Will and I wait, both our eyes left watching Alia. Allowing it to be her decision alone.
Alia shakes her head—I’m fine—and takes Will’s arm.
Alia is strong. Alia loves pageantry. These are the reasons I tell myself that she said yes.
Not that she believes we will fail. Not that this dance might literally be her last.
Inside the ballroom, men and women whirl in time, their movements all tightly choreographed. The pieces of modern society depicted in a churning metaphor of hand touches and elbow hooks, curtsies and twirls.
“Ah, les lanciers,” Will says. “You will be magnificent at this, Alia.”
Her eyes shift, watching the happy couple twirl by. Sofie is a cloud of ruffles and glistening skin, and the sapphires in Niklas’s crown catch the chandelier light with every twist and step. Again, he’s encrusted with pretty things he’s collected—the sea witch’s red ring on his righthand, more eye-catching than the new slim band of gold on his left; yet another gilded brooch; a pocket watch.
The dance floor is padded with onlookers several people deep, cups aloft. Summer wine, fleeting as it is, coveted at this final hurrah before autumn. Hvidtøl—white ale, like Father prefers—flows freely to mugs as big as my head.
Food—so much food. If there’s something that needs mending in our lessons on human culture, it is the fact that food has an unparalleled role. An entire whale filleted and presented on a spit, roasting low and slow until the meat and blubber is falling off the bone, caught before plummeting into the flames below. The last of summer’s fruits, ripe and glittering with sugar and syrup.
And, in the corner, as Will hinted, is a massive cake, the icing the requisite Havnestad blue, one side of the cake emblazoned with a sugar-made depiction of the Øldenburg coat of arms, and a red-and-white nettle-leaf coat I assume is the coat of Holsten.
The song ends, and the dancers line up again, switching partners. Niklas’s gaze finds Alia in the crowd. I expect him to call to her. To ask her to perform, even though he knows she’s ill, his pleasure at watching her dance greater than his concern for her physical struggle.
I’m about to yank her ear to my lips and inform her if she goes to him like his pet, I will end him myself right here. But then Will pipes up again.
“Alia, if you’d like to try it, I’ll be your partner.”
Another kindness from this boy.
Alia glances to the dancers, lining up again. Behind them, the musicians reset. Niklas and Sofie exchange sparkling glasses of summer wine. My sister nods, and Will extends his arm.
Alia’s arrival on the dance floor is something grand, the revelers parting for her like water around a ship’s bow. All eyes go to her, knowing that they’re about to see something truly special.
Of course, Niklas notices too, looking up too quickly from his pull of wine. He gulps and sputters, coughing. Sofie jumps back, pressing the ruffles of her dress into the curve of her body, hoping to keep the fabric clear. Someone pats him on his back and a handkerchief is produced. He holds up a hand—I’m okay—while pressing the handkerchief to his mouth with the other. The music starts up again, and he waves off anyone who descends on him, watching the next round of dancing with watering eyes.
Serves you right.
There’s an odd number of male suitors, and Sofie is drawn into the fray. She goes without a second glance at her husband, melting into the song.
Almost immediately, her father takes the bride’s place next to Niklas. The older man leans into the king’s ear. Niklas keeps the handkerchief up to his face but is clearly saying something to the man. Sofie’s father points his chin toward the French doors and the marble balcony. It’salmost imperceptible, but the king nods.
And then something strange happens.
They break apart.
The king going one way, his father-in-law going another.
I check on Alia and Will—mid-song, and pink-cheeked—and shoulder through the crowd bordering the dance floor. As I pass, I snag a plate of cake from a waiter’s platter, hoping that my movements appear natural. I smile and gesture to the confection as I pick my way across the room. There are a few small round tables pushed up against the wall, and I am able to land my plate on one that looks out the open door to the balcony.
There, as expected, is the king, leaning against the railing, breeze off the water testing the hold of the pomade in his hair.
I take a forkful of cake... and immediately gag.
How in the name of Urda can these humans eat something as sweet as this and still have their teeth?
When the foul bite is safely spit into my napkin, I wrench my eyes back to the balcony.
Niklas is still there, facing the water. Another man comes to him—not Sofie’s father, but someone dressed as a palace guard. Placing a hand inside his jacket, the guard fishes out an envelope and presses it into the king’s waiting palm. Niklas says nothing to the guard, who, duty done, turns and heads for the ballroom.
As the song comes to an end, I search the room for Baron Gerhard. He’s right where Niklas left him, clapping politely as the song ends.
