Chapter Twenty
I’d never been more nervous to attend a church service in my life.
There was only one Catholic church near Grouse Falls, and I had never set foot in it.
Truthfully, I only attended Pastor Pete’s services perhaps four times a year.
In all the times I had been to church, I’d never felt like I wanted to pass out, vomit, or run away.
Today, I’d felt that way. If not for Anders and Gilda on either side of me as we exited the limo in front of a gorgeous stone cathedral and had to smile and wave at the thousands of ?stermonian people waiting outside in the bitter cold, I would have stayed in the car.
Totally happy to just knit while the christening took place.
That was not to be, though, and once we were seated up front with the family—me, Anders, and Gilda at the end of the pew behind the king—I relaxed a wee bit.
I’d not asked who had bent the king’s arm about two men in a relationship sitting front and center.
Perhaps the king had seen the error of his ways.
Maybe the queen had laid down the law. Perchance, Frode and his wife had said this was how things were going to be at their son’s baptism.
I doubted I would ever know unless Anders dug into it and that looked to be highly unlikely.
Still, even with the disapproval of King Magnus and the priest who performed the ceremony on the squalling new prince Madsen, I’d enjoyed the pomp.
The cathedral was breathtaking, packed with dignitaries that Gilda looked up online, whispering their names into my ear.
Kings, queens, princes, princesses, dukes, duchesses, prominent businessmen, and a few well-known actors and singers.
Many faces I knew, many I didn’t, as I wasn’t really up on the Who’s Who of famous people.
Now, if James Rockford or Jessica Fletcher had sat down behind us, then I would have been in the know.
Seated in the second row behind King Magnus and Queen Linnea, I felt highly uncomfortable, even though the queen spent most of her time talking over the back of the pew to Anders, his brothers, and Gilda.
Not a word was spoken to her husband. It was like sitting behind an iceberg.
The chill flowing off the queen toward her husband made the ten-degree temperature outside feel balmy.
Things were not peachy keen in the royal bedchamber.
Frode, his wife, and two people I was not familiar with—Anders whispered that the godparents were the princess’s sister and her husband—beamed with pride as their younger son was purified and welcomed into the church.
His full name was read aloud. A long title with lots of regal monikers but to family, he would simply be Madsen.
Afterward, there was a small gathering for friends and dignitaries at the castle.
Dressed in our Sunday best, Gilda and I were introduced to statesmen from Denmark, Monaco, Norway, Finland, Great Britain, and the US diplomat.
She was quite lovely and assured us that even if some of the royal family was struggling with LGBTQ rights, many were not.
The winds of change were blowing, Madame Ambassador insisted.
Hearing what I had heard over fish soup last night from the younger royals, I was sure things would change here.
Pity it might not happen in time to salvage the relationship between Magnus and Anders.
Anders cuddled his infant nephew, cooing at the babe, until the child grew fussy and was handed over to a nanny for a nap.
The older princes were also herded off to the nursery to give the adults—and the cleaning staff—a break as four cups of punch and a cookie had already been spilled or dropped onto the gorgeous maple hardwood flooring in the grand ballroom at Dragons Perch.
Gilda had hovered close to me, unsure of herself in such an elite crush, much like her father.
We left the castle around dusk, much to the dislike of the queen.
She informed us she would visit at least twice while we were at the cottage, as she called it.
With hugs to his brothers and their wives, we set off with our bags, a min pin, and two bodyguards.
And our driver, a dark-skinned man named Emil who seemed very shy.
Only we didn’t head directly south. With perhaps an hour left of daylight, Anders insisted we see the brass dragon.
Gilda was more than down with that, and so we were driven up as far as a car could go.
Then the six of us—Emil stayed with the car and Della rode along in a quilted carry bag with just her head sticking out—crammed ourselves into a tramcar.
I was somehow wedged between Alfred and Arne.
It felt like being a slice of bologna pressed between two slices of bread.
As we went up, several trams came down. People pointed and waved.
Anders always smiled and returned their waves.
