Page 42 of The Queens and the Kings
Henrik stared at Britt’s teary eyes.
“Agnes?”
Lips pressed, Britt shook her head.
Henrik shoved off the deck, his ears ringing. He stumbled to Einar, who crushed Agnes’s limp body to his chest. Blood streaked the deck, swirling in rivulets and eddies. Henrik put a hand on Einar’s shaking shoulder and squeezed.
“I’m here, brother,” he whispered. “I’m here.”
Chapter Thirteen
BRITT
Rosenvatten sprinted across the waves,so fast they practically hovered. They raced away from frigate number thirteen and all the terrors it unleashed. No speed was fast enough. Pedr, pale and livid, hadn’t said a word. He stood at the wheel, glaring out, in stoic silence.
After he secured their safety, Pedr reverentially laid Agnes within a white canvas bag with holes along the top. He didn’t say a word as he backed away, leaving Britt to prepare Agnes for her burial at sea.
Britt’s hands trembled above Agnes’s still body, unable to complete the final ministrations: sewing Agnes inside the retired canvas sail. She watched Agnes’s chest, waiting, just in case. What if they were wrong? What if she had survived?
No breath.
No stirring.
Of course not. The violence of a hatchet breaking her breast bone, cleaving her heart, couldn’t be undone. Not even the arcane could fix her. No potion, either.
The shock of how quickly Agnes died kept Britt from truly believing it was real. It replayed in her mind, as dire asthe moment it happened: Henrik shoving Einar overboard; an onded raising the hatch; Henrik stumbling over the railing with Einar, limbs flailing; the onded, losing his prey, sending the hatchet careening across the gap; the whistling weapon moving too fast to be anything but arcane.
Then, the worst.
Agnes’s soul-deep gasp as it slammed into her chest with a splinteringcrack. Britt’s scream. For eternities, Agnes toppled, head first, over the railing. The splash of her hitting the water crescendoed in Britt’s mind like ripples.
The terror.
Pedr had grabbed Britt’s wrist, preventing her from following Agnes into the sea. Only luck kept the two ships from colliding or smashing the swimmers between them.
Britt forced herself out of the memories. She couldn’t stay there. Cataloguing all her failures would make everything worse. Ignoring her determination to see the task of sewing Agnes into her final resting place, she allowed guilt to wash through her. She should have stopped it. Pushed Agnes out of the way. But, no. The weapon moved too fast. She hadn’tseenit until it was too late. Something foul sent it.
None of it mattered.
She wished she could have stopped it, taken it herself. Then she thought of Henrik, and the relief at being alive made her feel horrible all over again.
Britt blinked back more cresting tears, swallowing hard. “I can’t do this,” she muttered. “Agnes, you’re gone. You’regoneand I can’t do this.”
She had to.
Agnes deserved finality. Einar, too. They must release her to the other side. To . . . whatever lay beyond here. Britt’s left hand curled as she lifted her right hand, searching for the thin rope.It awaited Britt’s ministrations, coiled in a perfect circle, resting gently on Agnes’s folded hands.
Britt touched the rope.
She lost energy. She pressed her hand to Agnes’s shoulder with a sob and breathed, “I’m so sorry.”
The blood had begun to dry. It flecked the material with shades of light pink, fading to blackest crimson near her chest. Einar held her for hours, not releasing her until Henrik forced him.
Britt trembled as she touched the edge of the canvas and pulled it tight over the middle of Agnes’s body. The hard fabric, stiff at the edges from exposure to seawater, resisted. With a tug, the canvas gave way. Britt fought back a sob.
So fast.
Snap of life.
