Mom, however, she was not boring. Although reserved and not very talkative, she had a skill with drawing people out and not often, but in moments that surprised you which made it even better, she displayed a very dry wit.
And she had taken me into Fyngaard several times and that was when we had (borderline) fun together. Clearly, she liked shopping. Definitely, I liked it. And one could say the liquid chocolate at Esmeralda’s was brilliant (it wasn’t hot cocoa, like I expected it would be, it was actual liquid chocolate, a thick, rich, dark chocolate you could spoon up or dunk in the almond biscuits and glazed, fried, cake-like fingers they served with it and it was freaking divine). And Fyngaard was most assuredly a cosmopolitan city with high fashion which meant the dressmakers and the ensembles of passersby were out of sight, sophisticated cafés and elegant restaurants that served fabulous food.
I loved the city and I liked my Mom. It was weird she was so different and sometimes it freaked me out but, even so, it was wonderful to spend time with her, hear her voice, sometimes see her small smile or her eyes light and rarely, but they were treasured, feel her touch on my arm or hand.
Dad was easier to like, he was much like my father in ways that made my heart swell and clutch at the same time. He was gregarious and had an open, broad sense of humor. I heard his laughter quite often in the Palace and often saw him smiling at people.
Just not with me.
Another boy rushed to open the door for us (I had learned royalty didn’t do things like open doors or, well, pretty much anything but walk to get places, eat food people served and breathe on their own) and Dad replied distractedly as we entered the Palace, “Yes, Sjofn, I’ll look forward to that. Tomorrow, same time.”
Then he started to turn down a hall and I called, “Da… I mean, Father.”
Shit! My girls kept telling me I didn’t call them Mom and Dad but Father and Mother.
He turned and looked at me, visibly forcing a smile.
My heart clutched again when I saw it.
“I’ll find my way again,” I promised softly yet fervently. “So much has happened and I just, um… lost my focus. With practice, I’ll find it again even if I have to come out every day, I’ll do it and, I promise, I’ll find it.”
He studied me with something working in his eyes then he walked the two steps back to me, lifted a hand and touched the side of my hair while his gaze never left mine.
Then he said softly back, “Thank you, Sjofn, but maybe now that you’re married you have another focus. Perhaps we can spend time finding something new we enjoy sharing together. What do you think of that?”
My heart lightened and I grinned at him. Then I admitted, “Well, I kind of actually like archery.” His eyes brightened at this news, I took heart and I went on, “I just for some reason have become not very good at it. I’m totally into keeping it up and getting better again if you’re happy to help me.”
His eyes stayed bright when he replied quietly, “I’m more than happy to help you, daughter.”
My grin became a smile. And Father smiled back and finally it wasn’t fake.
“Until tomorrow,” he muttered.
“Cool,” I muttered back.
His head jerked a little at my word (and I reminded myself that I really had to speak like they did in this world) but he kept looking at me smiling. Then he bent and touched his lips to my cheek, turned and walked away.
I stood in the hallway watching him go and grinning to myself.
Well, that went well. Finally. Thank God.
Then I turned and started to make my way to my rooms because I knew, soon, the dressmakers would be there to do a fitting for my gown for the Bitter Gales.
I had learned from my girls that the Gales was a big, resplendent ball which was preceded by a huge hunt – this one of two hunts and balls the King and Queen of Lunwyn threw every year. The Bitter Gales was held on the shortest, coldest day of the year, the hunt in the forest around Fyngaard and the ball in the Winter Palace and the Solar Gales was held on the longest, warmest day of the year thrown at the king and queen’s castle, Rimée Keep in a city called Snowdon.
One could say I was looking forward to the Bitter Gales like I would look forward to having bamboo shoots shoved under my nails, that was to stress attending it, not dressing for it since my gown was kickass.
This was because I would be attending with my husband.
In the last week and a half I had barely seen Frey and I had not spoken to him once and, obviously, he had not spoken to me. I’d seen him three times, all from a distance, all only in passing and only once did his head turn to me and when his eyes caught mine, he gave me a minor chin lift then he looked instantly away.
That hurt. A lot. Too much. More than it should.
But it did.
And the fact he kept away not only from my person but my bed also hurt.
A lot. Too much.