Riding upward as the sun slowly moved down, the winds blew harder the higher we rode.
Even with the rocking of the tramcar, the ride was exhilarating.
The views. Oh my gods, the views. Scraggy pines and brush gave way to rocks and slate, sheer drops, and snow.
The North Sea was just ahead Anders told us as the tram slowed and jerked to a stop.
I did note that the trams did not go back down.
Probably so that the prince and his guests would not be interrupted or put into a dangerous situation with unknown tourists.
We piled out into gales that nearly blew me into Arne.
It was so cold and so strong, it stole your breath from your lungs.
Wrapped up like mummies in handmade mittens, balaclavas, and scarves, we climbed up an icy path.
Eyes watering, nose running, I was just about to ask if I could go sit in the tram when we reached our destination.
Sitting on a plinth of stone sat a huge brass dragon, wings tucked, scaled skin reflecting the last rays of sun.
Cryos looked downward, his snout pointed at the North Sea.
The vista was incredible, nothing like I thought it would be.
There was no ice on the sea, but lordy, was it choppy.
Gilda and I took hundreds of images. Some of us with the sea as our backgrounds, some solo, many with Anders between us, and several of each of us rubbing the brass dragon’s chest as we made wishes.
I didn’t ask what anyone wished for, even though I knew what Anders’ wish was.
They were private things. I did mention the man at my side telling Gilda all about the ice dragons of yore in my wish.
If wishes did come true, my future might not be so lonely…
Night settled over us as we dithered about, toes about frozen solid, but the cold toes were worth it when the sun set and the first green band of the Aurora Borealis appeared.
“It will be best viewing later in the night,” Anders explained as the flickering and writhing bands of emerald, red, and purple danced in the winter sky. Gilda and I were spellbound. “But I think we’ll all be popsicles by midnight.”
“I’d not object to a hot cocoa at the little tourist café at the bottom of the tramline,” I offered and got a round of hearty agreement.
Even Della from within her toasty warm tote yipped a yes.
Using flashlights that our security men had tucked into their coat pockets, we made our way down the crag carefully and packed ourselves back into our tramcar.
At the end of the line, Arne and Alfred steered us to our car, got us settled in the back, and then one of them went to get hot chocolate while the other lingered menacingly outside the SUV.
“I hope they get some for themselves,” I said as Della crawled out of her tote to sit on Gilda’s lap.
“I told them to do so,” Anders replied, his sight on the little shack sitting under a rocky ledge.
He seemed to drift some then, and I left him to his thoughts, turning to Gilda to discuss the sea, the brass dragon, and the Northern Lights.
When Alfred returned with cups of hot cocoa and little fried cakes compliments of the café manager, we buckled in for the ride south, leaving our wishes behind.
Growing wistful while nibbling on a smultringer, a ring-shaped donut of sorts seasoned with cardamom and dusted with cinnamon and powdered sugar, and sipping my rich hot cocoa, I let my mind wander back to the crag.
If I closed my eyes, I could envision our whispered wishes taking wing up to the dancing lights where perhaps a frost sprite might gather them up for fulfilling.
Smiling to myself at my fanciful imaginings, I wondered if the spirit of the north was starting to take root in my soul.
After all, we were in the lands of Odin and Ukko.
If magic couldn’t happen here, it wouldn’t happen anywhere.
***
It seemed we always arrived at our destinations at night.
Given it was winter, the days were short and our social schedules were busy, it wasn’t a surprise that we rolled in late.
Late for me anymore being seven p.m. Middle age.
Do not recommend. Still, as we rolled through a set of ornate gates attached to stone walls that ran off into the dark, I had a suspicion the summer cottage was perhaps not exactly what I pictured a cottage to be.
Pulling up in front of the large stone hunting lodge slash estate a few moments later, I saw that my assumption was correct.
Obviously, the queen’s notion of a cottage and mine were vastly different.
This Baroque-style three-story manse was dimly lit with scattered spotlights that reflected off the scores of windows set into the sandstone.