Although I have Friday and the weekend off, I have little time to myself. My sleep schedule has taken permanent damage from two back-to-back night shifts, so I nap for most of the daylight hours, feel like garbage for the rest of them, and stay up late into the night again writing by the light of my tiny oil lamp. Mostly, I am writing letters. My first month at work has flown by so quickly that I did not realize how much I neglected Pansy and Lucienne, so I write them a long missive detailing the less-confidential parts of my job. Of course, I omit everything from the past few days. I doubt I am allowed to talk about it anyway. Instead, I fill the space with the story of how I (literally) ran into Thorunn again, and promise more details about our Saturday outing when the time comes.
For my mother, I am only able to skim the surface of what I really want to ask her. Since the records department also oversees the mailroom, I must assume everything I write will be read. And after the Pym incident, I am not willing to toe the line. So I dance around what I actually want to say. I tell her that I am doing well and that I love her, but that her “legacy” has sadly followed me into my job, and I worry that it might be causing trouble with my managers. I give her a vague description of my two new job offers: either I become Edgar’s senior clerk now, a high risk position with immediate rewards, or wait to become Martha’s successor as chief of records, a much safer position, but deferred for five years. Mama can read between the lines, and she will understand. I went to the palace for answers, and the senior clerk position will give me literally unfettered access to any of them. But I need not restate the risks. I tell Mama that I am considering both and have not made up my mind.
Lastly, I write a letter to Master Odric. I have been drafting this one for a while now, though only now have the chance to finish and polish it. It is the most formal of my three letters. In it, I inform Odric that I was accepted to the junior clerk position and am already being offered a promotion, and I credit this success to his glowing letter of recommendation. Then I wish him well on his overseas travels and ask to stay in touch with any news he may hear about quasicurrency.
After a very, very long time debating with myself whether I should include this part, I finally ask Odric to fill me in on Prince Edgar’s purchase of elysium. At our initial meeting, Odric was reluctant to provide details. Confidentiality and all that. But now, as I emphasize in my letter, I have received an offer to become Edgar’s senior clerk. Keeping track of his investments will be part of my job. I know I will not receive an answer anytime soon. Overseas mail is slow, and Odric is not compelled to respond quickly. But I cross my fingers that he senses the urgency in my last request. My whole reason for coming here was to evaluate what I am up against. And as I stand poised at this diverging road, I need something—anything!—to convince me that the risky choice will be worth it.
I seal and send my letters as soon as the mailroom opens on Saturday. Then I spend the rest of the morning getting ready.
I do not consider myself a vain person; I have always valued function over form. But today is different. Thorunn is meeting me in the palace gardens at noon—my very first outing with a suitor, both in this life and the last. I agonize for hours over what to wear. With the healing magic working its…well, magic, my ankle is feeling much better, so I am able to ditch the thick bandages for a comfortable pair of low-heeled boots. From my shopping spree with Pansy and Lucienne, I have a simple promenade dress and hat, both in a handsome charcoal gray, the hat accented by an elegant cormorant feather and the coat with the quartz brooch that is usually part of my work uniform. It is refined but modest, befitting my working-class status. I briefly worry that I may look out of place beside a man of higher status, but I have never seen Thorunn dress in the fashion of Saol Eile, seeming to prefer the thick furs and embroidered tunics of his homeland. We will be misfits together.
What challenges me is my decision whether or not to wear my black ribbon. The collar of my promenade dress is just high enough to cover the scar, and ordinarily would be enough to hide it. Lately, though, the scar has been…getting worse. I hadn’t noticed it at first. But at some point yesterday, I took off my ribbon and saw that it was tinted slightly pink. Today it is most certainly pink, much brighter in contrast to my dark skin, as if it is slowly healing in reverse. If I turn my head to the side, the raw pink flesh just barely peeks above my collar. I do not like this omen. I wonder if the scar will worsen over time, as I draw closer to the original date of my death…or perhaps it is triggered by my actions, serving as a warning. Or maybe it is just seasonal allergies. My skin is usually itchy around harvest time, anyway, which could exacerbate the scar, though I doubt that I would be so lucky. In the end, I wear the ribbon. I will take no chances.
With my time-consuming job, I have had little chance to explore the palace grounds. In fact, this is the first time I have stepped outside in…has it really been weeks? The weather is cooler, but the sky is clear and the air is calm; by all accounts, a nice day. Like most kingdoms, the royal palace is not merely a house for the royal family and a center of government; it is also a status symbol, displaying the country’s wealth to visiting embassies. Saol Eile is small in population but massive in land, and its Crown wishes to flaunt that. Thus, the palace garden is less of a garden than a massive park with a castle in the center—acres in size, a picturesque landscape stretching almost to the horizon in each direction. Today the gardens are populated with nobles and court personnel on their lunch breaks, taking a stroll, chatting with others, or simply enjoying the sun by the lake. Some boys, perhaps young knights or squires, have even taken a canoe onto the water and are fishing.
