The procession of wedding guests slows to a stop just past the doors, where castle guards check each name on parchment. A flurry of titles in multiple languages streams past their lips. Most are Danish and German.
Hertug. Markis. Greve. Friherre. Baron.
Herzog. Pfalzgraf. Markgraf. Reichsfreiherr. Herr.
I tuck in behind two maids heading in the direction of the marble balcony. I don’t know where Alia will be, but if the king truly is the man of habit that Alia witnessed, it’s as good an assumption as I can make.
But an assumption, a smile, and a passable dress only get me so far.
“May I help you?”
I freeze at the sound of a man’s voice, calling to me from the intersection of the hall I just passed. I reset my smile and check that my chin is held high before presenting myself.
I grit my teeth and turn . . . and it’s him.
The boy from the balcony with the nice smile and hushed tones.
Will.
Light brown hair, combed nicely to the side. Blue eyes like the tide in dusk. Broad shoulders that remind me of Father more than they should.
I brace for an admonishment, the story I’d prepared on my journey here ready on my tongue. But then Will tosses that handsome smile at me, and I realize I’m not a suspect—he’s trying to be friendly. My luck is so stunning that I fumble over my words for a second. “I—I, yes,” I say. “I’m looking for Alia.”
His mouth wavers a bit, and I recognize my error. I swallow and try again. It would help greatly if he didn’t look at me like that.
“Excuse me, let me try again,” I meet his smile. “My friend,” I start, because I know Alia can answer yes or no questions, and she might have said she was without a family. “She’s been missing two days, and I’ve tracked her here. She’s unable to speak, but her name is Alia.”
The boy’s eyes light up, and there’s a devilish crinkle to his nose. “Oh, yes, I know exactly who you’re talking about—I think everyone this side of Lille Bjerg Pass knows.” To my relief, a small laugh escapes the boy. “The king will be pleased that you’re here . . .”
He trails off, and I realize he wants my name. “Runa. I’m Runa.”
“Runa the rescuer,” he says with another little laugh, and a warmth spreads across my belly because he doesn’t know how right I hope he is. “I’m William, but you can call me Will.” He extends an arm, his jacket dark and perfect. “Come with me. I just left them.”
I take his arm, and for some reason that makes it more difficult to walk. As if I’m thrown off-balance by the mere closeness of him. I’m not the type of girl who prances around on a boy’s arm. It strikes me as for show, and maybe it is—a castle like this and a king like that and maybe everything is put on like a moon play.
Will walks me through the castle, all the while making small talk, and I’m grateful because he’s inadvertently giving me hints that are enough to adjust the story I have in my head about who Alia is and where she came from.
“He found her washed ashore two days ago, wearing this old ball gown. Niklas—the king—said it looked like she’d stepped right out of an old photograph and onto the sand.”
The warmth in my stomach grows when I realize that maybe the sea witch hadn’t sent Alia into the lion’s den completely unprepared—she hadn’t given me clothes to cover my own nakedness, but the witch must have shared a relic from her day to keep Alia from stumbling onto the beach nude. I suppose that was a kindness.
“She has a particular love of yesteryear fashion . . . and dancing.”
“I’d say Niklas appreciates both.” He laughs again, but then lowers his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Honestly, if it weren’t my own cousin marrying him, I’d have mistaken her for the bride. He’s quite taken with her.” I work to keep my features calm—if only the magic had given her forty days and not four. “But don’t tell Sofie that or she’ll toss me off the balcony.”
Will guides me up a staircase and down a hall, and just as we’re about to head into what looks to be yet another ballroom, Alia sweeps into the hallway too. Her face is pointed toward the floorboards and is a wreck—unprepared for company, and definitely not for me.
I warn her the only way I can. “Alia! Oh, my darling friend, I was so worried about you!” I untangle myself from Will and rush to her as her head flies up. I catch her in an embrace, and, before a reaction can spread across her face, it’s buried in the crook of my neck.
“I’m here. It’s going to be all right. Please don’t be mad.” I squeeze her one more time. “Smile.”
