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He was right, but if anything, she would be banished by the king for her disgrace before she was chosen as his sacrifice. “I love you, Papa.”
“I love you, daughter.”
Eirah padded to her room and shut the door behind her. The bedroom was clean compared to her workspace. Her bed was pressed against the wall with a wardrobe opposite it. Hugging the two back corners were shelves filled with music boxes and dolls she’d made. Hidden beneath her bed were tales of romance she sometimes read when her father was out hunting or asleep.
Tossing the Morozko doll on the quilt, Eirah opened her wardrobe and sifted through the fabrics. She still had all her mother’s dresses, which would’ve been too pretty for her to wear, even though she would have if the occasion had been different. “Mama, protect Saren tonight. I don’t want to lose my only friend,” she whispered as she took out a simple dress.
Eirah removed her clothing and inhaled beneath her arm—no putrid odors, so that would be good enough. She slipped on the lavender fabric—no lace, no fine embroidery, only two pockets on the sides. Her mother had always sewn pockets on Eirah’s dresses so she could put things in them when they would walk through the forests. Pebbles, leaves, twigs… After her mother passed, Eirah continued to make pockets in her dresses, but they’d always remained empty.
Until now.
Eirah slipped the Morozko doll inside her left pocket. “Get comfortable in there,King.”
She peered at herself in the oval mirror hanging on the wall, deciding to leave her hair in her mussed braid. Black circles rimmed her dark brown eyes, and she kept her face free of powders or added colors.
As she entered the sitting room, her father glanced up from eating one of the apples she’d left him and nodded in approval. “Thank you, daughter.”
Eirah shrugged. “I’m going to Saren’s, so I’ll see you tonight at the celebration.”
“Stay by her side.”
“He’s going to pick her.” There were so many young maidens in the village, but in her gut, she knew—just knew—he would choose Saren as his sacrifice. How was he planning to do it? A slit to the throat, a stab to the heart, burn her alive…
“Maybe not.” Her father chewed on his lip, seeming to not believe his own answer.
“See you soon.” Eirah drew on her cloak and stepped outside into the crisp air. The night would fall soon, so she hurried next door to Saren’s. Snowdrops and yellow-berried bushes bloomed in the garden, and two white rocking chairs rested on the porch. It was only Saren and her younger brother, Petre, who lived there. Two years ago, their parents had been slaughtered by a snow lion when visiting a frost demon village.
Eirah knocked on the door, and Petre answered, dressed in a black tunic and matching trousers. His short blond hair, parted on the side, was the same shade as Saren’s. He had another year before he reached maturity, but he’d been a head taller than the both of them since he was twelve years of age.
“Hello, Eirah.” Petre motioned her inside. The familiar hint of citrus brushed her nose as she stepped into the neatly arranged sitting room. Not a single speck of dust coated the bookshelves or the furniture. “Saren’s still primping in the other room.”
“Primping?” Eirah’s stomach sank. She walked past the snowflake wall decor to the short hall leading to Saren’s room.
The door was shut, and Eirah knocked lightly on it. A few seconds later, Saren answered, and she looked… beautiful.
“You were supposed to make yourselfnotstand out.” Eirah sighed, but she couldn’t deny that she would be in awe of her on any other occasion.
“What?” Saren huffed. “I didn’t!”
Eirah brushed a finger down the silken strands of hair that hung loose to her friend’s waist. “You have the top of your hair in a braided crown like a queen! And you’re wearing a red dress that is hugging your curves in all the perfect places! Any man would want to tumble you when seeing you like this!”
“Well, thankfully, no one is being tumbled by the king tonight.” Saren rolled her eyes.
“That’s right—someone is going to beslaughteredinstead,” Eirah hissed. Unless the king did want to tumble his chosen maiden first… A new sense of horror washed over her because that might be precisely what the bastard would do.
“I’m not finished getting ready yet.” Saren pointed toward her bed. “I’m wearing a raggedy cloak, and I’m tucking my hair that’s loose beneath it.”
Her pulse calmed a fraction, and she sat on the mattress. “I’m sorry for overreacting—I’m just frightened.”
“We’ll be fine, and we’ll both keep our heads down.” Saren sank onto the bed beside her, grasping Eirah’s hand and gently squeezing it. “I do feel dirty from not bathing, though.” She wrinkled her nose and smiled.
“Good.” Eirah laughed.
She glanced at Saren’s night table and the shelves along her walls, filled with music boxes and marionettes that Eirah had made for her over the years.
“Once tonight’s over, I have my own sacrifice to burn.” Eirah drew out her Morozko doll from her pocket.
“Is that the king?” Saren snorted. “He looks positively arrogant.”
