Page 43 of The Queens and the Kings
Gone.
She forced herself to thread the rope through the eyelets until the sound of approaching feet distracted her. They stopped. A heavy hand pressed over hers, stopping the flow. She recognized the tanned skin, rough calluses, broad knuckles.
Henrik.
Another cry bubbled free when he crouched at her side and gently squeezed her hand. She spun, buried her face in his chest, and let the emotion roll away from her.
His heavy arms encompassed her shaking shoulders. Fingers threaded into her hair as she sobbed into his fresh shirt, combing locks away from her neck. Her stomach tightened into a hot ball of lead. Her emotions tumbled like loose cannonballs, wild and destructive until she calmed.
Gradually, deep, steady breaths returned. Eyes watering, she pulled away. His hand wrapped the back of her neck, caressing the silky, short strands. Anguish gathered in the low pull of his mouth, the lines between his brow. He appeared lost.
“You okay?” he rasped.
“No.”
He pulled her forehead to his, breathed deep.
“I should be comforting you,” she whispered. “Einar is your brother?—”
“She was your only female friend. This is not a competition, Britt.”
“I know we have to let her go,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion, “but I can’t do it. I can’t?—”
“We’ll do it together.”
Britt gathered her emotions, nodded, spun around, and picked up the rope with renewed determination. Henrik reached around her, holding the canvas together, as she finished the job. Hints of Agnes’s lovely face, calm in death, peeked between the eyelets.
Once done, Britt rested on her haunches. Henrik’s hard chest met her spine. He put a hand on her arm, squeezed above the elbow.
“We did it.”
Britt leaned against him, exhausted.
“I hope the Ladylord plans on crushing His Glory,” Henrik whispered with a hard edge Britt hoped to never hear again. “Because I won’t prevent Einar from his rightful revenge, and nothing else will stop him.”
Chapter Fourteen
PEDR
Einar heldAgnes in his arms at sunrise the next day.
“Sunrise was her favorite time,” he’d whispered late that night, at Pedr’s side near the wheel. “We do it then.”
Now, Einar stood at the side of the ship, shaking. Two tears dotted the canvas bag that held her. Only two. The rest dried in the wake of rabid fury.
Pedr watched him.
Closely.
Since they’d met weeks ago, Einar had been emotional. Mildly unpredictable in only unhelpful ways. His disposition burned fast, bright, and furious. Henrik would have to be very careful with Einar on the mainland.
Verycareful.
But for this moment, Einar didn’t move. He stared, transfixed, at the waves. The shiny, sapphire lacquer of the moving sea, freckled by the disruption of white tops against the near-black surface. Glassy. Deadly. So unfathomably deep it should frighten them more.
Henrik stood next to Britt, arms clasped in front of him. Her dress, pure white in tribute to Agnes. She bit her bottom lip, blanching it. Tears rained.
Pedr considered telling Einar the truth about Arcanists, about souls. About decisions, life after death, and timelines. He could tell Einar that all hope wasn’t lost, not yet. Depending on what Agnes chose once she met the Arcanist of Souls, anyway. If the depth of her love for him bore out, Einar had a slim chance of seeing Agnes again. Abreathof a chance, hardly worth a hope.
