Page 34 of Heart of Winter
“That’s unfortunate.”
“And entirely not his fault.”
He smiled. “I didn’t say it was.”
“Sorry.” She felt her face heat. “I’m protective of him, I suppose.”
“And he of you.” He nodded, approving, and faced ahead, reaching to push back a branch and duck beneath it, snow raining down into his hair and onto his horse’s neck. “I think Uncle likes him.”
“You do?”
Leif chuckled. “I do. No one ever talks back to him. He –whoa.” He pulled his horse up sharply, and Tessa did the same.
Ahead of them, Rune had reined his horse up sideways, and unslung his bow. Slowly, silently, he drew an arrow from the quiver he wore on his back and nocked it. It was only then that Tessa noted the stag fifty yards upwind, picking its way through the snow, pausing now and then to snuffle and dig for a bit of vegetation. It hadn’t scented them, or sighted them either, apparently.
Rune’s horse was agitated, tossing its head, tugging at the reins he’d pinned beneath his thigh while he took aim.
Leif hissed a quiet sound between his teeth, whether reproach or encouragement, Tessa couldn’t tell, not until she glanced toward his face and saw the grin slowly spreading there. He mouthed something silent, some bit of advice that he couldn’t voice without risk of spooking the deer.
Disaster unfolded, then, in quick sequence.
The wind shifted, a sharp gust funneling down through the tree trunks, dumping snow and tinkling ice crystals together.
The horses all lifted their heads, and pricked their ears, listening. Behind them, Hilda’s horse let out a great loud snort of alarm.
The deer echoed it, flinging up his own head, swiveling it. He snorted once, twice, white flag tail lifting.
He smells us, Tessa thought.
But, no, he smelled something else, the same thing their horses smelled, on the new breeze, and it made itself known a moment later when a low, rippling growl pulsed from the tree just beside her.
Her breath caught. She turned her head, and met a yellow-eyed stare.
“Wolves,” Leif said, like a curse.
Then it was chaos.
~*~
“Mr. Meacham.”
The sound of the king’s voice launched him upright on his bench, where he’d slumped lower and lower over the densely-packed text laid before him. He lifted his head to find that he was alone in the library, and the candles had all but burned down, and dusk was falling beyond the windows, and, well, drat, he’d done what he so often did: gotten lost in books.
Well, he was almost alone.
Erik stood at one of the tall, iron candelabrum, lighting fresh candles with a spill from the hearth. He wore brown today – this evening, whatever time it was – and his hair was gathered loosely at the back of his neck, braids left loose down his shoulders.
Oliver wondered if his hair was as soft as it looked. He swallowed against a suddenly-dry throat and said, “Hello.”
“You seem to be on the verge of missing supper again.”
“Just lunch this time.” He was hungry, now that he thought about it, his stomach empty and clenching.
Erik’s smirk was not cruel. He flicked the spill onto the dying fire and said, “We should go down, then. You’re welcome to dine privately with us again. Perhaps we can start talking about contracts and alliances.” He tipped his head. “If your cousin thinks herself closer to a decision?”
Oliver winced, because even if he hadn’t asked her yet, he was beginning to have suspicions. He said, “You’re free to ask her; she can be shy, but she’s always…” With a lurch, he realized he hadn’t seen her since she set off around midday with the princes. “I should go and see if she’s ready to go down. I haven’t seen her since her return.”
Erik frowned. “Return?”
