Page 84 of The Winter Princess
It’s not enough. Her face lights up and my heart constricts, a painful pressure growing in my chest.
“It’s just someKyriekager. Have them if you want.” I replace the throw pillows, punching them into shape. “Your bed’s ready.”
She sighs. “Thank you.”
It’s the sigh. I put the width of a worktable between us and watch her gobble down a spice cookie.
My father’s spirit leans against my desk, hands in his pockets, shaking his head.Kiss her.
I glance away, focusing on the painting in front of me, fully cleaned and patched. Areas of damage have been mended and filled, hidden behind the clever application of paint. The restoration process is complete, but the surface is dull and lifeless.
“Now you have time to finish the painting,” she says, cradling her tin of cookies and leaning against the table.
“We should wait until we can film this. It’s the best part of restoration. The country would love it.” I remind her of our audience, inviting them to crowd into the studio with us, praying they save me from myself. But the eyes of Sondmark aren’t on us now. Every pair has turned away and we’re as isolated as the darkest corner of Elsum Forest.
“Iwould love it.” She smiles and tips her head coaxingly.
My hand tightens on the brush.
I dip a wide brush into a container of varnish and begin to lay down a layer in long overlapping stripes, the soft scratch of the bristles the only sound. As I go, details emerge—the intricacy of lace, a loop of beads, the individuality of each curl. In the lamplight, the painting begins to shine, the colors leaping into vibrancy as it transforms. It’s the same painting as when I began but something has shifted.
She whispers, “Are you magic?”
I inspect the painting from every angle and set the materials aside. Then I stack my chin on my fists and look at Freja, unconsciously matching my breathing to hers. I know I appear calm. I’m fighting every nerve to maintain the illusion. “You should get some sleep.”
She nods, replacing the lid on the tin. In the dim light, she moves swiftly to get a drink and takes a position on the floor.
After a minute of watching, I crouch next to her. “What is this?”
She lets out a labored breath. “Side plank. What does it look like?”
“Is it to correct the curve?” I have no right to ask.
She exhales through gritted teeth and switches position. “Surgery corrected the curve. This is because I can’t afford to be weak. Do I look silly? No one watches me do this.”
“No. Do you want privacy?”
She laughs, the sound of it is breathy and tired. “It’s too late for that.”
“Because I’ve already seen your back?”
She collapses to the floor. “Because you’re hard to keep secrets from.”
I feel the reaction in my stomach–all roaring adrenaline. The worst of it is that I know what she means. Even when we’re not confessing anything with words, I can hardly keep myself from her, either. When the entire world is looking the other way, her eyes are looking at me.
“Help?” she asks, waving her hand. I pull her to her feet, and she doesn’t step away or give me space. The worktable is at my back.
She regards me for a long while. Then she leans forward and kisses my cheek, the texture of our skin a study in contrasts. Our hands touch, and I’m disoriented by the simple, glancing contact. I’m falling through a lightning storm. “You didn’t get your prize,” she explains.
I lift a hand to my cheek, tracing the spot.
“I know, I know,” she says, amusement coloring her tone, “it doesn’t matter. We’ve got a lot of other things to worry about right now.”
I swear if she comes closer, I’ll light on fire.
She yawns, turning slightly and covering her mouth with the back of her hand. “Where will you sleep?”
“I can sleep anywhere,” I answer through a yawn.
