Chapter 18 Greta
Greta
Greta was just stepping out of her bedchamber when she ran into Nanna.
It was late evening, and everyone in the palace was at the king’s welcome ball, dancing and drinking and rubbing shoulders with the noblefolk of Halgard.
She yelped in surprise when the head servant came bustling around the corner.
Nanna took one look at her and frowned. ‘Where are you going?’
‘Uh, to the ball?’ She had been pacing in her room for an hour already, trying to summon the courage to go up there and honour the king’s invitation. But the admonishing look on Nanna’s face was enough to snatch all that hard-fought courage away.
‘You’re wearing that?’ she said, aghast.
Greta looked down at her blue frock coat and black trousers.
It wasn’t the most exciting outfit, but most of the senior palace guards, and Captain Vine herself, had opted to attend in their uniform.
She had overheard them talking about it at lunch.
And anyway, Greta didn’t have another option.
She had, at least, washed and braided her hair into an intricate coronet atop her head and applied some pink rouging to her cheeks and lips. ‘This is all I have.’
‘Your boots are scuffed.’
‘Only the toes.’
Nanna sighed, her gaze lingering on the missing button of her left sleeve. ‘Our beasts are in better shape than this.’
‘Well, if they are, it’s thanks to me,’ Greta felt compelled to point out. ‘And what does it matter if my boots are scuffed? I’m just a wrangler.’
It’s not like the king will care.
Or even notice me.
Nanna’s brows scrunched. ‘You are the prized wrangler of Grinstad,’ she said, clucking her tongue. ‘You are important, and as such, people will be looking at you. And your scuffed boots.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘No. This will not do.’
‘But I—’
‘Go back to your bedchamber,’ she said, shooing her away. ‘I’ll return shortly.’
She scuttled off. Duly chastened, Greta slinked back into her bedroom and waited for the head servant to come back. Nanna kept her word, returning in short order with an armful of dresses.
‘One of these should work,’ she said, laying them on the bed.
Greta’s breath caught as she stared at the gowns, which were made from velvet and fur, each one rendered in a different jewel tone.
There were five in total, all as beautiful as the next.
‘You’re shorter than she was but if we’re quick, I can take up the hem. ’
‘Shorter than who was?’ said Greta, with a prickle of unease.
‘Ansel’s bride.’ Nanna sighed, her brown eyes softening. ‘Before he died, Prince Ansel was engaged to Queen Rose of Eana. The dowager queen had her measurements sent over ahead of the wedding and arranged a wardrobe of Gevran gowns for her honeymoon …’ She trailed off. ‘But it was not to be.’
Greta’s heart clenched as she recalled how poor Prince Ansel had been murdered on his wedding day.
She knew all too well of the pain and regret that had come after.
Her own brother had been assigned to guard the prince, but when the sword flew, Tor had leaped in front of Queen Wren instead, protecting his beloved on instinct.
Ansel had died, grasping at the blade in his chest.
And Alarik Felsing had watched it all, powerless to save his little brother.
‘So, the dresses have never been worn,’ she said, quietly.
‘Not these ones,’ said Nanna. ‘Though your brother’s beloved Queen Wren did …
visit us … for a time last year. She was a hopelessly clumsy creature with little regard for grace and elegance.
’ Greta couldn’t help but smirk. Her brother had clearly made a fine choice.
‘Thankfully, I saved my favourite dresses from being destroyed.’
Greta hummed as she looked over them, trailing her fingers along the delicate embroidery. Nanna was far less reverent about the whole affair, tugging off her frock coat and urging her to undress, so they could get to work.
After trying on every gown – and enduring countless unnecessary critiques from Nanna – Greta settled on a sweeping dress of midnight blue.
It had a boned corset tied with silk ribbons and the entire bodice was brocaded with delicate silver snowflakes.
The skirts tumbled to the floor in gossamer waves that swayed with every step, making it feel as though she was moving through the snowy night sky.
Nanna insisted on taking the hem up by three inches in case she fell flat on her face, but she was nimble with a needle and thread, making quick work of the task.
