Page 35 of The Broken Dawn

As they helped the King to his chambers, Harald's mind raced with everything he'd learned. The theoretical discussions at Riddarhuset had suddenly become painfully real. And somewhere in that reality, Jakob was waiting—the one person Harald desperately wanted to discuss all this with, and the one person he absolutely couldn't tell.

The irony wasn't lost on him as he gathered the bloodied handkerchiefs his father had left behind, carefully folding the fabric to hide the stains from servants' eyes. The smell of iron mixed with tobacco and leather, making his throat tight with an emotion he couldn't quite name.

Freddie's study felt like a different world from the tense council chamber. The leather chairs and oak paneling absorbed sound, creating a bubble of quiet that made Harald's ears ring after hours of heated debate. Freddie moved to pour three fingers of whiskey into crystal tumblers.

"Father's cough is getting worse," Freddie said, handing Harald a glass. His voice was steady, but his fingers tightened on the crystal.

"We should get Dr. Carlsson to examine him again." Harald couldn't forget how Gustav's whole body had shaken during that last coughing fit, how Minister Lindstrom had carefully looked away while the King struggled to catch his breath. "Perhaps reduce his public appearances⁠—"

"The King can't appear weak. Not now." Freddie's voice had the familiar edge of certainty to it. "The ministers already think they can push him around."

"Better pushed than dead," Harald snapped, then winced at Freddie's look.

"Don't be dramatic, Hal. Father knows his duty."

"And what about yours?" The words escaped before Harald could stop them. "The papers have you linked to half the eligible women in Europe. Pick one. Get married. Have children. Soon."

Freddie barked out a laugh. "Is that what's bothering you? Don't worry, little brother. I'm sure mother is picking out a well-mannered Prussian princess for me as we speak. I'll do my duty when the time is right."

"The time is right now." Harald's voice cracked. "What about that Danish princess? Or the Norwegian opera singer? Just... please, Freddie."

"Harald." Sigrid's voice came from the doorway. She swept in, uninvited as always, and stole Freddie's glass from his hand. "You're getting better at seeing the bigger picture, but you're still terrible at being subtle."

Harald took a large swallow of whiskey to hide his reaction. "The point is, our Freddie needs to secure the succession. Before..." He couldn't finish the sentence.

"Before Father's illness becomes common knowledge," Freddie completed grimly. "I know my duty, Hal. But rushing into marriage now would only fuel speculation."

"Then let them speculate! Better that than—" Harald cut himself off, but better that than me stood unspoken between them.

"You're doing well at Riddarhuset," Freddie said, clearly trying to be reassuring. "Following in the family tradition. Father will be proud when he hears your practical marks have improved."

Harald thought of Jakob's hands adjusting his rifle stance, his quiet voice explaining trajectory and wind resistance. Of discussions about power and responsibility that had nothing to do with tradition and everything to do with seeing the world clearly. "Some traditions need to change," he said quietly.

"Careful, little brother." Freddie's voice was kind but firm. "Tradition is what holds us together in times like these."

"Is it?" Harald asked. "Or is it what keeps us from seeing things as they really are?"

A knock at the door made them all jump. "Your Royal Highnesses," called one of the footmen. "Her Majesty requests your presence at dinner in forty-five minutes."

"Saved by mother's punctuality," Sigrid said, swinging her legs off Hal's lap and fishing for her discarded shoes. "Though I suppose we should be grateful she didn't send someone an hour ago to supervise our dressing."

"Don't give her ideas," Freddie muttered, already shrugging back into his formal posture. "She's been impossible since the Polish announcement."

The state dining room had stretched endless and cold, despite the August heat outside, and the weight of protocol pressed down like a physical thing. His father's cough punctuated the careful silence between courses, though everyone pretended not to notice. Mother's lips tightened each time, her fingers white-knuckled around her wine glass. Freddie, seated at her right hand, smoothly filled any conversational gaps with questions about the ministers' families, their summer holidays, anything to keep attention from the King's increasingly frequent episodes.

Time stretched like pulled taffy as servers moved in their choreographed dance around the table. Harald's collar felt too tight, his formal uniform suddenly stifling. He longed to turn to Sigrid, to share an eye roll or whispered joke as they had when they were children, but those days were gone. Now they sat in separate bubbles of silence while the ministers talked around them, through them, about a future that seemed to be slipping further from their control with each passing hour.

Harald found himself intensely relieved when dinner finally concluded and he was allowed to go back to his rooms. He had just loosened his tie when a soft knock came at his door, followed by Sigrid slipping in with her hands full of what looked like kitchen contraband.

"Cook's stress baking," she announced, dumping an armful of pastries onto his desk. "The whole kitchen smells like cardamom. Here." She tossed him something wrapped in wax paper. "Your favorite."

Hal caught it one-handed - still warm cinnamon rolls. "Is the entire country stress baking?"

"Just the palace kitchen." Sigrid curled up in his reading chair, tucking her feet under her in a way that would have horrified their mother. "Though you should hear what they're saying in Stockholm. The market ladies think Hitler's going to march straight through Poland and into Sweden."

"That's ridiculous." Hal said around a mouthful of pastry. "They're not even contiguous, and the terrain alone⁠—"

"Since when do you care about terrain?" Sigrid raised an eyebrow.