“If you ever return to Loire, I imagine she will let up some,” Gemma said, comparing threads to the violet fabric. “Wasn’t she more relaxed when you lived there?”
“Yes, but that was four years ago—before I grew to a marriageable age. Mama locks me up when we are in Verglas from fear that King Torgen will force me to marry a Verglas noble. She has her heart set on a obtaining a Loire son-in-law,” Lady Linnea said, sighing in disgust. “I would much rather be in Farset. Have I ever told you they have female captains?”
“Several dozen times, My Lady,” Gemma acknowledged as she tossed thread spools aside and returned to digging through the basket of spools.
“You’re so lucky, Gemma. You don’t have to worry about marriage,” Lady Linnea said. “I want to leave this frozen place so badly it makes my heart ache.”
“It’s not so terrible,” Gemma said, pausing to look outside. The northern mountains were visible in the bright sunshine. “Our government might be less than desirable, but the country is pretty. I like the Snow Queen’s residual magic and the way it makes everything clean and white with snow.”
Lady Linnea shivered. “You are part caribou,” she said. “I thought you wanted to come to Loire with me?”
“I do,” Gemma said. Her sharp, ageless eyes softened to match the childish-ness of her heart-shaped face. “Prince Lucien is said to wear the most daring ensembles, and with Princess Elle established as a fashion idol, it is a wonderful place for a seamstress to visit,” she said. She smiled for a moment and added, “That being said, any country would do. I want to see how the Erlauf dressmakers counter Princess Cinderella’s red hair, and I’ve heard incredible stories about the shoemakers of Trieux.”
“I should have known you would come with me only because of fashion, not because of our friendship,” Lady Linnea said, sliding her sword back in its scabbard. “Unfortunately, it seems we aren’t going anywhere.”
“We can wait,” Gemma said, returning to her work.
“We don’t have any other choice but to wait. And in the meantime, we’re held captive by the desires of a…” Lady Linnea trailed off. She flattened her lips together as she stared at the royal palace. The tower and walls stretched above all the structures in Ostfold. Once it was to hearten the villagers; now it served more as an intimidation technique.
“I have some good news that might brighten your mood,” Gemma said, offering the older girl a smile. (It was hard to believe, but Gemma—jaded and sarcastic—was only seventeen. Lady Linnea, bright and full of dreams, was halfway through her eighteenth year.) “I think I’ve finally found a way to waterproof your cloak.”
“Oh good. Last time I returned with a wet cloak, I had to tell Mama I stepped under an emptying chamber pot so she wouldn’t study me to see that I had fallen in the river like a drown rat. That was embarrassing.”
“I imagine so, My Lady.”
Lady Linnea chatted companionably, discussing foreign armies and the men and women that ruled them, as Gemma started sewing. The pair never dreamed their lives would soon be altered forever.
Chapter 2
Peder the miller was known to be a generally useless man. Although he ground wheat cheaply, the flour he produced was subpar—coarse and prone to mold. His wife was well liked by everyone, and his daughter, Gemma, was nice enough—if not a little stoic and mouthy. Peder, however, was mostly just tolerated and had a reputation as the town drunkard.
It was customary on any given night to find him in the Sno Hauk—that is, the Snow Hawk tavern—in his usual seat at the corner of the dilapidated bar. For the first half hour of his visit, he customarily chugged pints and complained about picky customers. After consuming enough beer to bring a blush to his cheeks, he often tried flirting with the serving girls and (badly) sang duets with the innkeeper’s youngest son who had a great way with the fiddle.
If he had enough coin—which was once in a blue moon—he would then partake in a bottle of honey wine. The honey wine always got him roaring and staggering drunk, so everyone, included the barkeep, was glad Peder rarely had the coin to pay for the luxury.
As such, the other Sno Hauk patrons were less than pleased when, one fall evening, Peder plopped his flabby backside on a stool after slaughtering a Verglas folk song and slapped a gold coin on the bar.
“Barkeeper!” Peder shouted, his vowels already drawled by the addling effects of beer. “Your best honey wine!”
The barkeeper, a large, swarthy fellow named Otto, wiped his hands on a ragged cloth. “You’ve had quite a bit to drink tonight. Ought you not hold on to that coin? You might need it during the winter,” Otto said.
“Never,” Peder said, a crooked smile planted on his face. “There will be plenty more where this one came from.”
“What? How?” Small Tim—who was roughly the size of a bear and was another Sno Hauk regular—asked as Otto held the gold coin up to inspect it in the firelight.
