“Too busy tending to the queen to find your own happiness?” Mara said, teasing.
“Something like that.”
“Well, don’t let her work you too hard.”
Freya left the room before she could say something bitter and defensive that Mara didn’t deserve.
She’d specifically sought out Mara to take her mindoffof the embarrassing interaction where she had put her bare hand in Astrid’s.
What in the goddess’s name had Freya been thinking? She’d been distracted by Brenn’s prediction. The history fair was coming up, and she’d spent long nights doing thorough background checks on all of the visitors. She’d not been sleeping well. Deep within herself, Freya admitted she craved touch of some sort. Mara had allowed her to let off some of the frustration and embarrassment, but Freya had not satisfied the source of the craving.
Now, Freya couldn’t use Mara as a release. Finding someone new might be wise before Freya did something foolish.
And foolish it had been. Freya’s brain replayed the scene of her reaching for Astrid like a woman possessed. The feeling of skin on skin. She couldn’t mess up again. It embarrassed her all over again to wonder what Astrid must have thought of her. The last thing Freya wanted was for Astrid to suspect Freya of being too weak or distracted to serve well. The trust Freya had garnered was hard-earned. She could spoil it with the wrong move in a second.
She shook out her hands in the hallway. Forced herself to feel the leather gloves rubbing against her skin.
The ambassador would need at least a month to reach Vakker Castle. The consuls coming with him would reach some of the southernmost cities of Torden first, and Freya had more background checks to do, people to interrogate, provisions to make.
She had to get started right away.
The month before the ambassador came passed quickly. Every day, Freya made use of her contacts and presented Astrid’s félag with the history of each orc coming to Torden. She paid special attention to the ambassador himself, but it was impossible to know how big a group he would bring with him until she laid eyes on everyone. Servants, guards, attendants, stewards—those people were hard to track down, not to mention that any of those positions could come and go. Freya would have much more work to do once the ambassador’s retinue reached Vakker Castle.
The night the ambassador was set to arrive, Freya lurked in Astrid’s room as the queen dressed. She had put so much effort into preparing, and yet part of her still felt as clueless as the day she’d begun her investigation.
The ambassador’s name was Elgir, and according to a message he’d sent ahead, he was due to arrive with his entourage about an hour before dinner, giving Astrid enough time to conduct a brief tour of the castle as the ambassador’s staff dealt with his belongings.
As for Freya, she analyzed every action of Astrid’s—the way her hands trembled slightly when she brushed her hair, the way she stopped what she was doing every few minutes to take a deep breath.
Freya did not ask if the queen was all right. She stood at the open door to the balcony, listening to the evening sounds of lovers crunching crisp leaves underfoot and the quiet jokes of the guards on the other side of the door to the antechamber. Everyone was anticipating the meal, which would be more lavish than usual for their guests.
Everyone but Freya and Astrid.
A shuffling of fabric sliding over skin came from the center of the room, followed by a frustrated grunt.
“Freya, could you lend a hand?”
Freya pushed the balcony door closed and went to Astrid and her untied dress.
It was a bit of a joke whenever Freya had to do things queen’s attendants were actually intended to do. Though Freya presented to the castle as Astrid’s particularly dutiful attendant, her true responsibilities seldom overlapped with that of a typical lady’s maid. Freya gathered intelligence and served as Astrid’s discreet eyes around the castle; she was not accustomed to helping a queen in and out of her clothes. Like most of Torden’s nobility, Astrid was self-sufficient, and Freya had absolutely no training in the role she purported to serve.
Freya grimaced at the many ribbons to lace. The dress itself was a stunning shade of green. Out of season, Freya thought, but then it would make Astrid look eternal like the trees that did not turn with autumn. Calculated to give off the impression she was unchanging, strong.
Astrid had gotten the bottom three ribbons tied haphazardly.
“I’m not good at this, Your Majesty,” Freya warned.
“Just had this damn dress ordered,” Astrid muttered under her breath. “I don’t know what Dag was thinking. They know I can’t get into this kind of garment without assistance.”
In truth, Ruga might have been called in for tasks like this in the past. She was more feminine than either Astrid or Freya, and good with fabrics.
Freya tried to think of how Ruga’s hands worked when faced with these kinds of ribbons. Ruga was competent at doing up dresses. Children could do this. How hard could it be?
“I’ll try my best,” said Freya.
As Freya untangled the knots, one formed at the base of her throat. The room felt unbearably stuffy, though the fire was not set, and the door had just been open. Freya faced a smooth strip of skin on Astrid’s back—the curve of Astrid’s spine, muscles that shifted under cool-toned brown skin as she fidgeted.
“Stars,” Freya muttered to herself.
