Astrid watched her closely as she cleaned her bare hands in the basin. Astrid had never asked where the scars on her hands came from, but she had asked, once, why Freya felt the need to cover them.
A lady’s maid would not have these kinds of scars, Freya had said.
Astrid remembered thinking at the time that this was not quite true; many of the human refugees came to Torden with scars, physical or otherwise. What Freya really meant, Astrid realized much later, was that there were people who had been active in the war, who had engaged in the violence, and Freya was one of them. And she had not wanted anyone to know the role she’d played—not as one of the stragglers caught up in everything, but an active participant.
Her deadliness was now weaponized in Astrid’s service.
Freya shook her hands dry and looked up. Her piercing gray eyes met Astrid’s gaze, and Astrid suddenly admired Freya so much she thought her heart would give out. How did Freya know when to be quiet and when to be bold, when to disappear and when to make herself known? How did she know to assure Astrid with her eyes and her gestures that Astrid was safe under her care?
Freya did not sit back down on the stool when she returned to Astrid’s side. Feeling awkward, Astrid pushed back the blankets and swung her legs over to face Freya.
“I think we should bring Hrothgar into this,” Freya said, clearing her throat, “and maybe even Hedda.”
The beginning of a laugh tickled the back of Astrid’s throat. She couldn’t make a fool of herself like she had at dinner, but what was Freya talking about? Bring Hrothgar and Hedda into their relationship? Did she mean to tell them, or was she imagining them being a part of it, all four of them? Hedda would never stand for that, and Hrothgar was spoken for—
And then Astrid’s cheeks heated as Freya searched her expression, because of course Freya was not thinking of romance at all. As always, Freya was concerned foremost with Astrid’s safety, with plans for dealing with the assassination attempt. Foolish, lovestruck Astrid had just been thinking about kissing Freya.
“Of course,” said Astrid. Her voice sounded strange.
“I would like to analyze the angle of the arrow while my memory is fresh,” Freya said, and started to pace. Just like the cat, Astrid thought. Freya was catlike in many ways—down to their claws. “I think the archer used a crossbow, not a longbow. The arrow was thick enough to be a crossbow bolt, and the strength of the trajectory suggests that weapon. This is assuming it came from the ground—it wouldn’t have come straight-on like it did from within the castle walls, or another balcony, for example. But I will need to check the trees. There could be a vantage point I’m missing. With your permission, I would like to go look for tracks and see if we can replicate the trajectory of the arrow with one of our archers.”
Freya turned to Astrid, waiting for her consent, as if Astrid would ever willingly tell Freya to leave her side.
“Do what you need to,” Astrid made herself say. “I would like to start trusting Hedda again. I think… I think she is more liable to spill her own drunken secrets, not mine.”
“I will defer to your judgment,” said Freya.
Was she going to give in so easily? Freya followed Astrid’s wishes before Astrid even knew, herself, what they were—andnow she trusted Astrid to accept Hedda back into her good graces, even though Hedda was a hothead and sometimes unpredictable.
“I’ll let Fenrir back in, then. I should get going.”
“Freya, wait,” Astrid said.
Freya stood by the door, arching her neck at Astrid’s command, and Astrid jumped from the bed. The idea of being alone in this room, even with the cat, was unbearable.
Astrid approached without knowing what she would do when she reached Freya. If pressed, Astrid could’ve come up with a hundred more reasons why not to act on any urge that would get her deeper into this mess.
Wantandneed, not rationality, propelled her legs forward. Freya turned around, and Astrid stopped with her heart in her throat. It seemed time had come to a standstill—that the odd, isolated space they inhabited was separated not just from the castle, but from the universe itself.
Astrid was not a strong person. She had floated through queenhood with the support of her sister and her court and her félag, and then Freya had come along. Freya was the one who made Astrid feel safe.
Freya was the one who made her feel brave.
Astrid reached down and cupped Freya’s face in her hands. Freya’s cheeks were warm under Astrid’s thumbs, and Freya’s hands closed over Astrid’s wrists, holding her there. Steady as her gaze.
What would you do if you could?Freya had asked, a question that resounded louder than any of Astrid’s protests.
Astrid had her answer.
Chapter Fifteen
Freya had been refreshing her memory about orcish poisons. She’d been calculating trajectories of projectiles, contemplating arrows and plants and the kitchen staff and how many ways there were to die. Continually itching out of her skin, ready to burst from this room and apprehend every single person in the castle until she had some damn answers.
And then Astrid put her soft hands on Freya’s face, and Freya’s mind went completely empty. The only thought she had was to hold Astrid there in place the way Astrid was holding her. To ground each other the way only they knew how.
“My Queen,” Freya whispered. The way Astrid was looking at her was almost unbearable. So soft and trusting and full of affection.
“Astrid,” Astrid corrected gently.
