Page 67 of Edge of the Wild

Tessa shot to her feet, staying him with open palms. “No, don’t get up. Tell me what you need and I’ll get it.”

He subsided with a wince, and a frown, frustration writ in the lines of his face. “There’s – there’s ties on the table in my room. And beads. The rectangular ones.”

“I’ll be right back.”

“Oh, and the comb, and the oil, too. You’ll need those.” His gaze dropped all the way to the floor, lips pressed to a thin, unhappy line.

Sending her to fetch things for him, she knew, humiliated him, even if it shouldn’t have. But she didn’t think saying that would help, so she went to collect beads, ties, comb, and oil from his messy desk – how it continued to be messy while he’d been lying abed and the maids had been tidying, she didn’t know – and returned to find him staring toward the silver-lit windows, shoulders hunched, one had cupped protectively over his middle.

She paused a moment, at the mouth of the hall, the ache in her chest spiking. It was easy to envision him as a young Erik, his dawn-limned profile so similar to his uncle’s. And all too easy, also, to imagine that Erik had once been as bright and carefree as Rune…but that, little by little, life had shown him how to build up an armored plating.

She wanted to help – really help – but all she could do now was this: offer kindness and hope it did at least a little to ease the sting of regret.

“All right,” she said, walking forward, trying to make as much noise with her skirts as possible. “I think I have everything we need.”

Rune startled, a little, glanced around toward her; made as if to get up.

“No, you can sit there, it’ll be fine.”

He lifted his brows, doubtful.

“Not the best angle, but I’m sure we can manage.” She motioned for him to sit against the back of the sofa, and moved a small, round-topped table over to hold her supplies. “There, that should do. How much oil, do you think? Just a little palmful?” She was babbling, she realized, over-bright and cheery, to cover for the way her pulse had begun to throb.

“Yes.” He shifted; reached to lift his hair and drop it over the back of the sofa. “That should be fine.”

“Any requests? I’m not as deft with it as Hilda or Astrid, but I did always love to braid hair – my mother’s, mostly. Amelia never wanted to sit still long enough to let me practice.”Babbling, she scolded herself. “A braid over each ear, maybe? And one down the back?” She’d brought a barrette, too, to gather his hair back from his face.

He hesitated a moment. “Whatever you think is best. I’m not picky about it.”

“All right.” She took a deep breath that did nothing to relieve the tightness in her chest, and unstoppered the oil. It smelled of pine, and of citrus; working it between her palms left her thinking of barges pulling into harbor, crates packed with lemons and oranges from Drakewell hothouses.

Funny, she thought, how the world works; funny the fruits of her homeland ended up braided into this beautiful prince’s hair.

Hair that, when she took it in her hands, and ran her oiled fingers through it proved so much thicker and heavier than she’d expected. A great, dark, lion’s mane of hair. She brushed it back from his face, first with her hands, and then with the comb, working the oil all the way to the ends until it was damp and gleaming. She was hyper aware that it was Rune, and not her sister, or mother, or even a horse’s tail, but after a few minutes, instinct kicked in, and she separated a section above his left year, and then split it into three. It was a tricky thing, but she’d seen the men around the palace wearing braids like this, and after a few false starts, she managed to get a small, skull-hugging braid started, up and over his ear.

“Mother usually does this for me,” he murmured, voice hushed. “When I sit still long enough. She’s always saying I’m old enough that I should look the part of a prince, rather than a forest ranger.” She couldn’t see his face, but could hear the faint smile in his voice. “Sometimes I do it myself, when I’m in a hurry.” Which would explain the sloppy, falling-down quality of his braids most days, the flyaway wisps that touched his face, softened the harsh edge of his jaw.

“Sometimes,” he continued, “on a special occasion, Leif and I will braid each other’s hair. And Uncle will add a braid or two of his own for us, and mark them with his own beads, to show that we’re his heirs.” The last was said with a note of pride.

“Each bead means something different, doesn’t it? It’s almost like heraldry.”

“Yes. Sort of. Those are my father’s beads, you have there.”

She froze in the act of snapping one of the long, rectangular, rune-carved silver beads to the end of the braid she’d just finished.

He hummed, and she took it as encouragement; fastened the bead and then lowered the whole braid slowly.

“They mark me as Torstanson,” Rune continued. “Leif has some of the same.”

“They’re lovely.” She passed a fingertip over the carved, silver surface. “We don’t have them in Drakewell, obviously. But my father had a ring that was his father’s – a family ring. He gave it to John when he turned eighteen, so that John could…” Her throat closed as reality slammed into her. John was dead; his body hadn’t even made it home by the time she’d left. Who knew where the ring was now, or if it would ever be passed down to another Darke descendant.

“I’m sorry,” Rune said, quietly, and tried to glance back over his shoulder.

“It’s fine.” She touched his head, stilling him, and picked up the comb again. Blinked hard as she moved to start a braid above his other ear. “What other beads do you have? Erik wears all sorts, I’ve noticed.”

“Right.” He resettled. A note of forced cheerfulness entered his voice – one she was glad of. It drove off the last of remembered grief. “Uncle wears more than anyone, which is only right, considering he’s king. He’s got family beads, and beads of rank and office; beads to show alliances, and beads for brave deeds during wartime. There’s even one – and he denies this so don’t ask him – that’s made entirely of rubies, and it’s for cutting a man’s head clean off at the neck with one stroke during battle.”

“Oh, my.”

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