Page 80 of The Winter Princess
“Feel this,” she says, dropping the fabric into my hands. “You wouldn’t need skirts so heavy in Pavieau. You’d be boiling. She must have sewn them in when she came north. You can tell because she left a clue.” Freja runs a finger along a seam. “These are wide basting stitches—easy to unpick if she returned home.”
A knot forms in my throat. My mother never settled here.
“She was married in that dress,” I say, nodding and chewing on the inside of my lip. Walking briskly to the closet, I dive into my search with more purpose and find Freja’s scarf where it had slipped from a hanger onto the floor. I wrap it around my neck, noticing the way her scent has lingered.
On our walk, we review the salient points ofThe Winter Wedding, 1854by Frederick Olsen. We agree to start in the forecourt and move inside the church where we’ll speak briefly with the pastor. I’ve called ahead, and he knows to keep an eye out for us.
We arrive at the small chapel jammed up against the Vorburg ambassador’s residence, and as we come around the corner, a sharp wind bites into our faces, sending us dashing for the weak sunlight. It’s hardly better there.
I hold the phone out and we squint.
“No good,” Freja says. “The sun will wash us out. We have to broadcast from the shade.”
The shade looks bitterly cold, and I have a sudden wish to be on a beach in Pavieau, soaking up nutrients integral to sustaining human life.
“I don’t belong here,” I answer, clamping my jaw tight to prevent my teeth from chattering. “My people were meant to dive bare-chested into the sea with knives clenched between their teeth. We were never meant to wear so many layers.”
She laughs. “There’s no such thing as bad weather, only insufficient clothing,” she says, reciting one of Sondmark’s most loved maxims. “I’ll block the worst of the wind.”
I glower. As if I would let her.
“There’s a seat carved into the porch,” I point, already marching her toward it. By heaven’s grace, it gives us a picturesque backdrop and puts us in close proximity since I have to wrap my arm around her waist to fit.
“Hello, Sondmark,” she says, “We’re at The Stranger’s Parish today, the pocket-sized Lutheran church set on the grounds of Vorburg House.” She lifts her face to mine. “Did you know that for diplomatic purposes, we’re not actually in Sondmark?”
“No,” I breathe, feigning incredulity. My teeth chatter, and I clamp my lips together.
She dimples. “Yes. It’s a provision from one of the oldest treaties in northern Europe. Once we entered the forecourt, we were as much in Vorburg as someone standing in their capital, Djolny, right in the heart of Liberation Square. The treaty, drawn up the first and only time a Vorbugian princess married a Sondish king, stipulates that the church must always be open for weddings, day and night.”
Freja touches my arm, and I begin to describe the composition ofThe Winter Wedding—an image of the young bride in a dark, full skirt, the sunlight shafting across her red hair as her new husband signs his part of the registry, free hands entwined awkwardly, cheeks almost touching.
“The velvet fabric, the bright red and green of holly winding up the column behind them, his thumb touching the soft center of her palm. It’s not an image you might expect of the mid-1800s.”
She nods. “Agree. Queen Magda’s reign has a reputation for emotional repression and layers of formality—”
I choke on a laugh. “She had eleven children. How formal could it be?”
Freja lifts a finger, almost touching my nose. “Do not get me into trouble,NeerVelasquez.”
“I would not dream of it, Your Royal Highness,” I reply, wanting to do nothing more.
She turns back to the camera, shifting in the seat. My hand slips to her hip and I lose the signal to my brain for a second. When I lift my hand, I grip the back of the bench.
“As…as I was saying,” she continues, “The Stranger’s Parish has a colorful, some may say scandalous, history of elopements and quickie weddings, the most famous of which was that of international superstar Lars Velmundson and his fitness guru wife Bianca.”
“How scandalous was it?” I don’t even care. I only want to stay here until I die, frozen next to her.
“Word got out before they arrived.” Her tone isn’t suited for a princess delivering an on-camera lecture. We could be talking together over a steaming dish ofxiao long baoas we were last night. “The bride wore a bell-bottomed pantsuit and a massive hat. The groom had one of those powder-blue, frilled tuxedo shirts unbuttoned to his waist. Fans crowded at the door, catcalling Lars like he was giving a concert. Police were called in. It was almost a riot.”
“Did it stick? The marriage?” My lungs burn with the cold and the memory of Freja’s smile when I gave her the last dumpling.
“Contrary to all prejudices one would have against a powder-blue suit, yes.”
Our gazes hold for a second. I let a shiver work through my shoulder.
“Are you ready to meet the pastor?” I ask, lifting her to her feet.
A bloom of fire emojis appears on the screen, and we enter the small octagonal church, chilly as she promised it would be but a refuge from the wind. The aisle is carpeted in deep blue and flanked by three rows of pews with room enough for a dozen people. Holly boughs wind up the columns. The ceiling is vaulted in a series of arches creating a star pattern, meeting over the altarpiece. Instead of the more typical explosion of craftsmanship, the altar was carved in spare, peaceful lines. Light streams in from three high windows. Tall, ornamental candle stands flank the altar, providing light at night.
