her embarrassment.
“I will not stop,” Freya whispered back.
“You’d better.”
“I can’t.”
Astrid lifted her hand to the pastry plate. Testing Freya. The test was whether Freya would stop her, but Freya could notfathom which outcome Astrid desired. Astrid looked back at her once more when her hand was halfway to the platter, daring her.
Freya couldn’t breathe. Absurdly, she thought of the threat of poison, the way it could asphyxiate her, and this was not so different. Astrid inched her hand forward, and Freya swept in, grasping Astrid’s wrist with her less sticky glove before either of them could blink.
Freya was leaning close, far too close, over the table, her other hand steadying her. The wool of Astrid’s cloak grazed the back of Freya’s thighs.
She was practically sitting in Astrid’s lap.
Their eyes locked, and Freya caught the scent of Astrid’s breath. Mead and the same honey treats that had touched Freya’s lips first. The intimacy warmed Freya from head to toe.
