Page 53 of The Broken Dawn

Sarah's expression softened. "It's shchi, russian cabbage soup. From the old country." She pushed the bread basket toward Harald. "Here, take more bread. No, no—butter it first. The butter is from the cow you helped Yasha milk this morning."

"Yasha?" Harald glanced at Jakob, who was suddenly very interested in his soup. "I thought⁠—"

"It's what his father called him, his nickname. In Russian his name is Yakov, and Yasha is the short version. For people who know him well… friends and family." Sarah's eyes grew distant for a moment. "And Yashka, that's what I call him when he's being particularly stubborn or when I'm feeling tender. It's smaller, more... mine."

She touched Jakob's shoulder briefly. "My Chaim chose the name — Jacob, the one who wrestles with angels. Sometimes I wonder if we should have named him something more peaceful." She glanced at Harald, then back to her son. "But then, perhaps he was always meant to wrestle with the world. The name finds the child, my mother used to say."

Jakob shifted uncomfortably. "Mama, I'm sure His High—Harald doesn't want a lesson on biblical namesakes."

"On the contrary," Harald said quietly, his eyes never leaving Jakob's face. "I find it rather fitting."

"And you," Sarah turned to Harald, "you've never had proper food? At the palace?" She clicked her tongue disapprovingly. "All those French chefs, probably. Too fancy to make good soup. Here, try the herring. I pickled it myself."

Harald obediently took some herring. "I've had herring at state dinners, but never..." He took a bite and his eyes lit up again.

"You've never had homemade pickled herring?" Sarah looked scandalized. "You're the Crown Prince of Sweden and you've never had proper home-pickled herring?" She stood up, went to the pantry, and returned with another jar. "Here. Take this home. A prince should know what real herring tastes like."

"Mama!" Jakob looked mortified.

"What? He likes it! Look at him eat!" Sarah beamed as Harald helped himself to more soup. "At least someone appreciates my cooking. Your sister would rather starve than eat cabbage soup these days."

They ate in comfortable silence for a moment, broken only by the clink of spoons and Harald's occasional sounds of appreciation. Sarah watched him butter another piece of bread, noting how carefully he made sure every corner was covered.

Finally, she spoke. "You know, Your Highness⁠—"

"Please," Harald interrupted, then looked startled at his own daring. "Please, just Harald. At least here?"

Sarah nodded slowly. "Harald, then. You know, I'm not happy about..." she waved her hand between him and Jakob, "...this. Whatever this is." And then, in Yiddish, "A prince and my son? Friends? It can only end in sadness" She sighed. "But you're a good boy. Respectful. You work hard, you eat well, you don't pretend to be something you're not. You can come back, if you want."

Jakob nearly choked on his soup. "Really?"

"On one condition," Sarah held up a finger. "You learn to treat those chickens properly. I won't have anyone saying my son is teaching royalty bad farming habits."

Harald's smile could have lit up Stockholm. "I promise."

"Good." Sarah stood and began clearing bowls. "Now, who wants more soup?"

October 5, 1939

"Karl XII was defending Sweden's honor," Harald insisted, his finger tracing the battle lines on the old map. "Accepting Peter's terms would have been admitting weakness."

"Weakness?" Jakob's laugh was hard, personal. "One of my forefathers lost his leg at Poltava because your ancestor couldn't recognize a good deal when it was offered. That's not honor—that's pride."

"Sometimes principles matter more than expedience," Harald countered, color rising in his cheeks.

"Tell that to the widows of Poltava," Jakob shot back. "Peter offered to return everything except that swamp he called a city. Everything Sweden had fought for! And Karl threw it away because he wanted total victory."

"A king cannot show weakness to his enemies," Harald said, but there was a hint of uncertainty now.

"A king's first duty is to his people, not his ego," Jakob countered, leaning across the map, eyes blazing. "Marching into Russia in winter isn't strategy—it's mass suicide in fancy clothes."

Princess Sigrid paused in the doorway, watching her brother and this boy lean over the library table, their books spread out between them, both bending over the pages, faces inches apart as they argued. She'd claimed a headache to escape some tedious luncheon their mother had arranged, but now she was glad she'd made the detour to Riddarhuset. There was something compelling about watching her usually quiet and reserved brother so thoroughly engaged in debate — and getting so thoroughly trounced at it.

"But Karl XII was following a long tradition of Swedish military excellence," Harald pressed. "His grandfather had secured Sweden's place as a great power⁠—"

"And he squandered it!" Jakob threw up his hands. "Do you know what happened to the men who survived Poltava? Thirteen years of captivity in Russia. Thirteen years! My ancestor came home with one leg and frost-bitten fingers that couldn't hold a plow anymore. The farm nearly failed."

"The historical records clearly show that Karl's strategy was⁠—"