Page 93 of The Winter Princess
31
Another Promise
FREJA
I know what it looks like when I say, “From our home to yours,” with my arm around his waist. My emotions don’t allow for a palatable edit—for striking a red pencil through the words, replacing them with banalities.For everyone out there…
Ella’s eyes have probably melted out of their sockets. It’s just as well I silenced my phone.
I thought I was so clever, finding a way to help Oskar decorate his flat for Christmas, getting a date in the bargain. I didn’t anticipate being completely undone by the sudden tightening of his chin, my ordinary “trying not to panic as I livestream in front of Sondmark” feelings shoved aside, replaced with a ferocious, ungovernable desire to protect.
I exhale a short laugh. I’ve never belonged to anyone but myself. Ella would say it’s my brand, honed to a fine edge—the Lone Wolffe, the one with her nose in a book, the one who is sought out, not seeking—but I’m not wholly my own anymore.
So this is love.
I give Oskar a tiny shake.
“Hug,” I say, unsure if I’m offering or asking but Oskar pulls me into his arms anyway, our heads angling to fit one another more closely.
I like how we match, his height not dwarfing me, his frame not swallowing me up. Instead, we hold and are held, and the knowledge of it falls onto the mountain of things I love about him.Plink.Another grain of rice has been added to a pile a thousand miles high. Where did the mountain come from? How did it accumulate without my knowledge? I imagine a parade of ants, each carrying a tiny grain past my busy feet, dropping their burden into a cavity until it became so big that even I—who cannot perceive anything beyond a book held at the end of my arm—can see the immensity of it.
He smells of evergreen trees and mulled wine.Plink, plink.I grip the collar of his shirt and breathe it in.
“I don’t know what that was,” he says, hand running down my back, fingers skimming the scars, the rods, the spine hauled into obedience. I ought to feel exposed. Instead, I shiver with newfound strength.
“Hm?” My question is muffled against his shoulder.
“Losing it on a live video feed.”
I rub my cheek over the soft fibers of his sweater. “It’s the first year. Of course, it’s hard.”
“Mm,” he acknowledges, hands continuing their lazy way up and down my back.
“Did your father hateGlogg?”
He laughs and the rumble vibrates down to my toes. I nestle closer.
“Vede, yes. How did you guess?”
“Père says it tastes like pie filling. It must be their Pavian tongues.”
Another laugh and he tightens his arms. “Thanks.”
I’m not certain I can speak without my mountain of rice spilling into the light. I hold my breath until it hurts under my jaw and behind my eyes. “Mm?”
“For stepping in for me when—” I am held fractionally closer. “And for making me decorate for Christmas, too.”
I lift my head. “You cut down the tree. You hauled it up here.”
He nods, but there is a smile. “We would have gone to the abbey instead. Why—”
Does he know I arranged all this? I shift back a few millimeters, blood drumming in my ears. Is he about to bring this into the light while he’s studying for his citizenship test?Stultes es, we’re failing to meet the prime minister’s deadline. We can’t do this. We can’t.
“I liked the Thord painting better,” I say, untangling myself from his arms. He holds on for a moment—the space of a breath—then his arms go slack.
He nods, bending to pick up one of the food trays, eyes shifting away from mine. When he disappears into the kitchen, I wander to the window, looking out on the dark city. It’s clear and cold. I hear the water running and the clink of dishes as he washes up. Glancing along the bookshelf, I come to the drafting table. It’s messier than on Saint Luz’s Day. There’s a box of pens, tips with various thicknesses, and an array of brushes stacked on a flat surface. A traditional Pavian mug with paint stains around the rim sits next to a tray of watercolors.
I run my finger around the edge. Oskar keeps his restoration studio neat as a pin, and this is positively untidy. There’s even a series of papers stacked on the table as though he hastily tipped out a box.
