Page 92 of Heart of Winter
“What do they mean?”
“Hm?”
“You told me before that the braids in your hair – the beads in them – have unique meanings. What do these mean?”
Oliver watched in the mirror as Erik’s head ducked down beside his own; watched Erik’s hair spill over his own shoulder, and leaned into the hot rush of breath in his ear when Erik whispered, “I think you already know.”
Gods. “You could – ah – you could just tell me, though. To confirm.”
Erik chuckled – and bit his ear. Just a light setting of his teeth at the top of it, the sight of which in the mirror left Oliver stifling a gasp. “True. But I don’t think I will. Not yet.”
When he drew back, he caught Oliver’s jaw with one hand, the metal of his rings smooth and warm, and turned his head so they faced one another. They stood very close. His gaze tracked over Oliver’s face, searching. “Are you ready?”
“Yes,” Oliver said, without hesitation, and he meant it in more ways than one.
21
The great hall had been accumulating decorations for days now, but tonight, it was a chamber transformed.
Garlands lined the rails of the upper galleries, and spanned the mantelpieces of the huge, roaring fireplaces; hung in swags from the ends of the trestles, wound round the ceiling support columns, and, overhead, fanned out from the chandeliers in great loops, fixed cunningly on the ceiling somewhere, all of it decorated with silver ornaments, and bundles of cinnamon, and dried fruits, and cloves, so that the hall was redolent with the smell of hot cider. The cressets burned along the walls, and candles blazed in ever candelabra, the heat of them immediately stifling. A space had been made at the very center of the hall for a massive fir tree fixed on a stand. Crates of silver ornaments waited beside it. Two smaller trees, already dressed with silver snowflakes and icicles, stood behind the high table, set up on the dais usually occupied by the throne. The table itself was draped in crimson stitched with silver embroidery, and wax dripped down the fat silver candlesticks to puddle on the cloth.
“It’s beautiful,” Tessa whispered, arm tightening in Oliver’s.
“It is,” he agreed, but he couldn’t focus on the splendor of it, because they stood now at the base of the grand staircase, and eyes were sweeping toward them.
Talk and laughter slowly died away; more and more heads turned.
Oliver breathed shallowly through his mouth.
Bjorn raised his voice so that it boomed through the hall. “His Majesty King Erik Frodeson! His sister, Lady Revna Frodesdottr! The Princes Leif and Rune Torstanson! The Lady Tessa Drake of Drakewell, and Mr. Oliver Meacham, of Drakewell!”
Erik strode across the floor, headed for the high table. Behind him, Leif escorted his mother, and then Rune followed; Oliver, his pulse pattering rapidly in his ears like raindrops, escorted Tessa forward in their wake, Magnus and Lars bringing up the rear.
He tried not to listen, really he did, but snatches of conversation bled through the general curious murmur.
“…to marry the prince…”
“…unusual color hair…”
“…bastard?”
“…beads…”
Then, more pointed, a woman’s voice: “Look at hisbeads.”
“…braided up like someone’s beloved!”
“Is he courting her ladyship?”
“…surely not a foreigner…”
“…house colors…”
“Look there, on his sleeve – Frodeson.”
“…king’s bedding a Southern bastard…”
Tessa’s hand tightened on Oliver’s arm. “Ollie.”
