Author's Preface
When Edgar and I return to the house, Thorunn and Moretti are nowhere to be found. Ezra is still here, and he and Mom are sitting on the seaside dock, sipping beers and chatting.
“Hey, Eloise? When are you going to get that sailboat?” Ezra asks. “Imogen wants to terrorize the lighthouse keepers.”
“I just want to visit. I’ve never been to a lighthouse,” Mom retorts.
“Did Moretti leave?” I ask. “And where’s Thorunn?”
“They left a few minutes after you did,” says Mom.
“What for?”
“You know, I’m not sure. I think they were talking about your engagement.”
Oh, boy. I had been thinking that those two were unusually well-behaved today, but it appears that was just the calm before the storm. This time, though, I am determined not to make myself their babysitter. I will not let their childish bickering dampen my mood.
I invite the two princes to stay and help me, Mom, Hilde, and Svara unpack. Edgar is happy to help; Ezra declines but sticks around to “boost morale,” which really just means loiter in whatever room we are also in. With many hands, we make light work of the house. By the time the sun has set, we have successfully unpacked most of the furniture. Ezra runs out and buys a platter of takeout pasta. Still no dining table, so we eat on the floor. At one point, Edgar sits on a meatball, and begrudgingly accepts it when we all laugh at him.
And I’m happy. I’ve never been happier.
Mom and Edgar fall asleep on the couch, leaning against each other. I decide to leave them where they are and gently lay a blanket over them. Ezra is still loitering in the kitchen, nursing a bottle of pinot noir as he waits for his carriage to show up.
As I pass by, he mutters, “What’s up with your face?”
“Pardon?” I ask.
“Your face,” he repeats. “Something weird going on with your mouth. It’s curved upwards all strange-like, I’ve never seen it do that before.”
I reach up to touch my lips, wondering if I might have pasta sauce still on them. Then I realize and roll my eyes. “It’s a smile, Ezra. I’ve smiled before, you know.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” he chuckles.
There is a knock at the door. “That’s your ride,” I tell him, and go to answer. But when I open the door, it is not a coachman who greets me, but Thorunn—with a black eye and a split lip.
“Thorunn!” I gasp. “What on earth—come inside!”
I escort him quickly into the house and upstairs to my bedroom, since I do not wish to disturb Mom and Edgar sleeping in the living room. In the hall, we pass by Hilde, who has been sweeping up sawdust from today’s unpacking. She raises an eyebrow in inquiry, but I wave her off.
“I’m fine,” says Thorunn. “Just a scuffle.”
“With whom?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“Was it Moretti? Were you two fighting?”
“I said don’t worry about it.” His whole face is beet red, and he refuses to meet my eyes. After wetting a washcloth with clean water, I grab Thorunn by the chin and force him to look at me while I wipe the blood from his mouth.
“I knew it,” I say. “You were fighting with Moretti.”
“No, I wasn’t.”
“Then who?”
He doesn’t answer.
Sighing, I head downstairs to get a bag of ice. When I return, Thorunn is lying down on the bed. “Are you sulking?” I ask. “Did you lose?”
“I didn’t lose,” he mutters. “The bastard cheated.”
“By ‘the bastard,’ do you mean Moretti?”
“I never said it was Moretti. I just said he cheated.”
This conversation is going nowhere. For whatever reason—likely his pride being wounded—Thorunn refuses to tell me who gave him the black eye and split lip. But even though Moretti is the most likely culprit, I find it hard to believe that someone like him could stand a fighting chance against someone like Thorunn. Thorunn is at least a full head taller than Moretti and easily twice his weight by muscle mass alone. Then again, Thorunn is young, and his martial training has prepared him more for battlefield and less for the streets. But Moretti, by his own admission, is a native street rat.
“I like to think I’ve left that life behind,” Moretti remarks, a couple days later in his office. “Though the lessons you learn there never leave you. And the money is good. I always had my family’s title, of course, but we were on the poorer end of nobility. I paid for both seminary and law school out of that boxing ring.”
