Throughout my bath, throughout the two silent women assisting me to strap on my underwear, pull the soft, woolen gown over my head, my boots up my calves and doing my hair, throughout my solitary meal and after, as I was alone in the luxuriously appointed but chilly rooms, I tortured myself.
I tortured myself with memories of the first time I saw my huge, frightening husband at our wedding.
And the first time he kissed me.
I tortured myself with memories of him throwing a dead dear on the kitchen table, pulling me in his lap and telling me I fit there and bathing with him in a hot spring.
And the first time we made out in bed together and how gentle he was with me.
I was wrong in my anger. He had been my gentle Frey before he knew me.
I tortured myself with that too, that I had forgotten and all I said to him prior to his death.
Then, when I could bear those particular thoughts no longer, I tortured myself with memories of playing cards with Frey’s men. Of Father’s proud cry the first time he saw me get a bulls-eye and his tight hug the second time he saw me do it. Of Skylar sitting at a desk, any desk, all of the desks he sat at, his tongue poking out in his concentration, looking so cute and boyish. Of my girls’ giggles and gossip and gentle care and how they took me in without reservation. Of Mother’s dry wit and small smiles and eyes that told you how she felt about you in a way you would always believe and never forget.
I tortured myself with memories of a ship called The Finnie and all that had happened aboard her.
I tortured myself with memories of strong hands guiding me on a dance floor while I wore a blood red dress at a ball.
I tortured myself with memories of touches, tastes and words whispered in my ear.
I tortured myself with every memory I could pull up of the best by far, the most beautiful by a landslide, the most perfect adventure I’d ever had and I turned each in my head, I burned them in my brain and as I did it, as the seconds slid to minutes, minutes to hours and the guard remained outside and I remained alone in the prince’s room, I prepared.
So when the door opened, I was ready.
I was ready to do what I had to do for Frey, for Atticus, for Aurora and for Lunwyn which was rightfully mine to give to the child I carried. Frey’s child. The Drakkar’s child. The elves’ child. My child.
Lunwyn’s child.
And by my God and my husband’s gods, I was f**king going to do it.
So, prepared, I watched Broderick walk in and I schooled my face not to show a reaction when his eyes fell gentle on me and his lover trotted in obediently at his heels.
The guard closed the door and Broderick continued to approach as I sat in my chair, unmoving, my hands hidden in the folds of my skirt and I watched.
“You look better, Sjofn,” he said softly.
“You killed my husband,” I replied and watched with morbid fascination as he winced.
Then he whispered, “Sjofn.”
“You killed my husband,” I repeated, holding his eyes.
He stopped in front of me and looked down at me. “I’m sorry I needed to do that.”
“Can you tell me why you needed to do that?” I asked, my voice bland, flat.
It was Phobin who answered with an incredulous, “Why?”
My eyes didn’t leave Broderick as he turned to his lover and hissed, “Quiet,” then turned back to me and his voice was gentle when he explained, “Sjofn, I could see you were taken with him and he you but he’s The Drakkar, The Frey, he commands the fire of dragons and the magic of elves and he let it be known very openly that he would not hesitate to call his beasts in defense of you.” His voice became even gentler when he finished, “I am sorry, my cousin, but he was too powerful to let live.”
“You didn’t believe that then,” I stated and he blinked.
“I’m sorry?” he enquired.
In what I hoped was a good impersonation of Aurora, I regally inclined my chin to indicate Phobin and declared, “It was his idea. When we met in Middleland, you were pleased for me.”
“I was,” he whispered, watching me closely.