Chapter Three
Arosy-cheeked human from the castle’s laundry staff arched her back into the wall and let out a moan Freya had to stifle with her hand.
Freya’s other hand was two fingers and two knuckles deep in Mara, pumping at a rhythm that made Mara tremble until she finally grabbed Freya’s shoulder and rode out the rest against Freya’s hand.
Freya stepped back, panting. Mara giggled. The room—an empty chamber reserved for visitors on the fourth floor of the castle—was heavy with the smells of sweat and sex.
Freya went to the basin to wipe down her hands, then shook them out and put them back in her gloves.
“Always lovely meeting up with you, Freya,” Mara said between gulps of air. She found her stockings and began the process of rolling them back up her sticky legs. “This will be the last time, I think.”
“Oh?” Freya said.
“I found someone,” Mara said, and her already-flushed cheeks reddened.
“How wonderful. I’m happy for you,” said Freya.
She meant it. Mara was a single mother of three—busy doing laundry during the week, cutting cards on the weekend, and raising her kids for the rest. No time for romance, just like Freya. This what had made their arrangement easy to fall into.
“He works at the docks,” Mara said without prompting. “Steady income. Keeps buying me flowers.” She rolled her eyes at the last part, but she was grinning.
“Sounds like a good man,” Freya said.
“Oh, he is. And second-generation, too. He’s never even seen war.” This last part was said with a sparkle in her eye that made Freya’s gut twist.
The underlying assumption was that all humans in Vakker Castle were refugees from the human wars up north, and the polite thing to do was not to ask what someone else had been through.
To survive up in the human territories, one had to swear allegiance to one warband or another.
Whatever Mara’s experience, she fell into the camp that liked to pretend the wars had never happened.
Freya didn’t have that luxury. The things she’d done for those warlords would haunt her for the rest of her life.
This was why Freya chose not to talk much during their rendezvouses. Some of these things were better left unknown.
Mara tugged down her skirts, still grinning. “I’d love for you to find someone too, Freya.”
Freya nearly choked. “I’m busy, but thank you. I hope he makes you happy.”
“Too busy tending to the queen to find your own happiness?” Mara said, teasing.
“Something like that.”
“Well, don’t let her work you too hard.”
Freya left the room before she could say something bitter and defensive that Mara didn’t deserve.
She’d specifically sought out Mara to take her mind off of the embarrassing interaction where she had put her bare hand in Astrid’s.
What in the goddess’s name had Freya been thinking?
She’d been distracted by Brenn’s prediction.
The history fair was coming up, and she’d spent long nights doing thorough background checks on all of the visitors.
She’d not been sleeping well. Deep within herself, Freya admitted she craved touch of some sort.
Mara had allowed her to let off some of the frustration and embarrassment, but Freya had not satisfied the source of the craving.
Now, Freya couldn’t use Mara as a release. Finding someone new might be wise before Freya did something foolish.
And foolish it had been. Freya’s brain replayed the scene of her reaching for Astrid like a woman possessed.
The feeling of skin on skin. She couldn’t mess up again.
It embarrassed her all over again to wonder what Astrid must have thought of her.
The last thing Freya wanted was for Astrid to suspect Freya of being too weak or distracted to serve well.
The trust Freya had garnered was hard-earned.
She could spoil it with the wrong move in a second.
She shook out her hands in the hallway. Forced herself to feel the leather gloves rubbing against her skin.
The ambassador would need at least a month to reach Vakker Castle. The consuls coming with him would reach some of the southernmost cities of Torden first, and Freya had more background checks to do, people to interrogate, provisions to make.
She had to get started right away.
The month before the ambassador came passed quickly.
Every day, Freya made use of her contacts and presented Astrid’s félag with the history of each orc coming to Torden.
She paid special attention to the ambassador himself, but it was impossible to know how big a group he would bring with him until she laid eyes on everyone.
Servants, guards, attendants, stewards—those people were hard to track down, not to mention that any of those positions could come and go.
Freya would have much more work to do once the ambassador’s retinue reached Vakker Castle.
The night the ambassador was set to arrive, Freya lurked in Astrid’s room as the queen dressed. She had put so much effort into preparing, and yet part of her still felt as clueless as the day she’d begun her investigation.