“And now?” I ask.
He leans back in his chair. I have been watching him incredibly carefully. He doesn’t seem injured anywhere, however. “It serves me well in this line of work, where you occasionally have to…get your hands dirty, so to speak. Why do you ask?”
There is no point in beating around the bush. Surely, as soon as I opened this conversation by asking Moretti if he had any experience in hand-to-hand combat, he knew exactly what I was getting at.
“Thorunn got in a fight on Saturday,” I say.
Moretti raises an eyebrow. “Oh, my. Is he alright?”
I genuinely cannot tell if he is being sarcastic. “He’s fine. But he won’t tell me how it happened. I would like to ask if you knew anything, since you two left my house together.”
“We parted ways after we left. I went right home. I don’t know where Thorunn went.” He smiles pleasantly. “Sorry I can’t be of more help.”
Calm, cool, perfectly composed. None of the hallmarks of a lie. Yet somehow, I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that he is bullshitting. So if Thorunn and Moretti got in a fight, they both mutually agreed to keep it from me, for some unknown reason.
One week later, it happens again. On Saturday, we made plans of a double date including Thorunn, myself, Mom, and Edgar. Going on double dates like this is a good way to let Hilde and Svara have a day off, something that they will not be able to do once Thorunn has returned to his homeland. We spend the day touring art and sculpture museums around the capital city, then make plans for dinner at a nice restaurant. As soon as the entree course is served, however, Thorunn scarfs down his food, stands up abruptly, and explains that he has to leave early. One of Ezra’s agents, who has been surreptitiously tailing us the whole day, is forced to call Svara and Hilde on their day off. Thorunn does not return to the house until two in the morning. This time, he has a wicked purple bruise forming on his jaw. I am too furious to even ask him about it, and just pretend to be asleep in my bed.
“Is this a guy thing?” I ask Edgar the next Monday. “How often do men get in fistfights with each other and then refuse to talk about it?”
“More often than you’d think,” Edgar replies. “Especially if they’re fighting over you.”
“Which I do not understand.” I shake my head. “Moretti is just a coworker. He has been nothing but respectful to me, not the slightest hint of indecent intent. I’m quite fond of him, in fact.”
Edgar raises an eyebrow. “Ah…so you’re that clueless. I see.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Well, I’m just speculating at this point. So please, take this with a grain of salt. But I take it that you assumed, all this time, that Thorunn is defending your honor? Your decency?”
“Is that not what he’s doing?”
“He could be, but I doubt it. It’s not the 300s. Despite how old-fashioned high society is, nobody would go to duel over a woman’s maidenhood. I reckon Thorunn is trying to discourage his competition.”
“Yes, but there is no competition,” I respond. “Thorunn and I are engaged. We intend to marry. And you said it yourself, the proxy isn’t happening, so that doesn’t affect anything. No competition. Thorunn is already the winner.”
“It could become a competition,” Edgar counters, “if you lose feelings for Thorunn.”
I ponder that. He is right to some degree. It is conceivable that, if Thorunn and I part ways, I would search for another romantic relationship sometime in the future. But somehow, it is hurtful. “Does he believe me so faithless that I would leave him for my coworker?” I sigh.
“Well…to be fair, you brought it up first.”
“When?”
“When we were hollering at each other in your home office, and you mentioned what might happen if you and Thorunn fall out of love. That office probably isn’t soundproof.”
“Just because I plan for contingencies doesn’t mean I actually expect them to happen.”
Edgar just laughs. “I assure you that a twenty-year-old boy cannot make that fine of a distinction.”
There is little progress in the way of my proxy engagement. Edgar reassures me that he will take care of revoking it, but there is nothing formal to revoke because the proxy engagement exists solely in the minds of King Edwinn III, the Crown Prince and Princess, and the Guildensterns. After some thought, I advise him not to touch it yet. Thorunn is due to depart next week. This is his last weekend here in Saol Eile, and before he leaves, I intend on sitting down and speaking with him about it. I make plans to discuss it on Saturday night.
