Page 18 of Heart of Winter
Oliver couldn’t help a chuckle. “Yes.”
“I didn’t know what we’d find when we arrived. I wasn’t quite expecting this.” She gestured to the walls around them. “I wasn’t expecting their great kindness.”
Oliver started to argue – but then he thought of what she’d said. Thought of Magnus taking him to the guardroom and pressing warm, numbing spirits into his hands. Thought of Rune’s guileless offer to teach him to fight. Of Lady Revna urging him to drop the titles. Birger offering a gallant arm to Tessa. Thought of being seated at the family table, and spoken to as if he were a man, as if he were just Oliver, and not the disappointing bastard son of the glamorous Alfred Drake.
It was kindness, yes, a bounty of it, wholly unexpected.
Although…
“And what of the king?” he asked. “Did you find him to be kind?” He thought of the challenge in Erik’s gaze, the stony façade, the voice like iron.
Thought, too, of the slump of the shoulders as he stood against the mantelpiece, his gaze downcast, his voice small with uncertainty. It was difficult to swallow, suddenly.
Tessa fixed him with a very direct look, penetrating and, for a moment, as perceptive and analytic as her mother; the resemblance sent a shiver through him that he fought not to show. “I think he’s a very lonely man.”
“Lonely?” That wasn’t the word he would have used.
But Tessa said, “Yes. Burdened – maybe by his kingdom, but by something else, too, I think.” She offered a small smile. “He reminds me of you, a little.”
Oliver snorted – though his heart lurched. “Yes. A striking resemblance, I should think.”
She didn’t share his amusement. Tipped her head to the side, fully Lady Katherine in that moment. “Yes,” was all she said, then returned to sorting through dresses.
Oliver was a little stunned.
“Which do you think?” she said. “After breakfast, Leif is taking me on a tour of the palace.”
Oliver blinked and refocused. “He is?”
“Hilda’s coming with us, don’t worry.” Her manner had become brisk, seemingly casual – but he could detect the thrum of nerves and girlish giddiness beneath. This was the same Tessa who’d always pretended not to care about May Day, but who ended up lifting her skirts and sprinting down the hill to the village green.
He stood to survey her choices with the appropriate level of attention.
“I think your ladyship would look lovely in the green,” Hilda offered, “if you’d like an old woman’s opinion.” When Oliver glanced up, she winked at him, and he found himself smiling in return.
Tessa stroked her fingertips down the pale green wool, along the line of silver cording at the double-breasted bodice. “Itisa pretty shade.”
“And will go well with your hair,” Oliver said. “I agree with Hilda.”
As he left so that she might change into it, Hilda caught his sleeve at the door and leaned in for a whispered word: “Don’t you worry, Master Oliver, I won’t let her out of my sight. Not that you need worry about Prince Leif: he’s a good lad.”
Amused, Oliver kept his face properly grave and thanked her, then slipped out.
Pale, early sunlight fell through the windows, white panels on the flags bright enough to make him squint and hiss as it assaulted his aching eyes. Ugh. No more mistress for him – a twofold thought that left him snorting to himself as he made for the staircase.
He passed people on the stairs, some of them servants in aprons and bearing trays and steaming pitchers, and he nodded a silent hello to all of them, earning smiles and nods in return. He’d always gone out of his way to thank and greet the serving men and women in Drakewell – after all, he wasn’t a lordling for them to dote and wait on, even if he was, mostly, always welcome at the family table. They were friendlier, here, though, a few even offering a “good morning.” Two called him by name, and he supposed, at this point, everyone in the palace knew who the slim, auburn-haired strangers were.
Breakfast was already well under way in the great hall; he could hear the clatter and murmur of it as he crossed the gallery, and the scent of fresh bread wafted up over the rail. A glance proved the trestles were laid out, occupied by an assortment of men and women, sitting in cliques. Some in fine velvets and furs, their hair braided elaborately. Lords, ladies, perhaps merchants, Oliver thought. But other tables held working men and women in plainer, sturdier clothes, and there was even the odd guardsman or two, sitting together and smoking pipes while they ate. The children had congregated together at one table, a flurry of waving arms, and crumbs, and bright, excited voices. Oliver spotted the redhead and the blond he’d seen in the library yesterday; the redhead climbed half across the table to pelt another boy with biscuit crumbs, and the blond tugged him back down to the bench with a reproach.
Oliver found a long side-table heaped with platters and cloth-covered baskets, a stack of pewter dishes, and helped himself to bread, butter, strawberry jam, and some bacon. And a very tall mug of what smelled like very strong tea, no sugar.
Then, already-sour stomach twisting, he had to figure out where to sit. It was an anxiety with which he was well-familiar: sitting beside the wrong person could be social suicide in Drakewell. For instance, while he’d always had a place with one of his cousins, sitting beside anyone else titled would have earned him the cut direct. No one had seemed to care that he was a bastard last night, nor this morning, if the servants’ warm greetings were anything to go by. Still, he noted some of the men in finer clothes eyeing him skeptically. Was it because he was a bastard? Or so clearly foreign?
It was tempting to set his plate back on the serving table, and flee, hangover be damned.
But then a voice called, “Oliver! Over here!”
Rune stood up from his seat and waved, his young face split in a wide grin. Birger sat beside him, his expression fondly amused as he regarded the prince.
