Page 21

21

BESSA

Sneaking into my home village by covering up my hair and slipping out of the kitchen doors felt as decadent as the morning buns I was about to sink my teeth into. I followed the sound of the early afternoon frost fair, sliding through stalls on thick, blue ice until I reached my parents’ bakeshop. I found if I went quickly and didn’t linger, I had more control over melting things. There was also something tied to my emotions, but I couldn’t quite figure that portion out yet.

Before I even opened the door, packed thick with snow on either side, I could smell it. The scent of sugar sent me into swoon, unlike the dried bundle of wildflowers from Silverwood. “Oh my gods, that is amazing,” I breathed. “I must try cardamom. What is cardamom? Do I care what cardamom is?”

“You do care,” my mother confirmed, her long brown hair braided tightly and wound around the top of her head as she popped out from behind the large circular ovens. Little tendrils had escaped in the heat of the bakeshop, which she pushed behind her ears with the back of her wrist. That action left a trail of powdered flour along her rosy cheekbone, and it was as familiar to me as my own name. For a moment, I wanted to sink into my mother’s hug and let her hold me. Maybe have a little cathartic cry. Just a teeny one. “You’re just confused by all the suitors, which is normal.”

“Your mother favored none of them,” Dad said, “But I thought there was something to that Rontu boy. I mean, he is at least age appropriate even if he’s never seen an oven in his life, but sheer enthusiasm counts for a lot in my book. And he had nice hair, when you could see it from under the furs. That Silverwood hair… your children would have both the eyes and hair of the royalty, I presume? Silver… I’m not sure, Bessa.”

“Sweetie, what’s wrong?” Mother asked, immediately sensing my mood. She opened her arms, and I fell into them, completely turning myself over to her tight squeeze, which was very tight indeed after years of rolling out dough and shoveling coal into furnaces.

“Nothing specific,” I mumbled into her thick apron that smelled like sourdough and rye. “Just…” I flapped my arms around, but not very high since I was still being squeezed.

“Life?”

“Basically.”

“With great power comes great responsibility. You’re doing a fabulous job, sweetie. Certainly the best queen I’ve ever personally known.”

“I’m the only queen you’ve ever personally known.”

Mother peeled me off but kept her hands on my shoulders to appraise me. She winked. “Still the best.”

“What did you think when a unicorn dropped me at your door? I had to have been someone for all of that fanfare. Right? Didn’t you think it was completely insane? Or maybe even that I was… I don’t know. A cursed child?”

“We really had no idea, and we didn’t care, but we never thought you were cursed, darling. You must understand, it was chaos. At the time, everyone was running around shrieking about vegetables taking over their houses and people were dancing and laughing and crying, and really, in the grand scheme of things, a unicorn dropping a baby off wasn’t that wild.”

“But you found out later it was the same night as the prince’s birth, the queen’s death in childbirth, and the prophecy. At the very least, you must have thought the timing was odd.”

“Aye,” my father said heavily, shoveling more coal into the hopper. “It struck us as unusual.”

“Why didn’t you throw me to the wolves or leave me out in the elements? Why take me in? Magic was so feared and desired and scary. It must have been a huge burden to consider taking in a child that was clearly… different.”

My mother wrapped her arms around me again. “We could no more stop baking bread than do such a thing. Babes are all innocent and good Gelid, the way Mika looked at you with such wonder. Wyot kicked up a storm in my stomach, and I knew he wanted my attention to give his approval. It was easily settled.”

“We didn’t even discuss it,” my father added. “Didn’t need to.”

My mother’s eyes were soft as she looked at my father. “You gave me a look and that was that.”

I sat down, taking the warm morning bun my mother offered, inhaling the sugared, earthy smell of the new spice.

“Take a bite,” she urged.

With a raised eyebrow, I did. And it was glorious. A sharp crispness gave way to a soft, sugary interior. “The inside is gooey, but I like the crunchy exterior the best,” I decided. I took another one, and another, finishing it in three bites.

Our parents never let us have first rights over anything at the bakery. Always, the townsfolk came first. Letting me have this bun first was their way of showing me our relationship had changed, and they wanted to honor that. I no longer lived at home; I lived in the castle. I was no longer the bakers’ daughter; I was their queen. But with a swift kiss on my forehead and a tight squeeze, I was still theirs. I hoped I could prove to be the best of both.

