“We need to give you a better backstory,” I whisper, guiding her toward the castle grounds.
The townspeople like to talk, especially about me, but the king and queen will need something substantial if their son is going to be seen speaking to her. A lowly girl without a house name is not good enough; I would know.
We decide to give her the title of a baron’s daughter, the same title Anna had: friherrinde. A friherrinde from far away—Odense—come to see our unusual Lithasblot. Her chaperone has fallen ill, and Tante Hansa is tending to her. I’m filling in as her chaperone and guide. Yes. It’ll work. Another lie added to the list. I suppose there’s some truth behind the town gossips whispering that I spread falsehoods, saying the prince should not trust me. But telling the truth to gain their approval is not a risk I’m willing to take.
“When will we see Nik?” Annemette asks, tired of reciting her story to me.
“Don’t worry.” I point to the giant stone monstrosity on the hill. “He’s waiting for me up there.”
Annemette follows my finger.
“?ldenburg Castle,” I say. “Five hundred years old and as drafty as a sailboat.”
I guide her to the queen’s garden, which is rich with tulips of every color. Annemette proclaims each one the most beautiful thing she’s ever seen until she gets to the next one. And the next. “I love to garden,” she says.
Her mouth drops with a gasp when we get to the queen’s pride and joy—statutes of her family, each taller than a horse, circled up among the tulips. The king and queen are fashioned as they were on their wedding day, the marble smooth and glistening from the years. And there, next to them, is the latest version of Nik—eleven feet tall and chiseled as if lunging across the bow of a great sea vessel.
“Is that . . . him?”
She stands on her tippy toes, fingertips not even getting so far as his tastefully unbuttoned collar.
“Yes, yes, that’s him.”
“He looks different than I remember. Drier, I guess.” She laughs.
We crest the steps and there, already waiting and watching Havnestad Harbor, is Nik. He’s freshly washed after his trip to the farms, the light crown he’s forced to wear for festival days pressed down over his wet hair. I always think he looks ridiculous all fancy in Havnestad’s customary blue-and-gold suit, but Queen Charlotte is from the fjords up north and very traditional. She insists he emulate his official portrait for the high holidays of the Old Norse.
“Evie, there you are,” he says, catching me first in his line of sight as he turns from the view. When his eyes land on Annemette, his face freezes on her features. All except his lips, which are still moving ever so slightly. “And you’ve brought a friend . . .”
I smile and guide her toward him. “Your Royal Highness, this is Friherrinde Annemette. Annemette, this is Crown Prince Niklas.”
A light zips through Nik’s eyes as he meets Annemette’s gaze. At first I think that he recognizes her—that he instantly realizes she’s the one who saved him. Or that he sees the old friend we lost, the first half of this girl’s name ringing in his ears.
But almost immediately it’s clear that he’s thinking of neither, because he does something I’ve never seen before. He blushes hard. Honest-to-Urda heat is rising in his cheeks, and it’s so intense that he has to glance at me before looking down.
He thinks she’s beautiful.
And she is—she’s gorgeous—but this . . . this is unprecedented.
I’m ashamed to admit the pang of jealousy radiating in my chest. So often, I’m the only one who has Nik’s attention, and he’s never looked at me like that. But I suppose if he had, we wouldn’t be friends. Is this how he feels when I’m with Iker? Ugh, I do not want to think about Iker. I smile at them both, standing awkwardly between them, wanting to run away but afraid for what might happen if I did.
“Enchanted,” he says when the words finally kick in, the blush still hearty along his cheekbones. “How do you know Evie? I thought I knew all of her friends.”
I cut in to answer him. “Her chaperone became ill on their trip from Odense. Tante Hansa is seeing to her. Annemette very much wanted to attend a proper Lithasblot festival, so I’ve become her guide.” I touch her arm. “And meeting the crown prince is quite the way to start, isn’t it, Annemette?”
She grins. “Yes, it most certainly is.”
Nik’s color begins to normalize, his training rushing in on a white horse to rescue him. His humor, too. “Well, I am quite the carnival show. Over six feet tall and solid muscle.” He raises a wiry arm and pats the bicep. “I have a gaggle of followers trailing after me like ducklings, just so I can open sticky canning jars.”
I wink at Annemette. “It’s true; I’ll have no one else open my troublesome jars.” There, I’m being a good friend. To them both. I’m okay with this. Really, I am.
Annemette continues to smile but looks a little confused. She knows a lot about this world, but not so much that she might know a canning jar from a regular one. I smile at Nik and do my best to save her. “So, are there jars on the agenda at the moment, Crown Prince Niklas, or shall we go gawk at some livestock?”
“You really don’t have to call me Crown Prince Niklas—just Nik,” he says, eyes on Annemette. “Evie’s just joking. I don’t care much for titles.” He touches his crown and then blushes again. “Crowns, either . . .”
Annemette nods. “What do you care for?”
“Music, mostly.”
“I love to sing.” I swallow as she says this, my eyes unable to see anything other than the friend she insists she’s not. The girl who had the voice of an angel—ask anyone in Havnestad.
But rather than looking heartsick, Nik begins to blush again. A sheepish smile spreads across his face. “Then I shall use my princely power to borrow an instrument later and accompany you.”
My stomach churns. This is perfect. Just perfect.
We stroll down the steps and into the garden. I see him duck away for a moment and pluck a pink tulip from the end of the row, where the queen won’t notice it. Annemette dips down to smell her favorites.
I step away and watch as he strides up to her lowered form, flower behind his back. When she stands and turns, he pulls the pink tulip from where it’s hidden and lowers into a slight, princely bow.
Annemette’s mouth drops open into a wide smile and her eyes snap to his.
“Really? I can have it?”
“What good is being a prince if I can’t pluck a tulip from my own garden?”
“Oh, thank you! This one is my favorite.”
“You are most welcome, Annemette.” Her fingers snatch it away, and she lifts it to her nose, inhaling deeply.
When her eyes open, I catch them and smile. “To the festival, shall we?”
11
NIK CHOKES DOWN WHAT MUST BE HIS TENTH spandauer, the flaky sweet pastry sticking to his lips. As we walk around the festival, Nik is stopped at practically every turn to taste each table’s offerings. Whether it’s cheeses both old and stinky, berries and stone fruit from the valley orchards, crusty breads of rye and barley, split-pea delicacies attempting to rival Hansa’s famous soup, or the tables and tables of desserts, Nik is required to try them all. He assures the vendors that whatever he’s just shoved down his gullet is the best in all of Havnestad, possibly in all of the ?resund Kingdoms.
“Save me, Evie,” he grumbles after his last bite.
Why don’t you ask her? I want to say as Annemette walks next to me, but instead I hand him my mother’s handkerchief. “Take small bites and then use this.”
My mood hasn’t much improved, though I’m trying. It helps that Annemette’s porcelain face has gone gray, the seafood our town is known for churning her stomach. We pass by tables selling pitch-black whale meat and pale-pink blubber, lobster bright red and still warm from boiling, soft-fleshed crab, salty salmon roe, even slices of slow-roasted eel.