“Would you consider Sunday afternoon?” he says immediately.
“No,” I state, folding my arms. “Saturday night.”
He is starting to scramble. “I have…preparations to make on my ship,” he tells me. “The captain is, ah, wishing to discuss with me. I won’t be available.”
“Are you sure?” I ask. “You’re going to be on your ship? At the wharf?”
He nods.
“So if you leave this house on Saturday, I will see you walking west, towards the Skaði?”
“Yes. I will be heading towards the Skaði .”
“And you will not come back with a busted nose or missing teeth?”
“I will not come back with a busted nose or missing teeth.”
“Okay,” I say simply. “I believe you.”
I don’t believe him. I don’t believe him as far as I could throw him. He must know I am furious with him, since we have not made out since the night of the engagement party. Sometimes, he initiates a kiss or a hand-hold, but I do not feel like reciprocating. I just have to wait and see what happens.
Saturday comes. Thorunn spends his morning with me like he usually does, at the coffeeshop on the wharf, and then the afternoon lounging on the couch in my office and writing while I catch up on work. When evening rolls around, I tell him that I have a headache and am going to lie down. Though worried, he accepts this, reminds me that he will be leaving soon for the Skaði, and lets me head upstairs alone.
From my bedroom, I have a good view of my front porch and the adjacent road. Once alone, I close the sheer gauze curtains over the window, such that I can still see movement, and turn out the lights, so no one can see inside. Then I begin to change clothes. Most of my wardrobe is carefully curated to the style of a young, respectable government worker—a slim ankle-length skirt; a long, slender corset; leg-of-mutton sleeves. A pressed, proper silhouette, designed to lengthen the strides and improve posture. But not what I need now. I exchange my structured blouse and corset for a more relaxed smock and shawl, and add a second petticoat under my skirt for more volume. My petite boater’s hat is replaced with a scarf and droopy straw bonnet; my stiff, heeled boots swap for soft leather loafers. Finally, I leave my engagement ring in my jewelry box. I do not know where I am going tonight, but I do not want to risk losing the most valuable thing I own.
Then I sit by the window and wait for six forty-five.
Around seven was when Thorunn left during dinner last week, but seeing as the restaurant was located deeper in the city, Thorunn might leave early from my house to account for travel time. He steps out onto the front porch at twelve minutes to seven, looks both ways, and then begins to walk westbound down the road.
I spring to my feet, swoop up a basket and a shopping bag, and race downstairs. I leave through the back door, cutting across my neighbor’s backyard, before heading to join Thorunn on the main road. Though not exactly “join.” Today’s fair weather and pleasant late-spring breeze has drawn much of the city out onto the wharf. The markets and stalls are bustling with activity, making it easy to lose someone in the throng. Thorunn, however, stands taller than anyone else in the marketplace, so he is easy to follow at a distance.
He often glances over his shoulder, as if checking that he is not being followed. When he does, I tilt my head down under the shade of my bonnet or feign interest in a nearby market stall. In my disguise, I blend in seamlessly with the dozens of women rushing to get groceries before shops close for the evening. After a few blocks, Thorunn stops checking over his shoulder. He visibly relaxes. He steps into a small general shop, then exits with a small bag and a receipt in hand. He tosses the receipt into a trash can. Keeping one eye always on him, I head towards the trash can and glance at the receipt. One pack of chewing gum, a pocket flask of imported Northern rum, and a stick of military-grade healing salve.
He has stopped at an intersection, waiting for traffic to clear. Once it does, I half-expect him to continue westward, towards the silhouette of the Skaði sitting in the harbor. I hope he continues westward. I want him to. I want none of what he said to be a lie. But I am not so lucky. Instead of walking straight, towards where he told me he would be, Thorunn turns—and takes the road south, away from the Skaði.
“I’ve got you now, asshole,” I murmur, and keeping my distance, follow Thorunn deeper into the city.