Page 89 of Frost and Death
The black gown is modest, with long sleeves and grooves on the sides for pockets. I move tentatively as she helps slip the dress over my body.
Reclining in the chair, I seek a brush for my hair. I lower my head as I work through the knots, annoyed my arm is exhausted so quickly.
My lady-in-waiting steps up, opening her hand for the brush, and I surrender it.
Dorit takes over, detangling my silver locks. Her features brighten as she explains how she came under Jerrick’s employment.
I learn her parents are a baker and a florist, and she is the oldest of her siblings.
She helps make ends meet for her family as well as encouraging Jerrick and Jonas to favor them, always giving her mother business whenever there are celebrations. Her father, though, missed the opportunity to work in the castle.
“He didn’t want to work for the Mikkelsons?” I ask, my brows pinching in confusion.
“Oh, don’t worry, my dad might be the best baker in Yadir, but Cordelia and Ophelia are younger and more flexible cooks for the castle. My father was glad he didn’t have to sell his shop,” she reassures me. “Speaking of, let’s go meet Cordelia and Ophelia. Oh, you willlovethem, Tove. They are an absolutely adorable couple!”
I beam at the thought of food but grab Dorit’s hand. My thoughts seek some reassurance that I have not failed my kingdom yet.
“Will Jerrick go back on his word?” My lip quivers, trying desperately not to fall apart.
Niko and Betina are back at home, and I am betraying my family by abandoning their graves. The thought of that hurts.
“Jonas won’t let that happen,” Dorit says.
“How do you know?”
She returns to brushing my hair, styling it into a neat plait.
I study her reflection in the mirror as she says, “Because Jonas helps the king more than I think he realizes. He won’t let the prospect of trade go to waste over something petty and stupid Jerrick did, and he, most certainly, will not let Jerrick fall back on his word to you.”
I contemplate that information, tucking it away. Maybe I can work more with Jonas then, and sending resources to Axidoria will help for Niko’s plan.
“Dorit, would it be possible to arrange a meeting with Jonas?”
Her features brighten as she squeezes my shoulders. “He is one of your subjects now. That can easily be arranged.”
I flash a grin, the Makers answering my wishes and prayers for once.
When she steps back, I spare a glance at the reflection in the mirror. My skin looks ghostly and dull, my features dark and brittle.
The chair scoots away from the vanity, preventing me from staring further into the monster I am.
“Now let’s eat,” Dorit chimes.
The stone arched doorway into the kitchens is darkened in color from the rest of the gray stones in the castle. Constant smoke and ash permeate out and down the hall, no doubt due to the fire always running in the kitchen. A hint of metal hangs in the air as we enter the large room.
A tall, curvy woman hovers over a slab of meat, cutting through bone and marrow, separating it for multiple meals. With each plate of ingredients, she moves to a new area of her workstation. I get a view of her strong jawline tinged with sweat, and the small baby-haired wisps escape her chestnut hair, plaited into a bun she wears at her nape.
Beyond the copper smell, rosemary and thyme accompany the yeast in full force as another woman’s petite frame removes bread from one of the stone hearths. A wide grin expands acrossher face as she places the pot on the workstation, dusting her hands on her apron and wiping sweat from her brow. Flour sprinkles on her cheeks and the bridge of her nose, which, somehow, accentuates the hundreds of freckles gracing her warm skin.
The woman’s bright green eyes meet mine, and she lights up at the sight of Dorit and me. “Dorit! We weren’t expecting you until dinner!” the cook sings, but the clang of a knife falling on the table has us all startling toward the taller woman.
The blonde cook glances between us. Realization flashes in their eyes, and they both break into a deep curtsy.
“Your Majesty,” they say in unison.
Dorit gives me a knowing look as the two cooks remain lowered.
I speak up, “Please, please, there is no need for curtsies.”
