Page 95 of The Queens and the Kings
She put her hand under his jaw, bringing his chin up. How gentle her touch. Sweet her breath. Henrik leaned closer to her, for just a second, before he straightened again.
“I’m here for you, Henrik. You’re not alone.”
Gathering his breath, he nodded once. They approached the familiar landing in nervous silence. He hadn’t eaten breakfast—couldn’t stomach the thought of food. He’d felt this way in the shadow of many soldat challenges. Yet, those didn’t terrify him half as much as Selma.
His mother.
It worked,he thought, stymied. Until this moment arrived, he didn’t quite believe it. He’d pressed through pain and toil to one day meet Selma. To study her face, ask her why she flailed and thrashed and screamed when they parted.
Because she loved him?
Had he made it up?
The opportunity presented itself, and he wanted to flee. Britt’s hand in his, her steady steps forward, kept him going. Alone, he wouldn’t have been able to face the past.
All of a sudden, they stood at the door. Britt rapped, and the hollow thuds ran into his chest. Panic infused him. What was he doing? This was a mistake. It might not be Selma. Wouldn’t that be worse? To have come this far, thinking he’d meet her after all, but it was someone else? That wouldn't be worse than meeting Selma and finding her disappointed in him, or lacking remorse.
“Henrik,” Britt whispered, “breathe.”
His tight chest threatened to suffocate him. He ground his molars together, forced his chest to widen and collapse in steady circuits. The focus slowed his racing thoughts.
Britt tightened her grip. “You can do this,” she whispered as feet closed in from within. “I’m at your side.”
Her words sank farther than breath.
I’m at your side.
No one said that before.
The door opened and Alma peered out. A moment of surprise, and then warmth, crossed her face. She widened the opening, sliding back.
“Henrik. Please, come in.”
Her formal tone ratcheted his prodigious anxiety higher. He obeyed the command, but stopped short. A woman stood on the other side of the room, silhouette and shadow. Her hands, half bent, wrung together. Alma lifted her hand toward the woman.
“Henrik, this is Selma. Selma, this is Henrik the soldat.” After a pause, she cast Britt an auspicious glance and drawled, “We’ll be waiting outside.”
Britt hesitated.
With a squeeze of fingers, Henrik gave her permission to go. Britt leaned closer, whispered, “She looks just like you,” and left with Alma.
Henrik stood in the same spot for an interminable time. Minutes ceased to exist. Henrik could only take in the things that didn’t matter. The distant, rushing sea. Shouting lubbersnearby. Birds fluttering on the windowsill. A comfortable parlor, complete with fluffy chairs and a tea set on a low-slung table and decorative knickknacks in the corner.
He saw all of it, because he couldn’t bring himself to look right at her. Like the sun, he attempted to comprehend Selma’s edges. The halo. He didn’t believe it could possibly be his mother until a cry sounded. The woman held a hand to her mouth. Tears rimmed her eyes. This woman named Selma had turned almost pure white.
Somewhere, deep in the shock and disbelief, he found his voice.
“Your name is Selma?”
She peeped a quiet, “Yes.”
Having nothing else to say, he fell silent. Surely, it was her turn to wrench out a question. Shouldn’t she have them, too? Nothing came, which meant he had to look right at her. Hehadto. But the chance of seeing nothing of himself in her eyes was too frightening, though Britt already attempted to set him at ease.
You are a soldat,he reminded himself.
Though a quiet voice answered,Not anymore.
Henrik lifted his gaze.