I do not see Thorunn immediately as I step outside, but I get a sneaking suspicion of where he will be. And I am right. I find him by a sandbar at the edge of the lake, one foot on the shore and the other inside a canoe of his own. A man of the sea will naturally drift towards the next best thing. He is hard at work as I approach, dusting away the cobwebs and leaves that have accumulated inside. A picnic basket, complete with a bottle of champagne sticking from the side, sits in the belly of the canoe. I watch in rapt curiosity as Thorunn unfastens the fur cloak from around his shoulders, lays it gently over the passenger’s seat, and steps back to admire his handiwork.
I have not moved, but some other sound must alert Thorunn of my silent presence. His head whips around to me. “Sorðinn—!” he exclaims, then composes himself and laughs. “Pardon, my lady. Didn’t realize you were there.”
I manage a pressed smile. In the Northman’s sudden startle, his hand reflexively fell to the sheathed knife at his belt, and he pulls it away quickly now. He may act like a gentleman, but he is still a barbarian. His instincts remain the same. I must remind myself to stay vigilant. Although I have been looking forward to this, spurred by that obnoxious girlish desire to pursue a handsome man, I do not yet know if he will be an ally or an enemy in this life.
“Apologies, my lord,” I say tersely. Leaning heavily on my cane, I begin to descend the slope towards the sandbar. At once, Thorunn rushes to my side.
“Let me help you. You look tired, my lady, is everything alright?”
I take a deep breath. Stay vigilant, but be gentle, I amend my earlier resolution. Don’t confuse the poor man. Your mood is likely not improved from your ruined sleep schedule, so don’t take it out on him. “Thank you,” I say, with another long sigh, “it has been a long week, that’s all. What’s this for?” I gesture to the canoe.
“Ah,” says Thorunn, “I wondered if a long walk might be difficult with your ankle. I’ve no intent for this outing to stress you, my lady. Rather, you could sit, and enjoy the lake?”
I am surprised at his thoughtfulness. And I do quite like boating. So I accept his help to climb inside the canoe, where he ensures that I am comfortable in the passenger seat, sitting on his fur cloak. I wasn’t sure about it at first, but the fur is much preferable to the hard wooden plank beneath. It is fluffy and gloriously soft to the touch, not coarse like most big game furs of this size; and a rather curious color, mostly black with translucent silver tips, as if dusted with snow. Even when trading, I have never seen an animal pelt quite like it.
Thorunn pushes the canoe off from the sandbar, gets a short running start, and leaps from dry land. The effortless agility, as well as the fact that the canoe barely rocks from side to side, is no less than impressive. What qualifies as a cold late autumn afternoon in Saol Eile must a sweltering summer day in the northern tundra, since he is wearing only light breeches and a linen tunic with the sleeves rolled up. He picks up the heavy oars and begins to row us out into the lake. As it is a fairly small canoe, I have an excellent view of his well-muscled forearms and sculpted hands. Blue ink tattoos, more of those strange Nordic runes, encircle his wrists. Pansy is right. Thorunn is quite the specimen.
Before we can get far out onto the lake, he asks abruptly, “My lady?”
“Hm? Oh—I’m not actually a lady,” I add hastily. I should have said it earlier, before he got into the habit, but this is the first time I have thought more about propriety than however much pain I was in at the time. “Just Eloise is fine.”
“El…oyes.” His thick accent stumbles on the new word, and he takes some time to sound it out silently, a confused furrow in his brow. Then he nods. “Eloise, then. You’re not a lady, Miss Eloise?”
“No. I am just a peasant, my lord.”
His brow furrows even deeper in confusion at my use of my lord, and I can see a question forming, but he cannot seem to articulate it. “I…see. I’ve meant to ask, do you know how to swim?”
“Why?” I ask. “You don’t plan to throw me overboard, do you?”
“Oh, no!” Thorunn’s eyes widen, terrified. “No, no, my lady—Eloise—never. Just in case, anyone who goes on the water should know to swim, or…or we should return to shore at once.”
Despite myself, I chuckle. Such a large, terrifying man he is at first glance, yet capable of turning as meek as a field mouse. The sliding scale between vigilance and gentleness is tipping more in favor of the latter. I did learn to swim in my past life, and I was quite good at it. But that was in the warm tropical waters of the southern world, and while wearing the light clothes of the natives. I reckon that swimming in a cold lake and a full petticoat might be more difficult.
“I can swim a little,” I tell him, “but not very well.”
A relieved sigh. “Then we’ll stay near the shore,” he decides, and I nod in agreement.