Chapter 23
NATALIE
Tires crunched against the wet gravel, the sound fading into the steady, oppressive roar of the wind as Frederik’s entourage retreated toward the capital.
I stood on the small stone path outside my cottage, my hands buried deep in the pockets of my father’s old wool sweater.
The air felt biting, holding the damp chill of a gathering winter storm.
My skin shivered under the assault, but the real cold sat deep in my chest, a thick ice that no amount of fire could melt.
This cottage, perched on the edge of the jagged northern cliffs, had always been my family’s sanctuary.
My father had built it with his own hands, using the weathered gray stone from the shore.
The rooms smelled of pine needles, beeswax, and dried herbs hanging from the rafters.
It was a place where life was slow, measured by the changing of the seasons and the ripening of the grapes, a stark contrast to the sterile, marble halls of Elden Hall.
He said the crown is worthless without you.
Frederik’s words lingered in my mind, refusing to dissolve in the freezing air.
They bounced off the weathered stone walls of the cottage, filling the silence left behind by the royal visitors.
I walked down the narrow dirt path toward the cliff edge where the vines clung to the rocky, unforgiving soil.
My boots sank into the damp earth, leaving deep prints that filled with muddy water almost instantly.
Below, the ocean crashed against the shore, throwing white spray high into the air, the salt mist settling on my eyelashes and coating my skin.
Henrik was down there. I could see him through the gray mist, a dark figure moving against the gray granite of the seawall.
For two weeks, he had arrived before dawn, stripping away the prince to haul stone in the mud.
He had missed the European tour. He had ignored the ministers.
He had walked away from Parliament. He had chosen this freezing shore over the palace chambers.
The crown was crumbling in his absence, but he remained on the cliffs, taking commands from a local foreman.
I stopped at the end of the vineyard rows, trying to ground myself in the physical work.
The vines needed care before the gale hit.
I took my grafting knife from my belt, kneeling in the dirt near a twisted rootstock.
The wood felt cold and stubborn, resisting my touch.
The vineyard was my home, but today the rows felt different.
The presence of the man on the shore below seemed to pull at the edges of my focus.
“Let me help,” a voice said.
I flinched, my hand tightening on the wooden handle of the knife.
Henrik stood at the edge of the row. He had walked up the cliff path, carrying a bundle of wooden stakes to brace the vines against the wind.
His dark shirt was soaked with rain, clinging to the broad expanse of his shoulders.
His face looked gaunt, the sharp lines of his jaw covered in a rough shadow of stubble.
He looked feral, stripped of the polished grace that had defined him in the capital.
There was no crown here, no palace security, no advisors. Just a man shivering in the rain.
I looked at the stakes he carried, then up at his gaunt face.
The distance between us felt vast, a chasm carved by three years of neglect, but as the wind howled around us, the space began to shrink.
The silence between us was no longer a barrier; it was a bridge we were both tentatively trying to cross.
“You do not know how to graft, Henrik,” I said, my voice softening just a fraction, matching the steady, low hum of the wind.
“Then teach me,” he replied. He dropped the stakes, the wood clattering against the wet stones. He knelt in the mud opposite me, his knees nearly touching mine. “I want to learn. I want to know the work that occupies your days.”
I hesitated, the knife heavy and cold in my hand.
I looked at his hands, already blistered and raw from the shore.
Then, I nodded slowly, clearing a space in the mud between us.
“Hold the rootstock steady. Do not let it twist while I make the cut. If it moves even a fraction, the slice will be uneven, and the graft will fail to take.”
He reached out, his large, calloused hands gripping the damp vine with a careful gentleness that surprised me. He held it firm, his knuckles turning white against the dark bark as he braced against the wind. I pressed the blade against the tough wood, making a clean, diagonal slice.
“Now,” I instructed, retrieving a scion—a small, dormant shoot of budwood from the winter storage tray.
“We must align the cambium layers. The thin green margins under the bark must touch exactly, or the nutrients will not flow. It takes patience. You cannot force the connection. If you try to rush it, you only damage the wood.”