We part, and Alia presents herself to Will. Suddenly her eyes are alight—animated.
“As soon as I heard where you were, I came looking. Did not a one of the hofdames make it?” Will perks up at the court term for ladies-in-waiting.
I’m unsure if they’ve asked Alia of her heritage, but I know one thing—if she’s in love with a king and staying at his castle, we must make sure she’s invited to this stupid wedding. A whiff of nobility is the best way to go.
Alia shakes her head, and I moan dramatically at the loss of the ship and the people, and that my friend was alone for so long. I really should’ve heeded Alia’s pleas and tried my hand at acting with her. “Oh, no. Dear, I’m so sorry.” I hug her again, and catch eyes with Will, who seems genuinely touched. “I am so glad you are safe.”
“I’ll get His Highness,” Will says, walking past us and through double doors into the ballroom.
When he’s gone, Alia extracts herself from me and pins her eyes on mine, pointing quickly to her lips. She wants to use a word we don’t have in signs. Sacrifice.
Like the day before, Alia makes the sign for witch, and then presses her hand to her throat. Then, she touches the ends of my wrecked hair in question.
She wants to know what I gave up to be here. If not my voice, then what?
The questions continue, pieced together in signs and mouthed words.
What else did you sacrifice? Your hair? It looks stupid. Why on earth would you let her do that? Why on earth would you come here at all? Runa, this is too dangerous. What were you thinking? Were you thinking?
“I—”
A peal of laughter stops my explanation dead in its tracks. “Alia! Her name is Alia? Bring her here—I must see her.”
Will appears and leads both of us into the ballroom, and toward a titter of amusement. The chandeliers glow though daylight streams in through more double doors that lead onto a balcony. The king is surrounded by maids, setting up the room for a grand feast.
“My foundling does have a name!” His dimples flash, and he takes Alia by the hand, twirling her under the twinkling lights. His amusement is enough that no one in the room can avoid it. After the spin, he crushes her into a quick embrace. It seems more intimate than the kiss on the balcony, and I catch Will looking away as I do the same.
When they separate, he places his hands gently on her shoulders. “And it is a lovely name indeed.” My sister can’t help it, a smile melts across her face—whatever had made her upset when we saw her in the hallway is gone. Niklas seems pleased at that. He turns to present himself to me.
“And you’re her friend? Runa, is it?” His delight flashes my way, and it’s nearly as blinding as the sun. “I’m King Niklas, but please do call me Niklas—there’s no need for titles among friends.”
I didn’t expect him to be so warm. I really didn’t. Not from any look I’ve had at him—far away, up close, nor through Alia’s moon-eyed descriptions.
I clear my throat. “Runa—yes, Your Highness,” I say, and he seems to like the title even though he just shrugged it off. Men always prefer titles that make them sound important, and anything else is a lie. “I came in search of her when her party didn’t arrive, and I’ve been so worried. It’s very fortunate that you found her and took her in—thank you for your kind hospitality.”
“Oh, Runa, you’ll have to answer all the questions that Alia”—he pauses on yet another chance to say her name,
before continuing—“has been unable to answer for me.” Then something occurs to him, and his eyes shift from mine to Alia’s and back. “Oh, please tell me she can stay for a few days more. You won’t be stealing her back to Helsingør right off, will you?”
Helsingør. They must have had Alia point at a map. So that’s where we’re from, then.
I glance at Alia to make like I’m double-checking, and then I say, “We’d love to stay, but we don’t want to be a bother—I hear you’re to be married. Congratulations.”
When Niklas answers, it’s to Alia, whose hands he holds in both of his. The joy has softened in his voice, and it seems as though he’s momentarily forgotten that both Will and I are standing there. I look at my hands. I can’t watch him be so caring—not with the knife meant to murder him pressed against my ribs.
“Please stay. And please come to the wedding.”
Oh, Urda. He is charming. With his stupid eyes and his stupid dimples and his stupid broad shoulders. It’s true.
And maybe he does really care for Alia.
