Page 74 of The Winter Princess
Who wants you for her own.
Now that I’m grown, and you’re grown too,
Ask me, ask me, ask me…
I shift Freja away from a collision, hand against her lower back, pressing her against me. Her grip tightens, and I steer her through the hall, bumping backward through the swinging door to the kitchen. It’s cooler here. That’s my excuse. It’s cooler. We’ll have more room. But even so, we fall out of the rhythm of the music—a little at first and then more and more, until we’re barely moving between the sink and the table. Somewhere in all this, her hand slides up my shoulder and rests against my neck.
We stop swaying, locked together like a painting. I memorize the line of her cheek, willing her to look up. When she does, I would only have to lean forward a fraction, release her hand, and lift her against me, to cover her mouth with mine. My gaze shifts over her eyes and mouth, taking in the flush in her cheeks. My heart beats painfully as I look for signs.
She lifts her chin a millimeter. I swear it.
I take a breath.
“You’re overheated?” Uncle Timo bangs through the door, bringing a waft of warm air, and we break apart. Freja nods over and over and over. Too much. He’ll see. My hand lifts to take one of hers but she clasps them together.
“A bit. Next time I’ll wear lighter clothes, maybe even something with an elastic waistband. The food and…and everything, it’s been so lovely. I really should be going.” Her words spill out, climbing over each other like the tiny crab Sondish children catch along the jetties. Freja manages to shake Uncle Timo’s hand and make it into the hall at the same time. I follow, not content with a handshake.
She felt what I felt.
“I’ll walk you out,” I say, reaching for Freja’s coat and taking it from her hands. I don’t look at Uncle Timo or give Freja an opportunity to refuse. I find the lapels and hold it out like I’m impatient, and she tucks herself in, pivoting away from me and quickly doing up the buttons.
Timo kisses her warmly and tells her not to be a stranger.
“Freja is going,” he calls into the crowded room.
Up rises a chorus ofAntio ya. She smiles and waves. “Antio tu.”
She’s done well.
We proceed through the darkened lobby, our steps softly echoing on the tiles. If she wants small talk, she’s out of luck. My silence will be one more piece of evidence that I’m a taciturn monster, but I can’t afford to divide my attention from the litany in my brain.
Keep your hands to yourself. Keep your hands to yourself. Keep your hands to yourself.
“Freddie’s waiting?” I ask, holding the exterior door for her. When she passes, I release the door and plunge my hands into my pockets, looking up and down the pavement. Snow falls, muffling the sounds of the city, the flakes dissolving on the concrete.
Her phone screen lights her face as she taps out a message. “He has to circle around to get closer.” She looks down the block for Freddie’s tail lights, and a shiver skitters over my shoulders.
“You’re cold,” she says.
Freezing. But I wouldn’t move if there was a blizzard howling around me. “Not really.”
She glances away with a heavenward lift to her eyes, gives an exhale, and shakes her head slightly. What did I do?
She tugs her scarf off and goes up on her toes, winding it around my neck. Once, twice, tucking the ends in, fingers brushing my bare collarbones, the warmth and scent of her lingering. Her lips are close, and I take a deep breath, feeling the chill in my lungs. My hand covers hers, stilling it against my chest.
My brain forgot its litany and no longer cares what I do. “What did you think?” I ask, bumping a chin towards the party. “Was it too much? Too loud?”
Freja drops back onto her heels. “I recognized a lot of my father in there, his habits and mannerisms.” She pauses, her lips tightening. “Adeline seemed very interested in you.”
“I babysat her. She used to kick.” I look up, expecting to see the headlights of Freja’s car any second, frustrated that she’s wasting our time. I hold her hand more firmly. Let her think I’m warming it. “Your collection of Pavian phrases is growing.”
She laughs, the sound close in the falling snow. “I’ll be faster on my feet the next time someone asks to kiss me.”
Snowflakes settle against her hair and melt on her skin. A rough whisper escapes me. “That would be a shame.”
Her eyes widen. We’re on the edge of something, skating right on the border, with one foot over the line. Puffs of breath meet in the space between us, suspended, mixing. I lean forward, closing the distance slowly, fighting a raging battle with my better judgment, wrestling it into submission. Playing dirty.
It can’t be serious. Freja is a princess, and I don’t even know if I have a future in Sondmark.