He watched my fingers, his eyes focused on the tiny green seam where the two separate vines met.
“Like matching two separate lives,” he said, his voice low.
“We spent three years trying to force a connection without ever aligning the margins. I expected the vow to hold us together without ever tending the seam.”
The cambium was a thin, fragile line of green life, the only part of the wood capable of healing.
If we did not align it perfectly, the graft would fail, leaving only two dead pieces of wood bound by plastic.
It required absolute stillness, but Henrik did not move.
He held the rootstock steady against the howling gale, his breathing slow and synchronized with mine.
“Exactly,” I said, my voice quiet, matching his tone. “And then we bind it.” I handed him the roll of grafting tape. “Wrap it tight. Start from the base of the cut and overlap the turns as you go up, making sure to seal out the wet air. If the rain gets inside the wound, the graft will rot.”
Henrik took the tape. His fingers, usually accustomed to holding fountain pens or state documents, looked clumsy against the delicate plastic. He made a loose turn, his calloused skin catching on the tape, and it slipped from his grip, falling into the dirt.
I watched him, testing his patience. The old Henrik, the prince who expected the world to bend to his commands, would have grown frustrated, calling for an assistant or dismissing the task as trivial.
But this Henrik simply picked up the dirty tape, wiped it on his sleeve, and started over.
He did not say a word of complaint. He simply adjusted his grip and tried again, his movements slow and deliberate.
“Tighter,” I guided, my hand resting over his for a brief second to demonstrate the tension.
The skin of his hand felt hot against my freezing fingers, a sudden spark of warmth in the gray afternoon.
“It has to hold against the gale. If it is loose, the wind will tear it apart before the graft can heal.”
He adjusted his hold, his breathing steady in the cold air. He wrapped the seam, overlapping the plastic with careful precision until the wound was completely covered. When he finished, he looked up, his ice-blue eyes searching mine, waiting for my approval.
“That is correct,” I said, letting a soft breath escape my lips.
A small, genuine smile touched the corners of his lips, a look I had not seen on his face in years.
The cold distance between us seemed to thaw, just a fraction, in the quiet space of the row.
We were no longer two strangers shouting across a gulf; we were two people trying to learn the same language.
We worked together on the next three vines, our movements falling into a quiet, shared rhythm.
He held the stakes, and I secured the ties, the cold wind whipping around us, but the space between us felt smaller.
But as the wind picked up, my hands grew numb, the biting air stealing the feeling from my fingers. My hands shook as I pressed the blade against a thick, stubborn rootstock. The wood split suddenly under the pressure, and the blade slipped.
The sharp steel grazed my left thumb.
I gasped, dropping the knife into the mud. A line of bright red blood welled from the cut, stark against my skin.
Henrik moved instantly. He grabbed my wrist, his grip firm but gentle. He pulled off his wet leather glove with his teeth, spitting it onto the ground. He pressed his bare, calloused thumb firm against my cut, applying pressure to stem the bleeding.
“Stop,” he said, his voice tight with concern. “You are bleeding.”
“It is just a scratch,” I said, though I did not pull my hand back this time. I let it rest in his warm palm, feeling the steady beat of his pulse. “I bleed every day out here. It is part of the work. You cannot work the soil without paying a toll.”
“I do not like seeing you bleed,” he said, his eyes fixed on the small red stain on my skin. He looked up at me, his gaze intense, searching my face for any sign of pain. “I spent too long ignoring the damage I was causing. I do not want to see you hurt again.”
“You caused much worse than this, Henrik,” I said softly, the anger gone, replaced by a quiet, aching melancholy. “You bled our marriage dry for three years. You left me in a freezing stone museum while you managed the state. I was just an entry on your calendar. An obligation to be handled.”
He did not flinch or defend himself. He simply held my hand, his thumb resting over the cut.
“I know,” he said, his voice a low rumble.
“I thought the legacy, the stability of the crown, was the only thing that mattered. I thought if I built the fortress high enough, we would be safe. I did not realize I was locking you out.”
“I needed a husband, Henrik,” I whispered. “Not a prince.”
