Neither of us wants to say what her life will be otherwise.
18
WHENNIK ANDIKER RETURN, THEY ARE EAGER TOprove who is the strongest, the fastest, the most agile, their egos sorely bruised after both losing the mountain run. It seems the tailor’s son, little Johan Olsen, is not so little anymore.
“I’ve never seen someone run like him,” Nik admits as we make our way over to the Havnestad River, which slices through the mountains before emptying to the sea. “It was a sight to see.”
“You want to see a sight?” says Iker. “Challenge me to a log run, Cousin. I could beat ten of that Olsen boy, and you, too.”
I look over at Annemette, who has plastered a smile on her face and is laughing along with the boys. And, because I’d love to see Iker dunked in the Havnestad River, I am totally encouraging it too.
Nik chuckles—a royal chuckle, but an actual chuckle nonetheless. As we reach the riverbank, he’s still contemplating. He props one foot up on the tail end of the right log. There’s an open one to his left, ready for Iker.
“If I’m not mistaken,” Nik says, “I heard you came to this Lithasblot extravaganza with the promise of a certain raven-haired girl scampering across a log, and it wasn’t me, Cousin.”
Nik!How could he? But I laugh an Iker laugh, head thrown toward the sky. Nik is losing it too—chortling so hard that his foot has slipped off the end of the log and he’s nearly squatted to a sit on the thing.
Annemette, though, has her wits about her. I right myself just as she glances my way with a wicked little grin and a gleam in her eyes. “How about this compromise? Nik and Evie race. The winner faces Iker.”
Iker’s brows climb his forehead and his eyes sparkle, clear and thrilled. He claps his big, strong hands together. “Yes. That’s it. The lady has the perfect idea!”
I shake my head. “Yes, the perfect idea to keep herself dry.”
Annemette shrugs and backs into the small crowd that has gathered, lined along the rocks and logs. “I’m just a spectator.”
Nik laughs and manages a long lunge to nudge her sweetly with his elbow. “That’s what I thought, too, my dear, and now look where it’s got me.”
I cock a brow at him. “Yes, as my first victim.”
“Hey, now, what makes you so sure you’ll win?” Nik says to me, a smile playing at his lips, though his tone is attempting to sound indignant.
“Sometimes you just have a feeling, my prince. You’re sure to be a loser, Asger Niklas Bryniulf Øldenburg III.”
As the spectators and competitors chant Nik’s name, he plants a foot on the log across from me. Both logs are suspended just above the current, tied by ship ropes on either side to keep them straight and somewhat steady—to keep the competition fair, not to create ease.
It is twenty-five feet from one end to the other. We must race to the other side, touch the bank, and then make a return trip. The first one back or the one to stay out of the water wins. If we both wind up in the river, then it’s a draw, no matter who fell first.
Our classmate, Ruyven Van Horn, squashed ginger hair, elephant ears and all, is there between us, the official start on his lips. “On your marks... get set... go!”
We lunge onto the logs. Nik’s legs are much longer, and he’s ahead after a step, but his center of gravity is much higher, and he immediately wobbles.
“Unsteady so soon, Cousin?” Iker laughs in the background.
I can’t see him, but I’m sure Nik is smiling right back. “Jeer me, and you only serve to anger me.”
In the time it’s taken him to steady himself and answer Iker’s ribbing, I’ve already made it five steps. The logs are slicked over, but mine is the perfect size for my feet. Planting each foot in a turnout à la the French ballet, I can move quickly to the center point with shallow steps. Beside me, Nik hasn’t altered his stride, daring gravity to take him with every long step, but using his strength and coordination to stay steady.
I make it to the end of my log and tag the ground on the other side, earning me a flag raise from Ruyven’s counterpart.
“Excellent, Evie!” Annemette cheers.
I get both feet back onto my log just as Nik lunges off the end of his and safely into the dirt.
“Mette, you traitor,” Nik yells, mounting his log a bit too quickly. His arms windmill through my periphery in a grand arc—the crowd gasps.
“Less jawing, more movement, Cousin. Evie’s smoking you!”
“You only root for me because you’re stupid enough to think you can beat me in the next round. Against her you won’t have a chance, and you know it.”
