“Evelyn is a sweet girl, but you care far too much. Believe me when I say you will only get hurt.”
His cousin escorting the two of them home, ordering his minder down below as the three of them ran the sails, capable hands all.
“Nik, listen to me. I was young once. I know what it’s like to love someone you cannot have.”
The hero blinked then, eyes focusing on the queen. “She’s my friend, Mother,” though he knew the words sounded flat, not at all how he felt.
“I don’t think you should see her anymore. It’s for the best. It’s the only wa—”
“No!” the hero shouted.
“Let him be,” said his father, moving out from a shadow in the room. “She is a good girl, Evelyn. Neither I nor Nik nor you, my dear wife, would be here were it not for Hansa. They can be friends. Just friends. Isn’t that right, Son?”
The hero nodded. “Yes, Father.”
21
THE SUN HAS NEARLY SET, TENDRILS OF GOLDEN LIGHTspraying the beach, when it is time for the close of today’s games. The crowd is thrumming with hvidtøl and excitement for the finale—the rock carry championship. The brine of sweaty bodies mixes with the musk of the king’s summer wine and the fatty scent of fresh-fried torsk.
Annemette and I pick at the remains of a fruit-and-cheese plate—grapes, a few slivers of rye left alongside crumbles of samsø and Havarti that somehow escaped our lips. We share a cup of honeyed sun tea as well—something I badly need to help calm my nerves.
Iker and Nik are warming up in the inner circle, jogging paces down the course, a hundred yards long. With them are six winners of earlier heats, ready to run one more time today after winning two earlier eliminations to get to this point. The princes, of course, get to run just in thefinal round. Nik hates the special treatment, but it makes the people happy to see him run, so he complies.
The rocks that they must carry are all beached at the end closest to where we’re sitting. They are heavy, each roughly five stone in weight, though they vary in shape.
Little Johan Olsen is getting ready to compete again too. Nik was right: he is a sight. He’s so large, he rivals Nik in height and Iker in strength. The oldest of the finalists is Malvina’s father, Greve Leopold Christensen. His daughters sit across the arena from our side, Malvina ignoring us, her attention either on her father or the hand pie in her fingers. The other four competitors are fishermen I see on the docks in the morning—in their twenties and thirties, the lot of them.
“What happens if they drop the rock on their foot or some such thing?” Annemette asks, watching Nik practice his start by repeatedly hauling the rock to his right shoulder from a dead lift. She’s been nearly silent since the boys left us.
“They pick it up.”
“And then what? Drag themselves home on a broken foot?”
“Most likely.” I laugh, though it’s cruel. “Don’t worry, Mette. Nik has done this before. He won last year, in fact. He’ll surely have two good feet to dance with you tomorrow night.”
He’ll also, unfortunately, have two good feet to dancewith the suitors who arrived an hour ago on a steamer so large it could rival the king’s. The docks were full of girls, their chaperones, and some parents. Every mark of Øresund nobility was accounted for from equal kingdoms to landholders of each shape—hertug, markis, greve, friherre, and the like.
It’s overwhelming, and now that they’ve filled the rooms of the castle with their trunks and demands, they’ve crowded around the king and queen on the royal platform. King Asger’s expression is unreadable, but Queen Charlotte is soaking up the attention, flitting among the ladies as if each is a tulip lovelier than the next. And Nik, as usual, is being a gentleman, repeating their names, kissing each hand, but still managing to steal some glances our way. Iker is being Iker—loud, grand, princely—but I can see in his eyes that his heart is not in it.
I turn away, finally, after this afternoon feeling confident in what Iker and I have. Annemette, though, continues to watch the chatter. Especially the queen’s.
“What do you think the queen makes of me?” Annemette’s eyes shift to mine. “She’s been friendly with me... but then she is just the same with all of these girls.” She lowers her voice to just above a whisper. “And she can’t be so high that gossip hasn’t reached her ears—Malvina’s surely not the only one to notice Nik’s time with me.”
At this I nearly smile from experience.Everyone’s noticed, trust me.
With the race almost ready to begin, Queen Charlotte has moved to look down upon the competitors, but I know she is only truly seeking Nik for one last wave of good luck.
“She has eyes only for her son. And she wants to see him properly matched.”
Annemette’s hand presses to my shoulder. I turn to her and find a flash of anger in the depths of her eyes.
“Properly matched? I know we fought earlier, but there is no need to be cruel, Evie. I have as much of a chance as those other girls.”
“I didn’t mean it to be cruel, Mette. Really. I meant it as a truth. In order to win him, which you know I hope you do, you must know what he is up against. She is quite an opponent.” I move into a whisper. “Your father is a king; would he be pleased if you came home with just any boy?”
The anger recedes. “Well, no—” Annemette’s face drains of color. “So, it doesn’t matter if I stay... she’d find out eventually that I can’t claim the title I’ve told her....” She eyes the suitors, all in fine silks and hair ribbons. “Not like those other girls.”
“I didn’t say it was her choice.” I wait until her eyes meet mine and then hold them with a smile. “If Nik is in love, he will fight for you. But it wouldn’t hurt to impress her some more. You’ll need to show her and these girls at the ball what kind of friherrinde you are.”
