I look at him. "That's three."
"It is." He holds out the bundle.
I take it. The weight of it sits strangely in my hands. Not the objects. The other thing. The thing I cannot name or tell him.
"Thank you," I say.
"Go on, now. Enjoy the day with someone you love." He turns back to his anvil, but not before a faint smile tugs at his beard.
The one I love is not here.
I leave the master dwarf to his work. The streets are crowded when I emerge. Every woman I pass carries a red orchid. It's pinned to their sleeve or tucked into their braid. Lady Eidith passes me with her arms full of crimson blooms. Young lovers exchange them shyly in corners. Even the temple guards have small orchids pinned to their cloaks from wives or hopeful admirers.
Everyone has their red orchid but me.
The bitterness of that thought surprises me. It's a silly tradition, I tell myself, watching a young couple share a gentle kiss over their flowers. Childish superstition about warding off evil spirits and witches. No flower has ever stopped true evil when it comes.
I married a vampire. My husband is a collection of monsters wearing the shape of a man. He cares little for tradition, but I know he loves me. Svenn is out there somewhere, fighting in my name, risking himself for my people, for my kingdom.
Soft flakes catch in my hair and melt on my cheeks. The snow has started again. I should return to the palace and prepare for tomorrow's council meeting. There are a hundred things that need to be done.
Instead, I walk aimlessly, letting my feet carry me through the celebration. The streets are dusted white, orchid petals pressed into snow. Children dart between the adults, their cheeks flushed with cold and excitement. For a few hours, they can pretend the war doesn't exist.
"Bring my husband back to me safely," I whisper to the falling snow, to Isolwen if she's listening, to the Un or any power that might care. "Just bring him home."
Movement at the wood's edge catches my eye.
A figure in black stands against the white, tall and broad-shouldered. Even blurred by shadow, I know that shape.
Svenn?
It cannot be. I must be imagining him.
I blink, afraid he will dissolve like frost in sunlight. A cold spike of panic jolts through me. I don’t dare breathe.
Then his silhouette shifts.
It is him.
Something inside me unravels. I surge forward without thinking. The hem of my robe tangles at my ankles and the packed snow slides treacherously beneath me. I nearly crash to my knees, catching myself at the last moment, but I do not slow. I would crawl the rest of the distance if I had to.
"Svenn!"
He turns at the sound of his name, still half claimed by shadow.
I want to throw myself into his arms but I stop short. The memory of our last encounter crashes over me. I used the Rhunhraefn on him and bound him with shadow chains. He probably hates me now.
We look at one another across the snow.
I brace for anger.
Instead, he drops to one knee. The lantern light from the distant streets catches on his face, illuminating the sharp line of his jaw. His hair is wild and unbound. There's something almost fragile in the way he holds himself, despite all that contained strength.
My breath catches. For one wild moment, I think he's injured. But his closed fist extends toward me like an offering.
I approach slowly. "Svenn?"
He keeps holding out his hand. I reach for it carefully, peeling his fingers open one by one.