Greta used the time to stuff the pair of silver slippers Nanna had brought down with handkerchiefs, until they fit snugly on her feet.
Nanna helped her dress, then, tightly lacing the corset until Greta could feel every single one of her suffering ribs.
‘Why are you scowling?’ said Nanna, twirling her by the shoulders. ‘You look like a princess.’
But I am not a princess.
I am a wrangler.
I belong to the wild.
And yet … when she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, Greta’s breath hitched.
She did not often feel beautiful. Not in the craggy forests of Carrig, wearing furs that were too big for her, worn boots and threadbare clothing.
No one ever looked twice at her – except to linger over her scars – and Greta had never minded.
She did not want to be looked at, to be noticed and judged.
But tonight … tonight, her eyes were bright and shining, and her smile was full.
For the first time in her life, she felt truly beautiful, and it was a strangely empowering feeling.
She was still smiling at herself in the mirror, swishing her skirts to and fro and wishing her sisters were here to see her, when Nanna produced a vine of midnight lilies.
She threaded them through her braided hair, making a crown of flowers.
Greta’s heart swelled.
Perhaps I can be a princess, just for tonight.
Nanna stood back, grinning as she beheld her. ‘You might be hideously late, but at least you look the part.’
‘Thank you, Nanna,’ said Greta.
‘Go on, then,’ she said, nudging her out into the hallway. ‘Forget your beasts for tonight and find a nice soldier to dance with.’
Greta followed the swell of music up through the palace and into the east wing, her slippers feather-soft on the carpet. She had never felt so graceful, gliding like a swan on still water, and yet when she reached the doorway to the grand ballroom, she paused.
The ballroom was dripping with opulence and teeming with so many finely dressed nobles, she felt dwarfed by it all, like a child playing dress-up in their mother’s closet. Her fingers dug into the door frame as she scanned the room, looking for a friendly face.
As if tugged by an invisible string, her gaze fell on the king.
Or perhaps it was the way he waltzed that drew her attention to him.
With a flicker of surprise, she noticed that he danced the same way he fought – with effortless skill and leonine grace.
Tonight, dressed in a resplendent ivory frock coat and with his hair swept back beneath a crown of golden branches, he looked more striking than ever, like a stag standing guard over his forest.
The king was dancing with Princess Elva, who looked breathtaking in a high-necked amber gown, with her hair arranged in artful ringlets.
One hand held her tiered skirts as he spun her, round and round.
She moved like a spinning top, her gown glowing under the flickering lights.
They were as perfect as a painting, and though the sight of them together stirred an aching sadness inside her, Greta couldn’t tear her gaze away. She could have watched them all night.
She could have watched him forever.
As though she had reached out and prodded him with the sheer force of her longing, the king lifted his chin up, his icy gaze finding hers from all the way across the room.
It pinned her to the door frame, then roved slowly, taking in her crown of flowers, the pale column of her throat, the curve of her waist and then, the dramatic spill of her skirts.
Greta stood frozen, letting him devour the sight of her.
Something glowed in his eyes and his mouth twitched into a frown. Her throat tightened at his disapproval. She had clearly chosen the wrong dress, fussed too much on her hair. The flowers had been a mistake. Perhaps he had expected her to come in her uniform, just as Captain Vine had.
Greta flinched. She had been a fool to listen to Nanna, to let the servant primp and preen her into some poor impression of a princess.
She was a wrangler and she belonged in the arena with the beasts.
By the way the king was glaring at her, he was plainly thinking the same thing. Her cheeks burned with embarrassment.
She was relieved when the music arched, and Elva returned to the king’s arms, laughing as she spun him away.
Greta was about to turn around and flee when Aren’s voice floated through the milling crowd.
‘Greta! Over here!’ He was standing by a serving table, waving a goblet back and forth.
He had forgone his uniform tonight in favour of a simple green frock coat trimmed in pewter fur, his usual mop of dark curls tamed into artful waves.
Aren’s smile was so bright and kind, Greta couldn’t bring herself to run from it. She unstuck herself from the door frame and drifted towards him.
