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He had no scripted lines for her tonight.
What are you doing, Peter?
Ronja flitted her eyes to the windows. They were dark, reflecting only the candlelight. Peter and the other guests carried on in deep conversation through the wine and spirits, the various courses of greens, appetizers, and the main course of salmon. She pushed her food around the plate, nodding along, inserting soft peals of laughter.
With every passing minute, she dared to take a tentative step into Fredrik’s fairy tale. Meet me at midnight. But she was not Ashenputtel as her aunt Amelia had read to her in German. She was not a humble and pious Cinderella.
She merely sipped her favorite chardonnay, rather than down the glass, and Peter slid his hand on her thigh from underneath the table. “Are you feeling all right?” he said. “After this, I want to take you somewhere, min lilla fågel.”
My bird. She remembered the first time Peter called her that. Two summers ago, they lay naked atop a yacht on Lake Mälaren. It was loaned to them that weekend by the couple they’d manipulated with their scheme of fake plans to create a string of luxury hotels. The next day she and Peter would be gone. The yacht would later be sold to rectify an empty bank account. “Tell me about your past, Peter, the real you,” she’d said. Peter looked at her for a moment, and she saw a door open, a glimmer of his true self, before he slammed it shut. A breeze fluttered his hair. “The past doesn’t tell you who I am.”
She propped herself up on an elbow to cradle her head. “Then what does?”
Peter slipped his fingers through her long hair. “Min lilla fågel,” he whispered, his eyes adoring her, “this moment does. You and I right now are a king and queen, making love on our yacht. This is who we are.”
Peter now slid his chair from the table and set the napkin on it. “I’ll be right back.”
Ronja watched him approach the string quartet. He gestured over to her.
One of the men at her table leaned across and said in a low tone meant only for her, “Peter’s a lucky man.”
She pressed her lips into a smile and checked to see if anyone else had noticed the comment. “You’ll have to forgive me for missing the details, but tell me again what your company sells?”
He smirked and leaned forward even further. “Don’t worry your pretty head with boring stuff.”
Ronja released her high-pitched laugh, the one she reserved for sexist remarks, and winked at him. “Such good advice.”
Peter returned to his seat and kissed her cheek. “Miss me?”
She settled her eyes onto his before they skirted around the room. The music, the shiny smiles, the glittery jewels, and the fine clothing. The quartet paused and then started a new song. The chords grabbed hold of Ronja. Musetta’s Waltz. She closed her eyes in sorrow. Oh, Peter. Peter had taken her to La Bohème last year at the Royal Swedish Opera House. Not for any reason other than because I want to.
He offered her his hand. She glanced around apprehensively, shaking her head.
“Please,” he said, his face tense with an insecurity she’d never seen before.
Ronja set her clutch on the table and accepted. He led her toward the quartet. Their steps were imperceptible as they swayed. He tucked their linked hands into his chest. She felt his breath on her cheek; it seeped inside of her.
It was 11:15 when Ronja excused herself to the restroom with the clutch secure in her possession. She cupped a hand over her mouth and stumbled through the dining area to the nearest lavatory. Once inside the small room, she emptied her meager stomach contents into the toilet. The taste was foul and acidic, and it burned her throat. She wiped her lips. Someone knocked on the door. “En minut,” she called out lightly and then lowered her face, gathering her courage.
At last, Ronja lifted her eyes to the mirror, in search of bravery in the reflection.
Chapter Sixty-Six
Ronja
Ronja abandoned her constricting heels. She secured them inside one hand, and in the other was her clutch. She skipped asking the host at the restaurant for her stole. No time to waste or call attention to her escape. She barely noticed the cold pavement, still wet from the rain earlier. The skies were cloudy and the wind wrestled her hair. The adrenaline that pumped through Ronja’s blood warmed her skin.
It was less than a half-mile to Stockholm’s palace. She would be early. Her heart bled out hope.
She sprinted down a cobblestone roadway, past the patios of outdoor cafés and the high-pitched, inebriated chatter of people lingering outside. Perhaps if they saw her, they’d wonder if she were being chased, upset, maybe even confused and lost.
Ronja cut through an alleyway, remnants of rainwater trickled down the concrete gutters, and it widened to a bigger pedestrian street where large windows displayed clothing and more outdoor cafés with sparse guests.
Finally, Kungliga slottet shone ahead when the street opened near the outer courtyard. Its lights burned to the heavens, a testament to its majesty. It was imposing not by its height, though it was grand, but how the ancient baroque architecture sprawled in the middle of a bustling city that overlooked the waterfront. As if everything else surrounding it were meant to be its accessories.
She mounted its steps on the eastern waterfront. The wind jostled the water, which lapped against the ships and boats. She turned and looked out upon her city of islands clustered together, an archipelago connected by bridges and lights. Ronja slunk down upon the highest step. She looked to the ships and said the prayer Melia taught her. “Engel kommen sie, machen mich fromm, so das ich zu sie im himmel macht kommen.”
Make me pure.
