Chapter 24 Greta #2
They went through the motions again and again, until everyone, on two legs and four, was run ragged with exhaustion.
When the dinner bell rang out, Greta could have wept with relief.
In the dining hall, she sat with Aren, who looked on admiringly as she scarfed down two bowls of lamb stew and half a loaf of brown bread.
When she returned to her bedchamber, there was a letter waiting on her desk. She expected it to be from her father, who had already written to her twice at Grinstad, but was pleasantly surprised when she recognized her sister’s messy scrawl.
She ripped the letter open and sank on to the bed to read it.
Dearest Greta,
Forgive me for not writing sooner, but I was waiting for something cheering to say.
This past month hasn’t been the same without you.
Kindra and I miss your singing in the mornings, although you will be glad to learn that your beloved Lupo has invented a particularly ear-splitting howl to fill the quiet you’ve left behind.
The weather remains a horror. It’s no kinder to us now than when you left, but Mikkel has kept us fed with fresh mackerel and Mama’s chickens have begun to lay eggs again, though not as often as we would like.
Your gift arrived this morning on the postmaster’s ship.
When Papa opened the package from Grinstad, his tongue fell out of his mouth.
Even Mama squealed like a stuck pig, and we all fell about laughing.
Of course, we knew your work at the palace would be well compensated, but it’s been long years since we’ve seen such a grand sum!
You must know this is enough coin for three barrels of potatoes, a month’s worth of lamb’s meat, a new coat for Mama and a bolt of silk for Kindra’s wedding dress.
She hasn’t stopped grinning all day! I had forgotten how beautiful she is when she smiles.
I hope you’re keeping some wages aside for yourself, little nightingale.
You must be working so hard for the king.
I imagine the days are long and lonely there, and you are missing us as sorely as we are missing you.
When the weather clears in the spring, I promise I’ll come to see you, even if I have to steal a boat and a sled and a pack of wolves to do it. You know I always keep my word.
For now, write to us of your beasts, and the king, if you have managed to make his acquaintance.
Is he truly as beastly as they say? Or has Tor been right to defend him all these years?
There must be gossip in between all that hard work and hopefully a handsome soldier or two to distract you.
As your eldest sister, I demand to know everything. Don’t make me send Aya to spy on you!
Love always,
Hela x
Greta read the letter twice, trying to make sense of her sister’s words.
What coin was she referring to? Greta’s first official wage was not due for another two days.
She’d spent the last four weeks anxiously waiting to send coin home, but here was Hela, telling her it had already arrived.
And in great excess, by the sound of it.
Her fingers trembled as she set the letter down, her gaze snagging on those telltale words: when Papa opened the package from Grinstad …
If the coin had come from Grinstad and she had not been the one to send it, then who else would have been so bold? Who else knew how her family had been suffering?
Greta closed her eyes at the sudden sting of her tears. Alarik Felsing was the only person at the palace with such knowledge, not to mention the means and the authority to do something about it. But why would he do something about it?
Why were the needs of the Iversens suddenly so important to the king of Gevra?
Had he done it for her? Or was it his loyalty to Tor that had moved his hand?
And why on earth hadn’t he mentioned it to her?
They had seen each other every day since the ball, often walking together in the mornings as they looked over the beasts, or sharing a flask of tea late in the evenings, whenever he caught her closing up for the night.
He had a knack for coming upon her at exactly the right time, though she knew in her heart she would never refuse his company, even if he offered it in the midst of a snowstorm.
Didn’t he think she would find out about the aid package? Didn’t he care?
She leaped to her feet. She had to speak to him about it or she wouldn’t sleep a wink.
She shoved the letter into her pocket and hurried from her room, making her way to the upper floors of the palace.
It was not yet midnight, but by his own admission, the king was a night owl.
He had confided in her only two mornings ago that he was struggling to sleep, often spending his nights alone in the library, pouring over war plans.
It was there that Greta went, hoping to catch him before Nanna marched her back to her room.
She took the stairs two at a time, playing Hela’s letter over and over in her mind.
Even from across the country, she could feel the fizz of her sister’s happiness at what that coin had afforded them – not just food, but dignity.
And for Greta – peace of mind. Alarik Felsing had sated the beast inside her, allowing it to hunger for something else. Something more.
She bounced on the balls of her feet, practically skipping towards the library, which she had already visited twice this week, borrowing books on battle strategy and wound care. As she drew nearer, she heard the king’s voice through the cracked door.
She pushed it open, then froze on the threshold.
The library was dark, but the crackling fireplace cast him in its amber glow.
He was sitting on the armrest of Princess Elva’s chair, his head downturned towards her.
She was smiling up at him, the firelight adding a golden sheen to her striking beauty as she hung on his every word.
He said something, soft and low, and she threw her head back in laughter, revealing every one of her pearly teeth.
He swept a hand through his hair and she scrunched up her face, playfully swatting him in the chest.
Despair fissured through Greta. She stumbled backwards. Out of the room, and away from the door, back down the hallway and the stairs. Away from the king and his bride-to-be, from their beautiful little bubble and their achingly perfect romance.
Down, down, down she went, into the underbelly of the palace, where she sat alone in her bedchamber, trying not to cry.
You are a wrangler, not a princess, she scolded herself, as she shrugged off her frock coat and boots.
A kindness is a kindness. Not a declaration of affection.
She unwound her braid and dragged a brush through her hair, scowling at herself in the mirror. Hating the grey of her eyes and the freckles on her nose, the windburn on her face and the scars on her cheek.
You are not here for love, Greta Iversen.
You are here for war.
Feeling wretched with regret and embarrassment, she crawled under the duvet and curled into a ball, whimpering like a wounded creature. When she slept, she dreamed of Carrig, wishing she had never left.