A blast of cold air shot through the room, the door opening and shutting. Ambrose froze on the threshold, as shocked to see me as I was to see him. He stared in the most treasonous way, as if he wanted to eat me up with a spoon. Then, all at once, he seemed to remember himself, bowing at the waist and lowering his eyes and murmuring, “Your majesty.”

My father raised a silent eyebrow, glancing between the two of us. Only I noticed his sly smile, but he quickly clapped his hands, clouds of flour mushrooming in the air. “What will it be today, Ambrose? Same seeded loaf? Or can I finally tempt you with some exotic spices?”

“Just the loaf, thank you, Baxter. Save your spices for the townsfolk who will appreciate them the most.”

“One taste and I’m sure I can change your mind,” my father said, trying one last time. He was serious about his sweets. As were most of the villagers, since they were so rarely traded over things like coal and grain. Ambrose, however, shook his head. Stoic to the end.

“Actually, I was going to forage for a few more items needed for my candles,” he said. “I’ll simply take my usual order to go.”

“So, Ambrose ,” my mother said, emphasizing his name while giving me a quick glance. Uncannily like Mika. “How’s the chandler business?”

“It’s the usual, Terrina. I thank you for asking. A tad busier with the coronation order.”

“Oh, an order from the queen.”

“Yes, but it’s nothing I can’t handle, I assure you, your majesty.”

My mother looked ready to make mischief. That could only mean one thing: Wyot had already been here, no doubt indulging in more than cardamom. Gossip. My brother loved to gossip.

“Well, I had better go see to… things,” I said, jumping off the bench and trying to escape in a big ruff and gown.

“You didn’t mention things when you arrived,” my mother said in faux innocence.

“I’m a very busy queen, you know. Decisions to make,” I said before adding to myself, and brothers to bury .

“Yes, I’m certain,” Ambrose agreed. “But could you spare a few minutes of time to approve some of the foraged items for your candles?”

“I’m sure she would,” my mother answered for me. “No queen is too busy to attend to her people.”

I let out a deep breath. “Yes, indeed, Mother.”

And with that, I gave my parents kisses and escaped. I swear I saw them laughing as the door closed, and I wondered in amazement at how fast Wyot had informed them about the chandler and their daughters. Clearly, they thought it was me, and I was already up to my ears in royal suitors! I didn’t need one more, thank you very much. Even if this man actually knew a hard day’s work and had the body to prove it.

Both of us kept fairly quiet as we wound through the village, and I marveled at all we had and how cozy it actually looked despite our struggles. Smoke curled over snow-packed houses, and golden lamps glowed through the iced windows, making the whole town appear like stars in a darkening sky, bobbing in the universe with each flicker of a flame. Up close, houses had delicate ice work, hoary frost lace, and dangling icicles, catching the light as the sun began to sink behind the river’s banks, making the blue ice dark and mysterious.

“Why didn’t you even want to try the cardamom morning buns?” I suddenly blurted. While it wasn’t a ‘safe’ question, such as one about the weather—cold, always cold—it was safer than anything else.

So why did Ambrose look so very guilty? His forehead furrowed and his eyes made a downward slope, his mouth a thin line.

“Ambrose! You hurt my parents’ feelings, and I assure you, they’ll just continue thinking it’s their baking skills. Not whatever the real reason is.”

“It’s not them.”

“Obviously.”

“Or even the spices or the sugar.”

I stopped walking. “Then what is it? You have me truly intrigued.” A chill breeze swept through the trees, ruffling the bare branches, long since dropped of any leaves. “Ambrose, you look like I just told you I put your pet dog on trial and condemned it to the gallows. Surely taking a bite of a morning bun isn’t as serious as all that.”

“No, of course. It’s not that it’s serious. But, look.” He swept his arm across the frozen landscape. “We live in this. This cold, cold, unforgiving world where you can’t even stay outside for more than a few hours or you’ll freeze.”

“Okay?”

“So, when the kingdom has sugar or new spices to try, there’s a literal celebration, worthy of some saint’s day. How would it be fair of me to take what others should have? I do not have a sweet tooth, and I have more than enough beauty to make up for any loss of sugar.”