‘Thank you,’ she said, taking the goblet and sipping from it. The frostfizz zipped through her, replacing her simmering dread with a welcome, giddy warmth. ‘I was just about to flee.’
‘You did have the look of a frightened doe about you,’ he said, with a chuckle. ‘Which is funny, seeing as you’ve faced far worse challenges than this in the arena.’
‘Depends on what you consider a challenge,’ murmured Greta, stealing another glance at the king. He was glaring at her again.
She quickly looked away.
‘You look nice,’ said Aren, a little ineptly. ‘Better than nice, really. Beautiful. Very beautiful.’
She smiled into her goblet. ‘Nanna made a project of me tonight.’
He nodded knowingly. ‘She caught me in the hallway and made me return to my room to shine my boots.’
‘That sounds about right,’ she said, feeling better already.
And perhaps a little bold. Aren looked particularly handsome tonight, and he was gazing at her in a way she hadn’t noticed before.
His brown eyes glimmered with hope. Would it be so wrong to entertain it?
After all, their friendship these past few weeks had cheered her on many dark, lonely nights.
Could it be something more? Something safe …
a diversion from other more traitorous desires. ‘Do you dance, Aren?’
‘I wish I did,’ he said, sheepishly. ‘I’m afraid I have two left feet.’
Greta wasn’t much better but the frostfizz was making her giddy and the music was so achingly beautiful, she wanted to crawl into its heart. ‘What if I let you stand on my toes?’ she said, teasing.
‘That depends … Is it bad luck to squish the king’s wrangler right in front of him?’
‘I doubt he’d even notice,’ said Greta, though the back of her neck prickled, and she had the unnerving sensation that he was still watching her. ‘Why don’t we revisit the subject after another glass or two of frostfizz?’
‘A fine idea,’ he said, clinking his goblet against hers.
They lingered at the edge of the dance floor, chatting and laughing as they sampled the mouthwatering food, ranking each dish by its deliciousness, and finding only winners.
Other soldiers drifted over to join them, the conversation turning playful as the frostfizz took hold.
It made for a welcome change from Greta’s first week at Grinstad, when the soldiers would hardly look at her.
But as time passed, and she was able to prove her skill with the beasts, she began to feel accepted. Like one of them.
Brynn, a stocky red-haired guard with a howling laugh, grabbed a bowl of sugared cranberries and whipped up a game, tossing a berry several feet in the air before catching it in her mouth. The others joined in, tossing cranberries to each other with great delight.
Greta plucked one from the bowl and threw it to Aren. He caught it on the first go, grinning as he swallowed it down.
‘Good toss, Iversen!’ said Brynn, with a wink. ‘I wonder what you could do with a throwing axe.’
‘Keep wondering!’ said Greta, secretly pleased to have proven her worth, even if it was just a silly game.
Aren took a step back. Greta tossed another berry, giggling as it hit his forehead. He jerked his head to the side and rolled it expertly into his mouth.
The soldiers crowed with laughter.
‘Your turn!’ Aren grabbed a berry and lined up his shot. Feeling confident, Greta stepped back until she teetered on the edge of the dance floor.
Aren tossed the cranberry with impeccable aim, and she leaped, catching it between her teeth. She grinned around it, then used her tongue to curl it into her mouth, enjoying the burst of sugared tartness.
The others erupted in applause, but Aren stilled, his face falling.
‘What is it?’ Greta came towards him. ‘Why do you look like you’ve seen a ghost?’
He swallowed thickly. ‘It’s the king … He’s glaring at me. Murderously.’
‘He’s not glaring at you, Aren,’ said Brynn, looking between them. ‘He’s glaring at her.’ She grimaced at Greta. ‘I think you’re in trouble, Iversen.’
Greta turned to find herself snared again in the brightness of that devasting glare. The king was standing on the far side of the ballroom now. Captain Vine was beside him, muttering urgently in his ear, but Alarik made no sign that he was listening to her.
His attention was entirely on Greta.
Brynn was right. That look meant trouble. And when Alarik Felsing stepped away from his war captain and stalked single-mindedly towards her, she had the unnerving sense that that trouble was about to get a whole lot worse.