“Very well,” Aelfsi said, addressing the lord. “Lord Conalle, will you please check on the prisoners? I’d like to see how they’re faring.”
“Of course, Your Majesties.” Conalle stood and bowed to the queens, giving Solveig a quick glance before leaving the room.
Once he was gone, Aelfsi turned back to Solveig. “How do we ensure that North sits on the throne? We do not have much time.”
Solveig looked between her mothers. A pit of dread opened up in her stomach. “You mean to kill the king and queen?” she asked slowly.
“That would be the last resort,” Koa stated.
“First, we must meet with them and see if we cannot ... push them along,” Aelfsi added.
“Are we heading to Idavoll?” The thought of going back when they’d just arrived, and when she knew what Westley’s parents had planned for her, didn’t make sense.
“Of course not. We will invite them here.” Koa beamed.
Solveig’s dread burrowed deeper. “You’re going to plan a ball, aren’t you?” she asked, hanging her head in her hands.
Gerrie snickered, and Solveig shot her a sidelong death glare. Her friend laughed harder. It was a well-known fact that Solveig avoided balls at all costs. However, her meddlesome mothers loved to thrust her into situations they considered beneficial to her.
Many a time, Solveig had attempted to escape certain noblemen she’d been coerced into dancing with, only to end up insulting their fragility in some way.
While she wouldn’t go so far as to say she’d prefer the cave, being laced into a dress that barely permitted the ability to breathe while suffering through endless small talk and pandering to said fragility—it was its own form of torture.
Koa and Aelfsi loved to use it as a punishment when Solveig would misbehave. A practice they had clearly yet to abandon. It shouldn’t have been a surprise.
When she turned her attention back to Koa, her sister was smiling, mischief tugging at her lips.
“And what a perfect excuse we have. Our daughter has returned home,” she said, clasping her hands together, a wicked gleam in her eyes.
Solveig sighed. This was not a battle she was going to win.
Thequeensorderedaidto the remaining members of the Southern Wilds for the duration of their journey to Asgard. They were expected to arrive in a few days, and Solveig wanted to make sure they reached the palace safely.
Their next meeting was spent going over all the details of the last few months, specifically interrogating how their letters had been interfered with. Laeknir was the most obvious answer, but something didn’t sit right with Solveig. Like a forgotten memory tugging on the fringes of her mind.
Despite all Laeknir had done, he had tried to get her to leave early. The missive requesting her return to Asgard had clearly been a forgery, and yet, if she had left for Asgard earlier, who knows what would have happened.
Maybe he had been trying to cover his tracks and had hoped she’d be well on her way, keeping his cover intact.
She thought it over again and again, wishing she had one of the false letters she’d received.
And then it clicked.
“That bitch,” she muttered under her breath.
“What did I do now?” Gerrie asked, her mouth full of food. Solveig rolled her eyes.
“Trella,” she clarified. Solveig kept coming back to the moment she’d found the witch in her tent, sifting through her letters. It must not have been the first time. Perhaps she’d managed to sneak stationery out in previous visits. “She must’ve forged your handwriting,” she explained.
“That bitch,” Gerrie agreed.
“When they arrive, we’ll have to question her.” Aelfsi sounded joyful at the prospect. “Until then, we must plan the ball.” Her smile matched her wife’s.
There was no arguing with them—if they wanted a ball, then a ball there would be.
Over the next few days, her mothers poked and prodded her, getting measurements for her gown, taking stock of all the ways Solveig had changed since she last saw them. Their questions seemed pointless and vague at first until Solveig identified a familiar thread. It all led back to the prince.
They seemed oddly interested where he was concerned, and there was only so much Solveig could take.