“I am here now,” he said, his fingers curling gently around mine. “I am learning.”
I looked down at our joined hands. The bleeding had stopped. I slowly pulled my hand back, retrieving my knife. “The storm is here,” I said, looking at the dark clouds rolling in. “We need to check the seawall. Bram is down there alone.”
We scrambled down the muddy cliff path together. The slope was slick, the wet soil sliding beneath my boots. Henrik reached back, his hand catching my elbow to steady me as I slipped on the wet earth. We moved as one, bracing against the gale.
At the shore, the ocean was a churning mass of white water. The storm surge battered the half-finished wall, foam spilling over the granite. Bram was in the surf, struggling to lift a massive stone.
Henrik did not hesitate. He plunged into the freezing water beside Bram, his boots sinking into the mud. I followed them, standing on the safer ledge of the path to guide the alignment of the stones.
“We need the anchor stones!” Bram yelled over the roar of the wind.
Henrik wrapped his arms around an eighty-pound block of gray granite. He strained, his muscles bunching under his wet shirt as he hoisted the weight.
“Left, Henrik!” I shouted, pointing to the gap in the foundation. “Lower it slowly! Wedge it against the base stone!”
He followed my direction, adjusting his stance.
He dropped the stone into the gap with a solid thud, wedging it exactly where I pointed.
We worked in sync—Bram directing the structure, I guiding the placement from the path, and Henrik providing the brute strength, ignoring the blood beginning to seep through his bandaged hands.
It was a real, gritty partnership, far removed from the choreographed public relations appearances we had been forced to perform at Elden Hall.
For an hour, we fought the ocean together, a single unit working against the dark. When Henrik hoisted the final capstone, sliding it into the groove, the wall stood firm. The road was safe.
Bram leaned against the granite, nodding slowly at Henrik. “Good work, lad.”
Henrik stood in the surf, chest heaving, his eyes finding mine through the driving rain.
“Come inside,” I told him, my voice carrying no distance in the wind, but he heard.
We walked up the hill to the cottage, the silence between us comfortable now, forged in the shared effort of the storm. Inside, the kitchen felt cold, but the small heater hummed in the corner, spreading a faint warmth.
“Shower,” I ordered Henrik, pointing down the hall. “Use the hot water. I will find some dry clothes.”
He walked down the hall, and I went to the closet, retrieving my father’s old grey sweatpants and a thick, blue woolen sweater. I set them on the chair outside the bathroom door.
When he emerged, he looked cleaner, but no less exhausted. The oversized sweater hung loose on his broad frame, making him look smaller, more accessible. He sat at the farmhouse table, his hands resting palms up on the worn wood.
I set a mug of hot tea in front of him. The steam rose in curls, carrying the scent of black leaves and hot water. I sat opposite him with the bandages. The electric heater hummed in the corner, a steady sound that filled the small kitchen.
“Give me your hands,” I said softly.
He offered them to me, and I began to clean the raw cuts. He winced, his fingers twitching, but he kept his eyes on my face, his ice-blue eyes searching mine for any sign of soft reconciliation.
“Why are you doing this, Henrik?” I asked, my voice a quiet rasp.
“Because I want to build a foundation,” he said, his voice quiet. “Not an institution. A home. I will stand on this shore until you trust me again.”
“The ministers are in a panic,” I warned him, keeping my voice low. “Frederik said they are threatening a vote of no confidence. They will send the couriers. They will demand their prince return to the capital.”
“Let them come,” Henrik said, his voice dropping to that gravelly register that sent a shiver down my spine. “Let them stand in the rain. They will find only a man laboring on the shore.”
He let go of my hand, reaching across the table to grip the collar of my flannel shirt. He stood, pulling me up with him in one fluid motion. My chair scraped against the floor planks. I stumbled forward, crashing against his chest.
His arms wrapped around my waist, holding me close. His ice-blue eyes blazed with certainty.
“I am not leaving you,” he swore.
He slammed his mouth down on mine, the kiss desperate, tasting of salt water and rain.