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The girl only grinned, her nose and cheeks pink in the cold.
Elma realized then that the city seemed to have gone quiet. The parade stood unmoving, waiting for her to rejoin its ranks. Luca and Rune stood just behind her, tension radiating from them — they were ready to strike at anyone, even, presumably, children. There was no music, and even the crowd along the street was silent, watching this exchange with something like frightened awe.
King Rafe had never done this, Elma realized with a sudden certainty. He had never spoken to his subjects, let alone stopped a parade to do so.
She glanced up at Rune, expecting to see disapproval in his gaze or amusement at her gaffe. But he was watching the girl, a soft smile playing at the edge of his mouth. And when his eyes found hers, he only held her gaze with an air of anticipation, as if to say,your move.
Elma turned back to the girl, who was still watching her with wide-eyed awe. Elma’s heart twisted. “What’s your name?” she said.
“Winifred,” said the girl, her excited smile returning. “You can call me Winny, though.”
“Winny,” said Elma, and it was shockingly easy to return the girl’s smile. She returned the pennant to the girl’s eager hands. “Thank you for your confidence in me. I will do my utmost to live up to it.”
She returned to her horse under the stormy gaze of Luca and Rune’s unreadable expression. As the parade started up again, the assassin drew closer to her, their feet almost colliding as they rode.
“You think I’m an idealistic fool,” Elma said, not waiting for her bodyguard to speak.
“I don’t know what I think,” said Rune. “But if you pull something like that again, Luca might burst into flames.”
“I can hear you,” Luca said.
Elma couldn’t help the snort of laughter that bubbled forth, and she covered her mouth with a gloved hand.
That evening, Elma wrote up an order for her uncle to sign: the Frost Citadel’s rations would be divided up and distributed to the people of the city, each household receiving enough to feed them well for months. There would be plenty of time after her coronation, Elma insisted, to trade with Mekya for more.
Rune was uncharacteristically quiet as they made their way back to Elma’s rooms for the night. He had been seemingly morose all day, his usual sharp witticisms strangely lacking. Elma should have been relieved, but instead, she found herself set off balance by the assassin’s reticence.
“Well?” she said at last. “Out with it.”
“Out with what?” Rune asked.
“Whatever scathing commentary you’ve been sitting on all day. Don’t hold back on my account. I’d rather you flay me verbally than put up with thissilent brooding.”
Rune paused in the cold corridor, turning to face her. Like clockwork, her guard retinue, several paces behind, paused as well. “I don’t brood,” Rune said. “I’m simply… thinking.”
“About?”
“The parade. I didn’t know the Volta had it in you.”
Elma bristled. Here came the insult. “Had what in us?” she asked when her assassin wasn’t forthcoming.
Rune moved toward her, his voice low so no one else could hear. “Humanity,” he said.
Elma opened her mouth to protest, to shoot back some barb. But the words caught in her throat. “Neither did I,” she said, unable to meet the assassin’s gaze. “I didn’t expect… I thought perhaps my father was right.”
“Right about what?”
“That we are all bloodthirsty in Rothen.” Elma crossed her arms. “But I’m finding that my father was wrong about many things.”
“Interesting,” said Rune.
She frowned. “What is?”
The assassin’s mouth quirked. “You.”
“Right,” said Elma, turning on her heel and striding off again, toward her room. “Of course. Keep your insults to yourself, then.”
But Rune said nothing as he accompanied her to her chambers, and when she shot him a glower as she closed the door in his face, he only blinked, as if distracted, his gaze far away.
