Page 90 of The Winter Princess
“So that’s the feeling Lothar Thord was trying to get at. He—” I duck the snowball flying at my head, my words squeezed off in a yelp.
There’s no help for it. I continue the informational presentation in a crouch, grubbing for more snow, packing five balls, and dodging his volleys before being knocked square in the middle of my back. I fall onto my knees, wheezing.
“He was a day laborer but led a happy home life,” I sputter at the camera, firing off a snowball and clipping Oskar’s shoulder. “Some believe this tension elucidates—”
“Woman. Did you really say ‘elucidates’ in the middle of a snowball fight?” he calls, nailing me in the side.
I scoop the remaining ammunition into my arms and square off against my foe. Instead of standing his ground, he advances quickly, and we fight over what’s left, a tug of war I’m determined to win until I lose my footing. Grabbing out, I clutch him, and we fall together. He twists, and we land in a thick drift.
Whomp.
He’s underneath me, taking the brunt, our lips a hair’s breadth away, cold air swirling between us, thickening into a fog. I wanted today to end this way, but not yet. Not on screen. Oskar’s eyes are closed, hands wrapped around my waist.
“Let me loose,” I whisper.
He doesn’t stir. He’s so gorgeous, and I feel the impact of it in my solar plexus–a blow that has knocked the wind from my lungs and the sense from my head.
We’re still on camera. I pat his cheek, going up on all fours. “I can’t have killed you in the middle of a live broadcast. The country would revolt.”
His brow quirks up, even as his eyes remain closed. “Broken,” he groans, lifting his head, closing the distance between us, his cold lips almost brushing mine. I jerk away and he flops back, arm outflung.
“Oskar?” I say, a tiny bit worried. I inspect his face, limbs, and torso more closely. He flinches away from my touch. I lean in to hear his breathing when he moves in a motion so fluid, I can hardly break apart the pieces—the lifting of my collar, the tightening of his abs under my hand, the sweep of his arm, and the ice-cold snow washing down my back.
I yelp and scramble off him, shaking the snow further down my back. “You traitor,” I cry. “You goblin. I was checking for vitals.”
He brushes the snow from himself and reaches for the tree. Then he gives a wolfish smile. “Shall we return to our guests?”
Dirty trick, using all of Sondmark as his shield. I give him a withering side-eye and turn to the camera.
“Thank you for joining us for Part One of Lothar Thord’sChristmas Eve at Home, 1912. We’ll be back in a few hours for Part Two,Let’s Bury Oskar Velasquez in the Woods.”
30
It’s Tradition
OSKAR
“Next question,” I prompt, guiding the car through late afternoon traffic. The weak winter sun has slipped below the horizon, and the city is ablaze with light. Evergreen boughs hang above the streets, the swags threaded with fairy lights and ornamental stars. White lights wrap up the trunks and branches of nearly every tree we pass.
When we crawl through an intersection, I catch sight of hatted and gloved dancers in an open square and hear the strains of a brass band. The scent of sausages sizzling on a brazier is carried on the night air. My roots are shallow in this country, reaching across the topsoil, braced against the constant buffets of unbelonging, but sometimes I send down a taproot, winding around bedrock, drinking deeply of elemental waters, anchoring me to this place. There is nothing like Christmas in Sondmark.
“Who was The Stone Princess promised to in marriage?” Freja asks.
I frown. Any talk of princesses and contractual marriages is as liable to give me indigestion as the sausages. I pray this specific irritation passes.
“The Lord of Starlight,” I say, pulling the answer from my store of knowledge, ignoring the way I want to reach for her hand, threading her fingers in mine, brushing my thumb over them.
When we pull onto my street, I spy an empty spot near the block of flats, just large enough. Lining up the wheels of the car, I reach behind Freja’s headrest, turning my head to gauge my angles. Spinning the wheel, I slot the car into position quickly.
“Show off,” she taunts before I have a chance to subside back in my seat. I grip the steering wheel, conscious of how close Freja is, her profile rimmed in the glow of a streetlight.
I’ve lost the capacity to take things lightly in the last hours—when I chose between keeping my feet and letting Freja fall or holding her close and falling together. It’s as though I’ve finally been dragged to the well of self-reflection, the enormity of my feelings for her like a remorseless hand on my neck, plunging my face into the water and making me drink. This isn’t a game. I’m not going to get over her. I can’t fight it anymore. I’m ruined.
I put my hands on the steering wheel. Ten and two.
I know how to repair things that are ruined, I think, my mind slipping into the mode of an art restorer. Stabilize the piece. Clean it up. Patch the tears. Disguise the damage.
That’s the answer. Do my work so skillfully in the next few hours that my feelings will be invisible. Whether we win or lose the prime minister’s challenge, this is the last time we have to meet like this.
