Page 106 of Heart of Winter
The room smelled of pine, and book pages, and sharp soap.
Like Erik. Because this was the place where he ended every evening, and began every morning. The pillows where his black and silver hair lay like silk streamers; the book that he was reading and the pipe that he smoked while he squinted at the pages by candlelight. The fireplace where he warmed his hands, and the mirror he stood in front of while he laced his shirts, and braided his hair.
It felt more intimate than kissing, suddenly, being in his personal, private space like this. Oliver’s vision blurred at the edges, just a moment, and he gripped one of the bedposts.
“All right,” Bjorn said, behind him, and Oliver turned, still clutching the bedpost, his pulse fluttering unsteadily. “I’ll leave you to it, then.” He moved toward the door.
That was good. Oliver had no idea what he would do if Bjorn sat down in one of the armchairs by the fire and kept him company until Erik arrived. There was something horribly undignified about being hand-delivered to a would-be lover’s bedroom.
So Oliver had no idea why he said, “Bjorn, wait,” when the big man was at the threshold.
He paused, one hand braced on the doorframe, and twisted back around to face Oliver. His expression was inscrutable – guarded.
Oliver said, “Thank you. For – for being–”
Bjorn let out a deep breath, and the ghost of a smile touched his lips, softening the hard lines of his face. “What are you thanking me for, lad?” He sounded almost fond.
“For. Um. Being understanding, I suppose.”
Bjorn chuckled. “Things are that bad in Drakewell, eh?”
“Oh. Well, it’s not–”
“I like you. Birger does, and Revna. The boys. Erik does,” he said, rolling his eyes, definitely fond, now, “obviously. You’re not to my taste, mind–”
“Gods, I hope not.”
That earned a snort. “But I do like you.” He paused, and tilted his head. “Now.”
Uh-oh.
“But don’t think I won’t have something to say if you’re only just playing with Erik’s affections.”
Oliver stared at him a moment, dumbstruck. And then a laugh bubbled up in his throat. “I’m sorry. Are you – are you telling me you’re going to – I don’t know, challenge me to a duel or something if I break his heart?”
Bjorn frowned. “Well, when you put it like that…”
Oliver laughed again, through the hand he pressed over his mouth in an effort to stem it. “You aren’t serious.”
“And what if I am?”
“You thinkIhave the power to hurthim?” His laughter dimmed, though, when Bjorn only stared at him, brows drawn low.
Gods, he wasserious.
“See that you don’t,” Bjorn finally said, and saw himself out. The door shut solidly behind him.
Oliver stood a moment, gaping at the closed door. “That just happened,” he murmured to himself. And then, “Why not?” Because this whole evening was one crazy fever dream, and bound to get crazier.
Pushing Bjorn from his thoughts, he decided to take advantage of being alone in Erik’s chambers by himself and have a closer look around.
A tall wardrobe of pale wood, its doors carved with howling wolves, stood half-open, and proved to be full of hanging tunics and trousers and undershirts. Oliver ran his fingers down the length of a velvet sleeve, imagining the texture of the skin it had covered.
Beside the wardrobe, he found a small, round-topped table of dark, polished wood inlaid with ivory. It struck him as a very Southern piece, its Veniscalli design obvious, and he remembered the wine, and thought this must be a table that had once belonged to Erik’s mother. It now held silver dishes of hair ornaments: beads of all shapes and sizes, some carved, some adorned with gems, and a few fat silver clips and hair cuffs. Oliver picked up a wide cuff carved with a large pair of reindeer antlers, smoothing his thumb across the cool surface, smiling to himself as he envisioned the tall and often-surly king carefully fixing his hair in front of the mirror.
The heat and light of the fire drew him, as did the faint glimmer of firelight on the objects perched on the mantel. One proved to be a ridiculous gold goblet, odd amidst all the silver of Aeretoll, set with rubies and sapphires and diamonds. When Oliver picked it up, he was surprised by its heft. Next were a sequence of small wooden frames that held stained glass pictures: one of a mountain range, one of a sunrise, another of a woman, pretty, if geometric in colored glass fragments. He found two daggers, also, one ceremonial, with a silver sheath. The other with a sheath of plain, brown leather worn smooth from lots of handling. The handle was of bone, and, struck by curiosity, Oliver drew the weapon, watching the firelight dance along the gleaming, razor-sharp edge of it. It was a wicked weapon, one that probably saw most of its use as a practical tool, but which could have killed a man in a dozen ways. The grip was slightly too big for his hand, because it was Erik’s, and Erik had such large hands–
“Planning to stab me?” Erik’s amused voice asked from the doorway, and Oliver froze.