But even if she had her voice and could tell him what she’d done and how she loves him—even if I could betray our kind by telling him myself—four days to love relies on him. He must love her. He must feel enough that the magic has no choice but to bend to the will of his heart. Not hers. The burden of proof is on his stupid head, and Alia’s picked a man who may never see it.
I hate it, but my mind jumps to our father. Despite his now monstrous ways, he was once a man who fell so deeply in love, so quickly, that he changed a woman in the minute before she drowned. But that sort of instant, powerful love is rare, and sadly, that love isn’t this love. Niklas’s love won’t be powerful enough—not in an instant, not in four days, and most certainly not with the roadblocks of duty, war, and obligation. Still, Alia nods, and he pulls her into yet another heartbreaking hug.
There’s a commotion behind us. I turn, and Will is offering his own embrace to a woman escorted by the other boy from the balcony. Phillip. I hear a girl’s sweet voice say, “They told me you were coming to greet me, Cousin!”
When he releases her, it’s to present her, his hand holding hers aloft, and I can already sense Alia’s heart sinking. Will smiles at the girl and then at his friend and soon-to-be cousin. “My good king, Komtesse Sofie of the Duchy of Holsten has finally arrived.”
10
Runa
ALIA AND I DO OUR CURTSIES AND HOLD OUR SMILES AS the three of them catch up.
Cousins Will and Sofie have the same rosy cheeks and light brown hair, but it’s clear right away that Will and Niklas know each other much better than either knows Sofie. Still, they’ve existed in the same constellation for all their lives, some upper echelon of culture not hampered by kingdom lines. The right name, the right blood, and immediate trust is given. It’s the same below the surface.
I wish to hate everything about this girl just like I do Niklas, but she’s so enthusiastic, it’s almost impossible not to be moved by her energy. She laughs with her whole body, her Danish touched by the German so common in Holsten. Plus, she has a book in her grip—by the look of it, Effi Briest—and honestly, there’s nothing I love more than reading. But this girl is not meant to be my friend. And certainly not Alia’s.
It isn’t long after Sofie’s arrival that Alia’s features falter. Tears threaten, and she tosses me a sign by way of explanation. Garden.
“If you will excuse us,” I interrupt the reunion, “Alia tells me you have a beautiful garden on the grounds, and I’d very much like to take it in.”
Alia snatches my hand and pulls me out before either boy can offer to come. But just as we hit the relative darkness of the hallway, we hear Sofie’s voice. “Ladies, you don’t mind if I come along, do you? I am in need of fresh air.” I force Alia to stop her determined pace and play polite. Sofie catches up. “I still feel like I’m in that motorcar. My head is simply spinning from all those winding roads over the pass.”
“Of course,” I say, both of us grinning wide. “Please come, Komtesse Sofie.”
“Thank you. My room is not quite ready yet—my hofdames are quite particular.” She shoots Alia a knowing look. “And I think the boys could use some time together.”
Alia nods, but it’s not convincing. We need time alone, but we can’t make Sofie our enemy any more than she will be after she matches the embrace she must have witnessed with the castle gossip about Alia and Niklas. I paste on the smile Sofie is seeking and grasp her hand. “And so could the girls.”
This appeases Sofie, and we wander down the stairs and through the halls, Alia mostly leading the way. She’s always had a fine internal compass, and using it on land seems to be no different. Maids swirl around us, minnows flitting down a stream. They run about, hanging grand twists of fabric from the bolts I saw earlier. Others fill each sconce with a fresh taper, and replace rugs just beaten in the breeze. Nearly everything is the same shade of blue as their uniforms. The decor is overpowering; they’ve nearly re-created the blue cast that sits over the sea king’s palace, one scrap of fabric, yard of rug, and taper at a time.
“What do you think of the wedding decorations?” I ask as means of small talk. “I hope you like blue.”
Sofie’s green eyes snag on a rope of velvet being hung over the door facing the garden. “I do . . . ,” she says as we head under the new rope and out the doors to a small landing. “But it’s a bit much. I fear everything will be blue—the rings, the cake, the wine. If the fish at dinner tonight is blue, save me some extra rolls, will you? Because I just can’t eat that.”
