Thorunn releases one oar to turn the canoe closer to the shore, where the water is shallower. Once we have found a nice place, where we are in view of the orchard and main promenade, he drops the anchor and begins unwrapping the picnic basket.
I am impressed, to say the least. He has packed a feast fit for a king. Coffee cakes, imported fruits, miniature sandwiches with frilly toothpicks, two wine glasses, and the aforementioned champagne, which he does not know how to open. I am lucky to have a multitool in my pocket, which I use to open the bottle with a pop! that startles the hell out of Thorunn—“Why did it do that?!” he exclaims.
“You’ve never had champagne?” I ask.
“I thought that was wine.”
“It is wine. It just has bubbles. Try it.”
I pour some into a glass. He takes a tentative sip, then struggles valiantly not to cough it out. “Why does it do that,” he gasps, and I laugh.
As we enjoy the picnic lunch, I cannot help but observe Thorunn. On closer inspection, I begin to wonder if this is really the same man who executed me in my last life. He is much younger than I first assumed, barely older than twenty. He is undoubtedly very strong and powerful, but here in the little canoe, he holds his arms close to his body with an insecurity usually reserved for smaller, weaker men. His gaze rarely rests in one place, always darting about, and he stammers awkwardly through the complexities of Saelic, obviously not his native tongue. I think back to my executioner. He looked similar, that was for sure, certainly seven-ish years older. More scars. Longer hair. He spoke so little and so gruffly that I have few points of comparison. Haven’t killed an ‘heir’ yet today, he had said. No…I would never forget that voice. That was Thorunn.
And yet it is almost impossible to resolve the man in my memory with the boy across the canoe. He is reserved, almost shy; yet deeply curious, with an almost childlike wonder. He is thoughtful and gentle, as despite my logical reservations, I have never once felt unsafe around him. And he looks at me, not through me, not past, but at me—as cliché as it is—like I am the only person in the world.
There is but one ambiguity that I can clear today. Perhaps it is premature, but I have never been one for beating around the bush.
Our conversation has wandered about the topic of our homelands. I have learned that the northern tundra is not actually cold the whole year round. During the summer, it blooms with berries and wildflowers, allowing its natives to dye their clothing, jewelry, and even hair in colors normally reserved for royalty. During these months, the seafaring Northmen come home to their families, repair their ships, and prepare for the next coming winter. What results is a three-month-long festival of unparalleled joy and merrymaking. Thorunn lovingly describes this practice in sharp contrast to Saol Eile, “a joyless country,” as he puts it.
“You’ve no holidays!” he exclaims, aghast. “No festival in the summer, or for harvest, or for planting. Not even a special keg for the winter solstice! It is work, work, work, the whole year ’round, a wonder your people don’t go mad!”
It is an apt summary of Saol Eile culture, at least, here in the city. “I’m sure some rural villages still celebrate harvest and planting,” I explain. “But you are right, there are even laws against ‘public nuisance.’ A man can hardly walk about on his day off without some guard pulling him over, accusing him of vagrancy.”
“And you call us barbarians,” Thorunn shakes his head. “No parties!”
“To be fair,” I point out, “we do have parties. A lady’s debut, a lad’s coming-of-age, engagements, weddings, anniversaries. Those are very important.”
“Only parties…to do with marriage?”
“Well, yes.” I inhale. “Marriage is important in our culture. Even in the peasantry, it is about the joining of families, the pooling of resources—what each spouse can bring to the table.”
Thorunn looks at me as if I have grown a second head. After a moment, he shifts uncomfortably in his seat, causing the canoe to wobble. “Oh,” he says. “I thought…when I was young, and my da taught me about other countries, that they marry for resources …well, I thought he was trying to scare me. I never thought that was real. A loveless, joyless country indeed…”
“We marry for love, too,” I say indignantly. “But there are rules. Social class, for instance.”
I fall silent. I let it steep. I worry that I will have to spell it out for Thorunn, but he catches on quickly. He meets my eyes, and we are both quiet for a long time. He sees that I have shifted the conversation from the general (our countries) to the specific (us). I have already established that I am no one of status. Finally he shakes his head.
“It’s better in my country,” he says firmly. “Resources are so easily earned or lost. So there’s no use in marrying for them.”
“That makes sense,” I agree.
Thorunn looks down. “But…we are here.”
“Yes.” I sigh. “We are here.”
If I had been walking, this is where I would stop in my tracks. What am I doing? I am speaking as if this is a lost cause, as if there are truly no conditions under which this friendship with Thorunn might blossom into something more. But that is not true, and I do not want to give up. To escape my fate, I need as many allies as I can muster—law and custom be damned.
I glance at my pocketwatch, then look back to the shore. It is half past one, so lunch is over, and most of the garden’s visitors have returned inside. The only people I see are an older gentleman napping on a hillside, a newspaper resting over his eyes to block out the sun; and some children playing ball in a meadow, probably Edwin IV’s and Emerlane’s miscellaneous progeny. None of them are paying attention to the little canoe on the lake.
“Is it time to go back?” Thorunn asks quietly.
“No,” I respond, then crane my neck to scan the shoreline. I point further down, towards a copse of weeping willow tree on the edge of the lake. “Go there.”
He does as I ask, without question. I keep a close eye on the gardens to make sure no one appears or suddenly looks our way, but luckily, we make it to the willows unnoticed. It is the perfect hiding place. The garlands of willow leaves hang low over the water, a natural veil that parts around our canoe and cuts off this sanctuary from the rest of the world. The shadows here are deep, and the brisk air turns cool and earthy. As our canoe runs aground on a sandy bank, I lean across the canoe and place one hand on Thorunn’s knee. My sleeve shifts back. The corded bracelet slips down my wrist, into the open.
I don’t know what is coming over me. I have never felt so bold, yet so frightened at the same time. My impulse control is nowhere to be found. Hormones, I can hear my cynical, twenty-five-year-old self scoff. But she never got laid. I have an advantage now that she never took. I am young and I am stupid and a boy likes me.
“I never really planned to marry a Saelic man,” I tell him. “And I would very much like to travel someday.”
When he sees the bracelet, his lips part ever so slightly. His eyes are wide and wonderfully bright. With the canoe steady against the sand, it does not shake as he slides down from the bench and kneels in front of me, taking my hand in both of his.
“And that’s allowed?” he asks. “This is…alright?”
“Well, it’s not allowed,” I admit, “but if it’s all the same to you, I think it’s alright.”
From the bottom of the canoe, he is now below me. I lean forward, and he tilts his chin up. Although his hesitancy tells me that he is also a novice, I approach him with more doubt and uncertainty than he will ever understand. I seal our futures with a kiss. If my life is truly fated to end by his hand, then I have guaranteed but one thing: that, as the axe falls, he remembers the moment we shared beneath the weeping willow.