Page 79 of The Winter Princess
We can’t have a relationship. I decided that in the few days and sleepless nights between kissing her and meeting her again in my studio. There are too many things at stake—a precariousness to my life in Sondmark she couldn’t possibly understand. In these last weeks, Prime Minister Torbald has raised the temperature for immigrants. He argues on every podcast and news show, baiting the country with stories about people who look like me.
I try to take lessons from the fairy tales that play endlessly in my ears each day, reminding me that the world is dark and dangerous for those who venture into the forest or scale a castle’s heights. Hugo Littleshins can’t play with a family of giants unless he wants to end up as a smear of blood and bone. The Incessant Farmer wards off a wicked enchantment by maintaining his acre of land each day—no more, no less. A starving cobbler keeps himself from eating the bread that arrives on his doorstep each morning or must see his daughter devoured by a wolf.
I look at the royal seal affixed to the letterhead of my citizenship correspondence. The rampant dragon and the harp seal. That is Freja. I try to merge them in my head, but she resists me. She taps the paper off her chopsticks or brings me a chocolate letter on Piet’s Day or feels perfect in my arms. She laughs.
We see each other constantly—an hour or two each day and longer stretches on Saturdays when we’re out on assignment. I till my little plot of land and try not to want too much.
Today, I tell the reflection in my bathroom mirror it will be short. No car. I’ve told her to meet at my place and we can walk over.
There’s a sharp chill in the air when she arrives. Her nose is red, and she’s dressed more simply than usual—black trousers and a loose black sweater tucked in the waistband. But Freja—my Freja, comes a voice at the back of my head. I don’t fight it—my Freja can’t be that sedate, so she’s wearing a bright marigold coat with a turned-up collar.
I have to make some justification for my close inspection. “Need gloves?”
She fishes a pair from a pocket—leather and fur-lined—and stuffs them back in.
“You don’t have a scarf,” she says when I reach for the door handle.
“I’m—”
“You still have my scarf. It has to be here somewhere. If I know ancient churches,” she says like she’s the world’s foremost expert, “it’ll be like an ice box in there.”
I fall back into the flat, and she follows me up the hall, perching on the arm of the sofa when I open a closet.
“Still no Christmas decorations?” she asks, looking around.
I grunt, pushing hangers out of the way.
“What’s that?” she asks, making me flinch at her closeness. Now she’s looking over my shoulder. “The white thing.”
I push the hangers back. “This?” I touch the garment, hanging in a dry-cleaning bag. “My mother’s Pavian dress.” I reach up high.
“May I see?” she asks. I nod and she ducks under my arm and carries it off, peeling back the plastic layer while I continue my search.
“This is amazing,” she says, laying the dress out on the sofa and peering into the neck.
I lose myself a little in the way fascination chases over her face. How was it possible that I used to think of her as little more than a spoiled princess?
I clear my throat. “How?”
“Let’s set aside the fact that the embroidery is world-class. These are all French seams,” she exclaims, tipping the shoulder out like I should know what she’s talking about.
“Mm. My grandmother made it.”
“Then your grandmother was a wizard.” She waves me over. “See?” She holds an opening wide. “This garment was made to be lovely no matter where you look. These ribbons make the bodice adjustable.”
“Isn’t it better to have something fitted to the body?”
Freja shakes her head. “Your mother would’ve been able to wear this even if she gained twenty kilos and had a baby.” She emits a blissful sigh. “Folk dresses are so genius.”
I smile.
She smooths her hair, self-conscious. “Why are you looking at me?”
“You’re very excited.”
She pokes me with an elbow. “You’re not excited enough. This dress tells a whole story—of your grandmother, who bothered to make those seams so pretty when no one would see them. Of your mother, who added the petticoats—”
My brows come together. “How would you know that?”