The ambassador’s name was Elgir, and according to a message he’d sent ahead, he was due to arrive with his entourage about an hour before dinner, giving Astrid enough time to conduct a brief tour of the castle as the ambassador’s staff dealt with his belongings.
As for Freya, she analyzed every action of Astrid’s—the way her hands trembled slightly when she brushed her hair, the way she stopped what she was doing every few minutes to take a deep breath.
Freya did not ask if the queen was all right.
She stood at the open door to the balcony, listening to the evening sounds of lovers crunching crisp leaves underfoot and the quiet jokes of the guards on the other side of the door to the antechamber.
Everyone was anticipating the meal, which would be more lavish than usual for their guests.
Everyone but Freya and Astrid.
A shuffling of fabric sliding over skin came from the center of the room, followed by a frustrated grunt.
“Freya, could you lend a hand?”
Freya pushed the balcony door closed and went to Astrid and her untied dress.
It was a bit of a joke whenever Freya had to do things queen’s attendants were actually intended to do.
Though Freya presented to the castle as Astrid’s particularly dutiful attendant, her true responsibilities seldom overlapped with that of a typical lady’s maid.
Freya gathered intelligence and served as Astrid’s discreet eyes around the castle; she was not accustomed to helping a queen in and out of her clothes.
Like most of Torden’s nobility, Astrid was self-sufficient, and Freya had absolutely no training in the role she purported to serve.
Freya grimaced at the many ribbons to lace. The dress itself was a stunning shade of green. Out of season, Freya thought, but then it would make Astrid look eternal like the trees that did not turn with autumn. Calculated to give off the impression she was unchanging, strong.
Astrid had gotten the bottom three ribbons tied haphazardly.
“I’m not good at this, Your Majesty,” Freya warned.
“Just had this damn dress ordered,” Astrid muttered under her breath. “I don’t know what Dag was thinking. They know I can’t get into this kind of garment without assistance.”
In truth, Ruga might have been called in for tasks like this in the past. She was more feminine than either Astrid or Freya, and good with fabrics.
Freya tried to think of how Ruga’s hands worked when faced with these kinds of ribbons. Ruga was competent at doing up dresses. Children could do this. How hard could it be?
“I’ll try my best,” said Freya.
As Freya untangled the knots, one formed at the base of her throat.
The room felt unbearably stuffy, though the fire was not set, and the door had just been open.
Freya faced a smooth strip of skin on Astrid’s back—the curve of Astrid’s spine, muscles that shifted under cool-toned brown skin as she fidgeted.
“Stars,” Freya muttered to herself.
“Is it so difficult? Perhaps I should wear another dress.”
Damn Mara for finding her true love.
Instead of filling her time with locating spare rooms for a tryst, Freya had spent the last month distracting herself with what she was best at—gathering intel, preparing for any possible outcome.
Freya had spent less and less time around Astrid, always making sure to leave her with trusted members of her guard. To Freya’s relief, moving Hrothgar to captain of the félag had been a good decision. Freya hadn’t needed to worry about Hedda’s bursts of anger weakening the queen’s defense.
There had been no plausible threats as of yet. Still, Freya was almost positive the incoming ambassador was the cause of Astrid’s future “loss.” She would have to keep diligent watch from the second he stepped through the castle gates.
But first, this complicated dress. Freya removed her gloves and wiped sweaty palms on her trousers. “I’ve got it,” she said, her voice unusually husky.
She powered through the laces by pretending she was tying up a prisoner, tie after tie and knot after knot. The resulting effect was… Well. Efficient, if not beautiful. She realized when she was done that some of the ribbon was intended to be tied into bows.
Astrid turned in the mirror. Her loose braid of thick, brunette hair swung as she moved. Though Astrid had a muscular build—not inherently soft, or Freya had never thought of her as such—there was a grace, a smoothness, an elegance to her step.
Stop noticing her movements, you fool.
“Oh, it’s not so bad,” Astrid said. “Thank you.”
“Of course, Your Majesty. He’s supposed to be here soon; shall we go?”
“No putting it off, I suppose,” said Astrid, shooting such a soft, trusting smile at Freya that she was left flustered.
Freya opened the door for Astrid. The queen’s dress swished against Freya’s boots as she filtered past.