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She studied her father’s face. He was not as he had been in the arena, twisted in pain. Somehow, they had made him look peaceful. His thick arms were folded over his chest in repose, and he still wore the ring that had always been his prized possession, a trophy of war: a silver band set with a blue-black stone. His eyes were closed, and his face had been washed, his silver-flecked beard trimmed. The scent of cloves permeated the room, too strong and yet not strong enough — the reek of death cut through.
Elma’s fingers curled around the tasseled edge of one of the many blankets on her father’s bed and twisted. “May the winter star guide you,” she whispered.
“May the winter star guide him,” intoned those in the room.
Elma recited the rites as best she could, the words an heir was expected to speak over her predecessor. But in her heart, she was pleading, clutching at him, begging him not to go. Not to leave her here, alone in this frostbitten waste.
This is your birthright, he had often said, admonishing.You are the sole heir to the throne of Rothen. The sooner you learn to accept it, the less miserable you’ll be.
But Elma had always clung to misery. She enjoyed it. What else did she have here but resentment?
“Your Majesty,” said the nearest physician, and Elma blinked, jolted back to the now. “The funeral…”
“Yes,” said Elma, the true weight of her new station beginning to crash over her. “The funeral. Is two weeks enough time to… prepare?”
The physician nodded.
“Two weeks, then.”
Elma returned to her room. When she was alone at last, she went to the window and watched the snow fall. Even then, shivering and afraid, she did not cry.
Inertia keptElma under the fur-lined blankets of her bed the next morning, a strange coldness seeping from within her as opposed to without.
She had been fond of her father. As fond as one was of a half-rotted meal that would pain the stomach yet stave off starvation for another day. For the past seven years, she had watched the lines of his face deepen, his knuckles swell with every new winter, his breaths become labored with every new spring. But somehow, she had believed, with the conviction of naivete, that he would be with her until the end of her days. He was a king, after all. Kings did not die. They ruled the land because that was their duty.
It was Cora who was finally able to rouse Elma from her morning stupor, bringing in a tray of breakfast and bitter, steaming coffee.
“Your father’s… I mean your advisors are waiting for you,” Cora said, her face wan, lips tight. “Godwin and the rest.”
“Godwin’s a general,” Elma said automatically. She found it difficult to meet Cora’s eyes, afraid she would seepity there. Or perhaps even impatience. Elma did not have the energy to contend with Cora’s feelings on top of her own, whatever they were. She could not seem to access her own emotions, and she was afraid that in seeing emotion in others, they might infect her.
“He may be a general, but he’s been locked in that room with the other advisors all morning.” A warning tainted Cora’s words.
“If you want my dowry,” Elma said, her fingers flexing on the velvet embroidered coverlet, “it’s yours. Father doesn’t need it. Your family does. Your sisters…”
Silence stretched between them.
“I have the necklace,” Cora said at last.
“I’m not leaving my room.”
“They will make decisions without you. You’ll be trodden on by your own men. You need to assert your power. You are the queen.”
A spark of anger cut through the fog of Elma’s mind. She turned sharply, at last meeting her maid’s gaze. Cora’s eyes were wide, red-rimmed as if she hadn’t slept. “I am the queen,” Elma said.
“Yes.”
A crushing weight, as if the whole of the mountain’s snow had cascaded down to bury her in its suffocating depths, fell over Elma. Cora and her family depended on Elma. Countless more souls dotting the frozen kingdom of Rothen depended on her. She was their queen.
Elma wanted, in that moment, nothing more than to let the entirety of Rothen freeze and die and take her with it. What difference would it make? There was no escape for her. This was her birthright. As surely as the winter storms, her reign would come.
“Unless you’d likea full battalion of Slödavan soldiers on our doorstep before the crown is laid upon your head, Your Majesty, I suggest we move forward with a coronation this week.”
Elma listened, heavy-lidded, as Lord Bertram insisted — not for the first time that morning — upon a swift coronation.
“Such haste speaks of desperation,” Godwin said. It had been his reply each time as the conversation went around in circles, Elma at the center of it. “A prosperous kingdom in peacetime does not rush to crown its monarch. We need at least a month of planning and another for festivals. Celebrations. Parties and tournaments.”
“A ball, perhaps,” said Lord Ferdinand, the youngest and most genial of the advisors, spinning a large silver ring around one finger. “The young men and women of Frost might benefit from… levity.”
