Page 69 of The Winter Princess
Really Determined
OSKAR
Another on-site Saturday. The horses at the Royal Mews are massive, large-boned animals with midnight coats and thick, plaited manes. I’m a city kid with a newfound respect for personal space.
“They won’t hurt you,” Freja assures me, guiding me closer, bare hand around my arm. “Friesians are known for their strength, intelligence, and calm temperament.” She glances up and a brow notches. “We haven’t had anyone crushed under their steely hooves in weeks. I think there’s even one of those ‘We’ve had no workplace crushings in 43 days’ signs somewhere.”
“It’s not funny,” I glower. “They’re huge. One careless step, and I’m a forgotten stain on the stable stones.”
“Not forgotten, Oskar.” Her mouth tucks with a smile. “I’d put up a plaque with your name on it and bring you flowers every year on this day.”
“My birthday, too.”
Her smile is prim. “Noted.”
The weather is bitterly cold, turning her smooth peachy cheeks a brighter pink. I file the detail away, promising myself the chance to mix just that shade. She’s wearing a green wool coat with the collar tilted up, and tiny flecks of snow sprinkle her hair and the ground at our feet.
“Come meet them.” Freja steps onto a stool and leans over the stable door. An enormous beast glances up from his feedbox and ambles over, nuzzling her cupped hands.
“Greedy beggar,” she says, rubbing a sure hand up the bridge of the nose. She’s at home here, with the gilded carvings on each door and the ornate columns flanking each box.
I think of my childhood spent in a Handsel flat with trips to the ocean for picnics, of changing into dry clothes behind a clump of tall dune grass and feeling the stinging points prick my skin. I think of school trips to local farms where we picked fresh apples, shined against our shirt fronts, to carry on the bus back to the city. I try to remind myself that Princess Freja and I are nothing alike.
I forget our differences when she turns, tugging me closer to the great animal she handles so deftly. “Hold your hand like this,” she says, cupping my palm in hers. I catch Freddie watching us from across the courtyard, wearing an expression both knowing and amused.
“Like this?” I repeat, perfectly still.
“Mmm,” Freja murmurs, her voice dropping into a whisper. “His name is Bone Breaker.”
I shake her hand away. The massive beast nods, and I scramble back. “You are a sadist.”
She dimples, and my breath catches. It’s the cold air, sticking in my lungs, sending needles of sensation throughout my chest, sharp as dune grass.
I want to tell her about the memory. I want to tell her all the memories.
“Only a little,” she counters, hopping down. Freja has sensibly worn boots, and she strides into the stable yard, well away from the forming procession of horses decked in bells strung along red velvet ribbon and grooms in the royal livery. “Are you ready to do this?”
I’ve been immersed in fairy tales for the last month. My information about the Christmas horses wouldn’t amount to a decent GroupSource article. We’ll have to lean on her knowledge this time. “What points do you want to hit?”
Freja may not like doing these live feeds, but they’ve been successful. Thanks to a piece of medieval armor and a trending hashtag—#ItsProdigious—there’s been a 36% rise in visitors over the last week. And local news shows have caught on to the fact that The Nat is a visually rich environment with free content and a desperate backstory. Marie stuck Roland with the job of giving interviews, and he’s delighting a demographic of women interested in feeding aging bachelors nourishing meals. He’s practically a sex symbol.
Freja’s brow puckers. “I have a story about the history of the Christmas horses—the rescue, of course, and why Ellsbach did a painting of it. Maybe you could add something about the physical properties of the painting itself?”
I nod. That’s easy enough. “I’m ready when you are.”
I slip a glove off my hand, stuffing it into a pocket, and hold the phone at an arm’s distance. I leave the hand between us free. I wait. She slips hers into mine. My heart tightens, but I press the record button.
“Welcome to the Royal Mews,” Freja begins, launching into a short, colorful summary of the night the Sondish royal family was trapped on a high mountain pass in a sudden storm. “They had become separated from their outriders and servants due to an unfortunate landslide. My great-great-great-grandmother wrote that they had to survive on their wits, the remains of a roast chicken, and the dubious entertainments to be wrung from an elderly, ill-tuned piano.”
“How long were they cast adrift from civilization?” I ask, making sure to actually look at her. A mistake. Her lips are berry-red and mere centimeters from my own.
“Sixteen harrowing hours.”
Once upon a time, I would have shaken my head or rolled my eyes, but these are Freja’s people, and it’s impossible not to find the story as adorable as she is. My lips twitch.
“What?” she says. “They’d never even buckled their own shoes.” She turns to the camera. “They were completely at sea, and no matter who we are, we all have a story about being in that position.”
Leave it to Freja to make people wearing brocade and panniers relatable. “Now you’ve done it. I’m rooting for them. How did they get out?”
