“We need to make other arrangements,” Frida explains, her generous chest thrusting out as she throws her shoulders back.
“No, we do not.” Troels stops only when he’s inches from Frida, his nose nearly close enough to touch hers. His lips are pressed together in a thin line. “You and Ulfhild will do what we ask of you. Whatever we ask.”
Frida doesn’t back down. Her chin holds firm as her gaze battles with his. “You want more than we can give without risking ourselves. Aksell must suspect something. Our girls are in danger every time they go to him.”
I’m not surprised to hear Aksell’s name. He’ll do anything—betray anyone—for money or power.
“It’s a risk we must take.” He pauses, inhaling deeply before he speaks again. This time, his voice is more measured, less demanding. “They plan something. If they succeed, it will destroy everything we’ve done. All that we’ve fought to achieve. We must find out what they’re doing and when.”
“But why us?” Frida probes, her tone less strident. “You must have someone else who can get this information. I think he suspects us. If one of my girls gets caught, you’ll lose all of us. And all our connections.”
“I don’t like it any more than you do.” He reaches out a hand to place it on Frida’s cheek, holding it there until she lifts her own hand to rest it on his. “I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t important. This is important.”
They stand like that for a long time, staring at each other. I see the moment she resigns herself to his request. Her shoulders slump a bit as she looks toward the ground. She holds that position for a few seconds, her chest moving in and out slowly. And then she looks up and smiles.
“You’ll owe us. So, so much.”
“We already owe you so much, Frida,” he says softly. “Should we send more men to guard the women?”
“We have enough. And if they do know, no amount of protection will save us. But we’re committed. We’ll do what we must.”
The briefest smile passes across his lips as he leans down to give her a gentle kiss. She responds with passion, one hand moving to entwine itself in his hair and pull him in closer. He doesn’t resist.
There’s such an interesting story here. I wish I could ask her about it.
“Thank you, Frida,” Troels says as he draws away from her.
“I never could resist you,” she responds. Stepping back, she squares her shoulders and glances at Knut. “You’ll tell us if you hear anything? Warn us if you learn we’re in danger?”
“Always.” Knut agrees. “You’ll be the first to hear of any threat to your girls.”
“I must return,” Troels interjects. “They suspect anyone who strays at night. And Fhord’s people are there, putting everyone on edge.” For the briefest moment, the tendons stand out on Troels’s neck, a pulse spiking in his veins. Then the mask returns.
“What games does he play now?” Frida asks, the tips of her lips curving up.
“The same ones as always,” Troels tells her. “He walks a fine line between the Kastali and the rest of us. I never know whose side he’s really on.”
“Not ours,” Frida says with a huff. “That’s all we need to know.”
“Never ours.” Troels glances at Knut. And then he turns and stalks back into the forest.
“Do you still trust him?” Knut’s whisper barely reaches my ears.
Frida turns to Knut with a sigh. “I don’t know. We played together as children. I sometimes think I know him better than myself. But the longer he spends in that place, the more I wonder if he still stands with us.”
“You’ll do as he asks, though?” Knut’s words emerge as a plea.
“Yes,” Frida’s laugh is light. Resigned. “We’ll keep trying with Aksell. And the others. We know how much it matters.”
“Good.” Knut turns to look in the direction of the house. “We should go.”
Frida nods, and they turn to walk back, more quickly than they came. I give them a few minutes before following. But I don’t go to my room. The library awaits. Hopefully it’s not still locked.
It is, but not with anything effective. A few flicks of my tools and the door opens. I walk in with a plan because I don’t have enough time to do a thorough search. I’ve realized the chaos may be intentional.
If I wanted to hide secrets—and Vanatia has lots of those—I’d do it exactly like this. Stacks of books with no apparent order. Only those who know where to look could find the texts that really matter. They would be high up, mixed with others that appear irrelevant. Out of reach to the casual reader.
I climb the rungs of the ladder and take a few minutes to inspect the books within reach. None are interesting but that’s no surprise. Nothing’s ever so easy. Dropping to the floor, I tug on the ladder, which squeaks when I pull it over. My fingers freeze as my stomach flips. Pausing, I wait for someone to appear at the unexpected noise. Nobody does.