“Got that, Alia? Bread for the blue bride.” Alia gives a thumbs-up as we pick our way down the steps.
Despite the end of summer, the garden is still lush, the rosebushes mature and thick with blooms of all colors. Red, pink, white, and yellow dominate, patterned throughout the garden like so much lace.
“Now this is colorful,” I say, mostly because I have to keep this going—it’s too early to send Sofie away. Next to me, I can feel Alia’s unease. There’s a pinch in her brow, and I know she’s thinking about how much I haven’t said.
Sacrifice.
But we must play this game.
“They once had tulips here, I’m told,” Sofie says, inspecting a bush of pink blooms, still striking, their thorns thick and deadly. She smiles at us. “But a past king ripped them out because they reminded him of a broken heart.”
The sea witch’s face plays in my mind. Her prince, who became king with her sacrifice. Annemette.
“Niklas said he wanted roses because they show all of love’s parts—the beauty, the longevity . . .” She snaps one off and holds it up, one pristine finger hovering over a rather jagged thorn. “The pain.” Sofie smiles, and something stirs within me.
“But there should be no pain for you; you’re to be married to a king!” I say, trying to keep things light, though I want nothing more than to end this conversation right this very instant. Next to me, Alia squirms.
“Isn’t there pain in a choice that is meant to be forever? Forever is both a promise and an end.”
An end. Her eyes linger on Alia, and it’s clear now this girl already knows the castle gossip. She knew it before she set foot in the building today. And she’s not about to let Niklas’s relationship with Alia go a second farther.
We come to a bench, shaded from the noon sky by a large tree. Sofie sits and invites Alia to her side with a little pat. When she does, I hover over their shoulders like the ghost that I am as Sofie takes my sister’s hand in hers.
“Your father is a titular baron, no?” She smiles as Alia nods, and then her eyes fall to Alia’s hand, soft in her palm. “Even so, you’ll be in my place soon. It won’t be your choice to make—fathers like ours retain and expand their power by promising away their little girls.”
This is true. I still refuse to like Sofie, but I can relate to her. Alia’s lip quivers—she can relate too.
“And though I don’t necessarily
appreciate my lot, I plan on being successfully married in a day’s time.” Sofie’s grip tightens, and I have a sudden urge to take Alia and run. If only. The komtesse’s eyes flash up. “The king may like your face and your silence, Alia, but he likes the money and connections from my father more. Let go now, or the pain will be so much worse.”
Alia visibly jerks at the bluntness of it all, her shoulders sweeping back as she rips her hand away. She’s standing before I blink, and she bumps me, off-balance.
Alia runs toward the garden gate and is through it without a second glance.
Sofie doesn’t rise to chase down Alia, which is simply fine by me. I pick up the length of my dress to free my feet and try my best at a run. The feeling is even worse than walking, this strange, unsmooth propulsion forward accompanied by a pain similar to being stabbed over and over with each step. I careen through the gate, lucky it didn’t latch and stop me dead in my tracks. Alia is already far ahead, and I need to sprint. With each breath, I picture the children I’ve seen on the beach, running with such surety that their legs won’t tangle and instantly drop them in the sand. It’s a slow start, but I soon catch up, a much uglier runner than my sister, but just as quick, as it turns out.
“Alia.” I catch her just as she’s turned for the town proper, her hunched shoulders and sadness-flushed cheeks all wrong against the bright colors of the buildings. “Alia, she’s not wrong. It was cruel but it’s true. You know it.”
She spins around to the hand I’ve placed on her shoulder, her face a mess and lips trembling. She looks me dead in the eye, and I know she doesn’t hate me for what I’ve just said.
Alia knows it’s true too.
I expect her to say it but then she signs something else.
Why? Why are you here? Why, if it’s true, did you do this? Why did you see the witch? Why did you make a deal?
Yet another “why” in the shape of her fingers, she finally falls into wracking, silent sobs, and collapses into me. The heaviness in her heart pulls her off-center. I nearly fall back under the weight of her, but I will my new legs to be strong. Her shoulders heave and shake as I lean us against the nearest building.
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