Page 92 of The Winter Princess
“What am I doing wrong?” I ask. She didn’t even have to say anything for me to see that she’s been trying to steer my hands with her eyeballs.
“That branch is bald,” she accuses with a laugh. “I like to light a Christmas tree as though it’s the only thing standing in the way of me and seasonal depression.”
She likes her own turn of phrase, and her lips twitch in amusement.
I want to toss the lights aside and push her back into the rug, covering her mouth with mine, discovering the finer points of how she likes to be kissed. We haven’t had enough time to find out—no slow, unpromised hours to explore the question. We don’t have it now.
So I unclench my fist and beckon for the lights. “Is that how mental health works?”
We finish with the tree, set it in the middle of the room, and consult the painting several times. We scoot the sofa back and rest a tray of food on a nearby ottoman.
“Ready?” I ask. She nods and I press the button.
Unlike our romp in the snow, we deliver this video in a controlled fashion.
I lean towards the screen to read the comment feed. “User @højpumpkinspicecoffeeasks, ‘Aren’t you going to hold hands and sing around the tree?’” I look to Freja. “It’s tradition. How’s your singing?”
She smiles. “You know how the Sleeping Princess was given the gifts of Beauty and Song by her fairy godmothers?”
I nod.
“Yes, well in my case, I was gifted with Ordering at Restaurants and Finding Quiet Places to Read.”
“Those are really good gifts.”
“The best,” she laughs.
Vede.She’s easy to love. My feelings are all over my face for the wholeflamencountry to see. I swallow them back. “Don’t you sing at Christmas?”
“Always.”
I turn to the camera. “I do too. All right, Sondmark, what would you like?”
Suggestions pour in ranging from old folk songs to modern pop classics. I read them out. “‘Piglets Will Warm Our Grandma,’ ‘Gentle Queen Agnetha,’ ‘An Orange to Keep from Starving’—that’s a little dark—‘When There’s No Snow There’s No Christmas,’ ‘Poisoned By a Mistletoe Kiss,’ ‘The Dead Return as Sparrows’…. For the love of heaven, what is wrong with you people?”
“We enjoy the bleak, the grim, the faint possibility of imminent death.” Freja smiles. “Do you know any Pavian carols?”
“I know all the Pavian carols. ‘Basket of Plenty,’ ‘Bebe Jesu on the Sea,’ ‘CinnamonChurias’…”
“I know that one.” She explains for the benefit of our audience, “It imagines a fourth pilgrim who brought his treasure of fried dough to the Christ child. We makechuriasat the palace on Christmas Eve, along with traditional Sondisholiebollen,and sing the song. I think I can manage it if you don’t laugh at my accent,” she says, holding her hands out.
The Sondish tradition is to have a larger group making a complete circle around the tree. We simply clasp hands and I allow my thumb the indulgence of brushing against her knuckles. Not too much.
“Hm, hm,” she intones, finding a pitch. “Start us off?”
I lift my chin, and as I nod, we begin.
Soft and sweet
I travel the weary road alone…
It’s a slow and simple song. Freja meets my eyes and swings my hands gently. As she promised, her voice is thin, but her accent is good. Like mine, it’s better when we sing. My heart tightens painfully. This is a Pavian song folded into a Sondish tradition. As our voices trail off, I clear my throat, wanting no traces of emotion when I speak to an audience. Freja tightens her fingers.
“Joieau Natal,” I say, voice thick with memories of my parents. “As you know, we—we—” I swallow, pressure building behind my eyes.Dominanstid,I’m going to cry in front of a national audience. My hand shakes and my jaw sets as I wait for it to pass. I wait.
Freja slides her arm around my waist.
“We still need more visitors to The Nat to reach our goal. Come see Lothar Thord’sChristmas Eve at Homein the Magda Wing and make your holidays a little brighter. From our home to yours, Merry Christmas!” She waves, bends over the phone, and cuts the feed.
