Page 113 of The Queens and the Kings
Henrik took in a sharp breath.
“Noah?’
“Alice’s boy. The maid who worked for us? Really, we were as tight as sisters, though we had no blood relation.”
He smiled. “Einar’s real name is Noah?”
Selma gasped.
“You know him?”
“I didn’t mention him before because I didn’t want to overwhelm you. Noah is still around.” He laughed, thrilled. “Noah is Einar.”
She gaped. “Einar whom you spoke of so much just now? Who lost his love?”
He nodded.
Tears filled her eyes again. Her hands flew to her cheeks. “Oh!” she breathed. “Both of my sons have come back to life. But . . .” Selma swallowed, tearing up again. This time, she laughed, swiping the tears off her cheeks as they fell.
“Oh, Noah. That boy! What a smooth boy. A naughty thing! Always pulling you into trouble at only five years old.” She leaned forward, all eagerness now. “Can I meet him, too?”
“I think Einar would like that.”
“It is more than I could have hoped for.”
Jagged pieces of imperfect memories returned. Forceful hands on his arms. Selma’s screams. Henrik thought he remembered a dark, enclosed space. Einar—Noah—livid and cursing at his side. He shook himself out of the trance those memories inspired.
Did he imagine them?
Weakly, she said, “I didn’t know, Erik. I promise, I didn’t know they had been watching you, or we would have taken Alice, Noah, and you on a ship and left until you turned nine. I would have done anything but . . .”
She stopped, chin high.
Henrik reached across the table, put a hand on hers. “It’s over, Selma. It’s over.”
Tearful, she nodded. With a whisper, she squeezed her hand over his own and said, “I never thought I’d see you again. My life, as difficult as it has been, has finally come full circle. You, my boy, are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. Have ever done. It has always been an honor to be your mother.”
The words sank too deep to comprehend, and the overwhelm returned. Henrik stood, reached for her over the table, and gave her another embrace. His arms felt stiff and uncertain. He didn’t knowhowto do this, but he had to give her something.
Into his shoulder, she whispered, “Thank you.”
He replied, “No, Selma. Thankyou.”
Not a soul stirred on the ship when Henrik returned late that evening. Drake didn’t sleep in his nest, nor did Pedr stand at the wheel. The otherworldly calm was broken only by the arcane tugging the rowboat into place on the side.
He surveyed the deck as he reached for the hatch, then stopped. A bundle of white caught his eye. Britt lay in a ball on the deck against the far gunwale. Her dress bunched around her knees. She forsook the usual Kapurnickkian style of pants underthe skirts. The sun had been too hot for layers. Her arm propped her head up and she breathed lightly, eyes closed.
Henrik crossed the ship and crouched at her side. A wisp of hair floated onto her cheek. She loved to sleep under the stars, but she most often stayed in Pedr’s berth. He had a feeling she’d fallen asleep waiting for him. Britt baked kindness into all her actions.
He could scoop her up and take her into Pedr’s berth, letting her sleep. But after meeting Selma, he didn’t want to. Instead, he lay next to her. Britt turned, lashes fluttering open. Sleep crowded the corners of her smile as she stretched.
“You’re back?”
“I am.”
A soft sigh. “Good.” Yawning, she asked, “How did it go?”
“Perfectly,” he whispered.
