And so Freya kept her quiet. Her leg bounced with anxiety, and nothing would stop it. When she crossed her arms over her chest, she could not stop them from shaking a bit.
And Astrid noticed.
“Freya,” she said, and Freya waited for the chastisement to come. Perhaps an order to leave. “Can you take out my plait?”
Rather than getting up, Astrid turned her back to Freya and shifted to the other side of the bed, like she wanted Freya to get in.
Freya was conscious of the smell of sweat clinging to her skin after this long day as she lifted the covers to join Astrid. She found the iron band holding Astrid’s hair in place and twisted it free. They had no comb or hair oils. Instead, Freya used her bare hands to unwind Astrid’s long hair. She raked her fingers through the soft brown strands and allowed herself to soak in Astrid’s comforting smell.
“Thank you, Freya,” Astrid said, and Freya could not stand the unknowing of it all.
“Did we take it too far?” she blurted.
Astrid took Freya’s hand in hers and wrapped Freya’s arm around her. Freya nestled into her back and waited for a response. For any confirmation or firm rejection.
She wouldn’t get it. Astrid pressed Freya’s fingers to her lips and sighed.
“Too far,” Astrid said, “and somehow not far enough.”
Chapter Sixteen
Astrid woke to a dark room with the warmth of a cat weighing down her ankles. She shook out her legs to bring the feeling back, upsetting Fenrir, and when she reached out to the other side of the bed, her fingers closed over a cold, empty blanket.
Freya.
What had happened last night could very well have been a dream, but Astrid remembered it vividly—the rapid beating of her heart, the sound of Freya’s breathing, Freya leaning back in the stool with her neck extended. The vulnerable, blissful look Astrid never thought she would have the privilege to see.
No, it had been real. And Astrid was at once reduced to a girl with her first crush.
She felt under the pillow for the dagger Freya had gifted her. Her fingers wrapped around the bone handle. It was as much a part of Freya as Freya’s own skin and flesh. Astrid imagined, by holding it, Freya was protecting her, even in her absence.
Would Astrid ever have to use it? Always, she was surrounded by guards, soldiers, protectors. She was good withher weapon—better, even, than some of her most trusted guards—and yet she had no need for one. The irony put a bitter taste on her tongue, even as running her thumb over the handle soothed her.
Astrid did not regret acting on her urges—how could she, when she’d wanted this for so long?—but she needed to be rational, to proceed with caution. One way or another, this would end in heartbreak, and Astrid would have to accept that to accept the relationship itself.
It scared her, the willingness to sabotage her future self so readily. Would she be able to rule the country while dealing with the hurt? Would she slip up and make a mistake that would become immortal in the tales of skalds and shared for tawdry entertainment in taverns centuries down the line?
Astrid remained in the dark for an indeterminate amount of time before the thoughts began to circle, never reaching a conclusion. Uneasy, she went to the door and knocked. Hrothgar was waiting for her in the antechamber. They rushed in to light some candles. Someone had left a tray of food on the table. All cold foods; nothing fresh and hot like Astrid was used to.
Perhaps foods that were easier for Freya to prepare herself.
“Is it morning?” Astrid asked, realizing she had no way of telling the time.
“Midday,” Hrothgar said, apologetic. “Is there anything I can do for you, Your Majesty?”
Astrid thought to beg Hrothgar to let her escape. They had to listen to her orders. She was queen, after all.
But if Freya was right, and Astrid’s safety was at risk as much as Freya thought, then Astrid could wait a few days while they carried out an investigation.
Staying here was more a favor to Freya than to herself.
“No,” said Astrid. “There is nothing.”
In spite of Astrid’s insistence on needing nothing, she was not left alone for most of the day.
She would have welcomed a bit of solitude. More time to think and decide what to do, and less time figuring out how to act around people now that they treated her like she couldn’t defend herself.
Instead, Astrid was constantly interrupted by members of her félag. They brought her a stack of practical clothing. Someone replaced the water pitcher. Vera came by with a pile of books, blessedly free of any erotic content.
