Page 81 of The Winter Princess
“Are you here to be married?” The pastor enters from a door to our left.
I freeze, feeling the Oskar Does Social Media mask slip from my face—the pleasant, informative mask.Vede.I don’t dare look at Freja.
“You’re a lovely couple. I have some time now if you’re ready,” the pastor continues, hands clasped together, his face wearing an eager, open expression. His hand darts between me and the princess. Me and Freja.
Then he claps. “And that’s how it’s done.” He’s smiling widely now. The show is over. “Heavens, you should see your faces.” He gives Freja a brief bow. “Your Royal Highness. And you must beNeerVelasquez,” he says, extending a hand and gesturing to a pew.
We’re fortunate that Reverend Kjar is an engaging speaker, pulling a few amusing stories from his memory, quick to respond to questions.
“There’s something I’ve never understood,” Freja says as we prepare to wrap up. “Frederick Olsen was a respectable painter with a thriving career. The bride’s family was far less prosperous and would have welcomed the match gladly. Why do you think he chose to be married so quickly? Why this chapel?”
The reverend’s eyes arc over the ceiling as he thinks. “People will say that this is nothing but a church formoetjeweddings—for stern-faced fathers and guilty young lovers—or a place to make slapdash vows, quickly repented of.” He lifts a shoulder. “Frederick Olsen didn’t count time like a sensible person. He didn’t save up for a ring or pick a strategic date to work around his schedule. He met Elsa eight days before they married. As soon as he became alive to what she was to him—the one person to whom he could open his heart—he was ready to make every promise he knew how to make. It was as simple as that.”
It isn’t meant to be a sermon, but I feel the same tense wonder as when I was a child and first heard the story of Noah gathering his animals from the storm. A refugee on a train wasn’t so different from an elephant on an ark, in my five-year-old mind. The story wasn’t about me, but it was mine, nevertheless.
Reverend Kjar thumps the back of the pew. “It’s the most romantic chapel in Handsel, and if it were up to me, everyone would be married here,” he laughs, gesturing at Freja. “Not you, ma’am, of course. We can’t hope to compete with the grandeur of Roslav Cathedral when it’s your turn.”
Freja’s turn at Roslav Cathedral. The thought chokes me.
I turn the camera around and Freja concludes the live. I murmur something coherent. We soon find ourselves standing in the wind and the weak sunshine. I want to kiss her again. I always want to kiss her.
“Can Freddie and I drop you off?” she asks, nodding at the Mercedes.
“No. I’ll be studying. I could use the walk.” I shove my hands deep in my pockets and burrow my neck in the scarf, ignoring the bitter cold as I make short work of the walk to my building and up the stairs.
I sit on the couch and unwind the scarf. I hold it in my hands, elbows on my knees. I glance up, my focus going to the window, to where the ocean curves into a headland, to the palace.
The breath eddies and flows from my body without sound.
I can’t let myself think.
I can’t let myself think.
I can’t think about how, when the Reverend Kjar asked if we were there to be married, I almost said yes.
28
Don’t Snore
OSKAR
“We’ll have to stop there,” Freja says. “My battery is almost zero.”
I glance up from my work.
She texted around dinner, four hours ago, asking if I had time to study. She also asked for my desired spice level out of five flame emojis.
I sent back five and she brought me aromatic yellow rice and Thai stuffed chicken wings, sticky, delicious, and hot enough to make our eyes water, afterward quizzing me on Sondish fairy tales as I prepared a painting for a new varnish layer. This isn’t the first time I’ve stayed at work hoping for a text. It isn’t the first time she’s sent one. Even within the careful confines of the studio, with the width of a worktable between us and an activity absorbing our focus, my hands shake.
When will I learn to keep my distance?
Not yet.
“I have a—” Charger. But before I can finish, a piercing peal rings through the studio and Freja claps her hands over her ears. I set aside my tools.
“Maybe there’s a thief,” she shouts.
If this were the first time theflamenalarm went off, I’d be worried. “Not funny.”