It dawned on me what was happening. “You feel guilty because of your little garden, so you perpetually deny yourself.”

He nodded his eyes locked on mine, his way of acknowledging the truth of my words. I waited for more, but nothing came. Nothing but a stare held a few moments too long.

“Ambrose, why do you want to be here?” I asked.

“I told you. We’re looking at the items I’ve foraged for your candle.”

“Not here with me. Here in Frostvale.”

“It reminds me of home.”

“You grew up in a snow bank?”

He smiled at that. “I grew up where life was hard and people appreciated what they had. Where people came together to help each other survive and squeeze what they could out of life.”

I opened my mouth and closed it again, meditating on his words. He described my people perfectly. There were kingdoms to the north said to be equally difficult. Veilstone came to mind or the bands of traveling gypsies.

“Why do you want to be queen?” he asked.

And I knew, as well as he, that my answer was important. It mattered what I said, and I cared that he knew some small part of me.

“I’ve often wondered that in the last year,” I replied quietly. “I don’t have much hesitation, not anymore. I want to be queen because I think I am the best suited. Do our gods put these fates in our hands to see us dance? Do our gods give us these desires? Or do our desires become our fate? What I mean is… Do our desires become our gods, which we worship and follow and the gods never existed in the first place?”

The edge of Ambrose’s mouth quirked up in tandem with his eyebrow. “That’s quite the blasphemy in some circles.”

“We’ve gone through the old gods and the new. The only thing that remains constant are man’s desires. Look at my father, sunk into his cups and his despair. Those things became his mad desires, his god to follow. So I take this throne and I don’t pretend that it's destined for me or that I am meant to be queen, let alone a good one. I take this throne knowing full well that I want it, pure and simple. I have ambitions for myself and my country. If I want to be a good queen, it won’t be because the gods ordained it or a prophecy declared it. It is my own mad desire and possibly epically large hubris that makes me attempt it—for myself and for my people.”

“So you crave glory? Is that your god, your mad desire?”

“I guess I would be lying to myself to suggest otherwise. I would have stayed in that dungeon or not gotten on the unicorn with a pilfered sword, yelling about unity.”

“All that realization dawned from one little prophecy burning,” Ambrose said. “I should have burned it earlier. I would have, if I’d known about it.”

“Oh, you didn’t make me see things in a new light, although perhaps you helped shine a better light on myself.”

Ambrose grunted once, a deep rumble that echoed in the pit of my belly. He jerked his head. “Come on. Let’s re-introduce you to your people.”

My heart jackrabbited nearly as fast as when I realized it was Ambrose walking into the shop this morning. “I… can’t.”

“Life begins at the end of your comfort zone, your majesty. With all due respect.”

I bit my lip. “They’ll recognize me.”

“That’s the point. They’ll love you for it.”

“Wyot told me not to go. He said I needed to become someone else to the people. Someone they could look up. I had to… well, basically put myself on a pedestal and act the part. No more racing around the inn and wandering the frozen river stalls. I had to be someone they could admire and be proud of. I had to be different.”

Ambrose snorted. “And you think ignoring the people is the way to do this?” He snorted again, although this time, it sounded more like disgust than amusement.

I marched around to face him, hands on my hips. “So what? You think I should just swagger into the tavern and announce that I’d like a beer? Will that make them respect the girl who used to get lost for hours in the woods and now decides if we survive our endless winter?”

“Simply put?” he asked.

“Well, go on!”

“Yes.”

I opened my mouth and closed it.

Ambrose continued. “You want their respect? Be one of them. You are one of them. You always were, no matter whose blood runs in your veins. So be one of them. I mean, really be one of them. That’s your strength. That’s your redemption.”

“And why, Chandler,” I said, my voice low with a tone that most would recognize as dangerous but he seemed to either not notice or not particularly care, “would I need redemption?”

But Ambrose didn’t answer with words. He knelt in the snow, digging until he plucked a frozen petal from beneath the ground. I couldn’t begin to wonder how he knew it was there. He put a handful in the pouch around his waist before offering a full flower to me. It smelled like the honey his bees produced. The honey that gave him such joy and such shame that he couldn’t share it more widely.

“Same reason I guess we all crave redemption. Because we all carry guilt.”